Self-diagnosis

I think I have a touch of OCD. I like things perfectly aligned. Perpendicular or parallel. Labels facing forward.

This isn't a matter of preference. This is a matter of I-won't-stop-until-things-are-perpendicular-or-parallel.

Chew on that.

Happy Wacky Wednesday...

The eve of Thanksgiving is upon us, and that means getting trashed with high school friends until the wee hours of the morning so you are good and hungover for your grandma's Turkey Day dinner. Luckily for me, I crave carbs when I've had too much to drink. I might call dibs on that whole dish of dressing.

In related news, it's Jables' birthday. Wish him a happy one and spank him on the ass if you get a chance.

Hair today, gone today...

I just witnessed a brutal 2-on-1 girl fight right outside my classroom door. The weaves went flying. By the time the girls were separated and taken to different principals' offices, the hallway floor was littered with broken hair pieces. Ouch.

Fight your own battles, Vanessa.

Vanessa forces me to fight her battles for her. When drunken at a bar, she becomes beligerently angry when anyone dances in a manner contrary to what Vanessa deems appropriate. Despite the fact that she's a much better dancer than I, she literally pushes me into the targeted stranger's personal space and orders me to try and show him or her up. Her eyes get wild, and she gives me a pep talk with her peepers, even though I shoot back looks of helplessness and confusion.

Once, in New York City, she pushed me into a circle comprised of Rachel, Shane, and Veronica from MTV's Road Rules. She believed that Rachel and Veronica wanted themselves too much, and they needed to be put in their places. She didn't care so much about Shane, although he was dancing shirtless.

Last night, she pushed me into a man with a really sweaty back.

It pays to be young, hot, and Republican...

Before you read any more of this post, check out the necessary background information: Three's Company, Too!

Here is an e-mail I received from a reader about roomie Jables:

Hi Katie-

My name is Jen & I read the article & loved it. I too, share an affinity for the Style network & replacing meals with chips & salsa. My real question, though...does this Repbulican roommate of yours need a date? ;-) I've always got my eyes & ears open for hot young republican males. Sadly, there aren't many of them to be found. I'm trying to make it a goal---$ex up the republican party...and not with hot pages, either...Anyway, I enjoy reading your articles. Take-care!

There was also a lengthy thread of controversy on the site's message board about the impossibility of Jables, Rosey, and I living peacefully and platonically together. Pretty hilarious.

You say pomelo, I say oversized tennis ball...

From wikipedia.org:

The pomelo (or pummelo, pommelo, jabong, or shaddock), Citrus maxima (also Citrus grandis), is a citrus fruit, usually a pale green to yellow when ripe, larger than a grapefruit, with sweet flesh and thick spongy rind.

Cheers Heavy and Rosey decided to purchase one of these from Dierberg's last night. They were curious about its large size and rumored bright red innards. We had a fondue dinner at Britt and Rod's, and they patiently waited well into the night to cut open the pomelo.

When the time finally came, Rosey sang a ceremonial song to the tune of "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark.

Come on, come on
Peel it, peel it
Peel the pomelo!

Turns out, it didn't taste that great. Jeff Bradley, commented on the large amount of "membrane." Some call it the rind. The fruit's flesh was actually pale pink, not blood red.

We didn't let our disappointment ruin the rest of the night.

A quick chuckle for a hungover gal...

The media never ceases to amaze me with their rapidfire, witty nicknaming of emerging pop culture news stories.

TomKat...
Bennifer...
Nipplegate...

And now:

Fed Ex in honor of Britney and Kevin's demise.

I love it.

I don't wanna see your grill...

If I never see another grill, it'll be too soon.

And no, I don't mean the innovative cooking amenity made famous by Weber and Foreman and other geniuses.

I mean the ridiculous bling-infused mouthpieces made famous by fancy rapper types like Nelly and Ja Rule and Ludacris.

The administration did not react quickly enough to this fashion fad (dear God, let's hope it's a fad) in order to effectively incorporate the donning of grills into the school dress code rules. Therefore, grills are allowed in school.

When they need to speak, they slip the grills out and indifferently place the hunk of faux platinum on top of their desks. When the grills are inside their mouths, they are ground against teeth while I'm within audible earshot. I can clearly hear the onset of TMJ echoing from their pipe holes.

No, don't smile for me, daddy. I dont wanna see your grill. No, no, not your grill.

Where there's Quankie, there's fire...

So, I'm noticing a pattern in my life. People enjoy setting vehicles in my general vicinity on fire.

On Friday the 13th during my junior year of high school, a group of girls spent the night at my house after a football game. We stayed up very late with some of our guy friends, watching Jason stab naked chicks to death at Camp Crystal Lake. We also kept a close watch out of my front door, incase any adventurous classmates attempted to don Principal Quank's house with toilet paper or soap.

Around 3 AM, we were still awake. We had noticed a particular car driving around my house again and again. Or, to put it in female Christophorian high school terms, someone was psycho stalking my crib. The car belonged to the ex-girlfriend of Shaun, one of the boys who was hanging out with us. When we looked out of the front door that time, we noticed a little spark under the car parked the farthest away from my house, at the end of the driveway.

We all rushed out to see what was doing. We immediately saw the word "BITCH" written with soap on the hood of the car and an oily rag tucked neatly under the graffiti. The flames grew higher. Really fast. And all hell broke loose.

Here you have a group of eight high schoolers, six girls and two boys, trying to extinguish a car fire. The garden hose would not reach far enough. Flower pots had holes in the bottom of them. My parents wouldn't wake up.

Sarah went to my sleeping parents' bedroom to try her luck. My dad was passed out after an enjoyable night of beer drinking at the local Knights of Columbus. Despite sleeping in his tighty-whities, Sarah plowed into the room and shook him (her high school principal, mind you) until he cracked an eyelid. She screamed, "Mr. Quank, get your ass out of bed!"

The normally softspoken Cheryl called the volunteer firefighters and bellowed, "There's a fire at the Quanks! Get your ass out here!" No directions needed.

At one point, it sounded like the car may explode, or at least that's what our imaginations lured us to believe. The boys bravely grabbed us girls and commanded us to hit the decks. I swear I flew under my mom's Jeep Cherokee in one fluid motion, like a cartoon character.

Finally, the firemen showed up and put out the flames. We found that my friend Ami's car windows had been shattered as well. Nobody was ever charged with the crime. That was one pissed off ex-girlfriend.

***End scene, advance ten years later***

It was Halloween just four days ago. Rosey, Jables, Cheers Heavy, and I enjoyed a night of handing out candy to trick or treaters. We decided to rent High Tension (one of the goriest movies ever made) to suitably complete our Halloween evening. We hadn't even made it through the opening credits when we began to hear weird noises from the backyard. After the second or third round, we were a little creeped, so we decided to check it out.

We looked out of the kitchen door to see flames and dark black smoke rising high into the sky. Instant panic ensued as we all tried to push each other out of the way to call 911. Our neighbors, who had discovered the fire way before us, let us know that they had already made the call.

We ran outside. A car, parked in the alley, was in flames. The car was parked right next to Josh's garage, and the detached building was also alight. Josh's car was parked inside. No one ever parks in the alley, so we assumed that the car was stolen.

Thankfully, the firefighters arrived much more expediently than their Christopher counterparts. The fire was thorougly extinguished, but Josh's garage was left with a good amount of damage.

We still aren't sure what exactly went down. Needless to say, we never got to that movie.