Adios

Pullman is currently experiencing the storm of the century, with huge gusts of wind coupled with torrential rain. I am sometimes given to hyperbole, but there is some yucky weather outside. I'm having trouble caring though since . . .

I leave for vacation tomorrow.

Suck on that and I'll be back sometime next week.

Career choices

I am so sad that Don Knotts passed away a few days ago. My father is a huge fan of the Andy Griffith Show, and who didn't love The Apple Dumpling Gang? And Andy Griffith was at his bedside when he passed away.

I briefly toyed with the idea of going into law enforcement when I was younger and decided not to for three reasons. One, I would pull people over all the time just for the fun of it. Two, I don't think I would enjoy the bacon jokes. Three, what if my co-workers and fellow officers thought of me as a Barney Fife and wouldn't let me load my gun? Ok, there might be some other reasons I opted out on that career for my current choice (like having my summers allegedly free and being able to go get a cup of coffee whenever I feel like it and having an office to turn into an homage to Elvis) but you were all thisclose to having Deputy Ace defending your town.

I would have kicked ass as a deputy, just for the record.

Goodbye, clock radio

I love waking up to the first rays of the sunrise creeping in through my window. Occasionally, I don't mind waking up to a nice song on the radio. I'm not a fan of alarm clocks, nor do I like waking to a ringing phone. In an ideal world, I would be able to wake myself up every morning without using an sort of alarm.

That's an ideal world.

My world is far from ideal. Case in point: I was woken this morning not so much by an alarm or by the sunrise, but rather by hot, smelly breath. I opened my eyes to find my dog about three inches from my face. Just staring at me. Did she have to *relieve* herself? Nope. Was she cold, and trying to let me know? Not so much. Was she not feeling well? Not in this case. Hungry? Surprisingly, no.

No, she was just staring at me for no discernible reason. And as much as I dislike alarms, I'd much rather have that than the creepiness of this morning's wake-up call. Lord knows how long she was staring at me in my sleep before I woke up.

If she was a human, I'd have a restraining order already in place. Alas, she is just my creepy dog, so I just got up and pet her.

How was your morning?

Watch out, David Cross . . .

After kicking a little ass last night at cards, I am formally announcing my intent to play Celebrity Poker. Do you think I have to be a celebrity to be on there? They let Hank Azaria play, so clearly they will bend the rules. And I would mop the table with Brad Garrett.

Uh. So . . . yeah.

Actually, the ass-kicking I delivered last night involved not so much me cleaning up as it did me winning by a little. But here's the kicker: we played for money. Real money.

If pennies count as real money.

I made over thirty cents. That's right. Three. Zero. Suck on that.

Um. Yeah. And stuff.

So Maryanne, Sarah, and I decided that since there are no good movies out currently (at least where we live) we would stay in and play cards. They taught me a new game, and I forced them to play a betting game (that incorporates poker into it). For the record, I was on my best behavior last night. Scary, huh?

Gloating was kept to a bare minimum. They didn't get to see how competitive I actually get, but really it's more fun to get competitive when you play against your grandparents and siblings. Or is that just me?

Anyways, card-night was great fun and we are looking to make this a semi-often event. If I continue to be the ass-kicking machine I was last night, there will be a major shopping venture in my future. As long as I go to a penny candy store.

And if my card-playing companions are reading this, will you ever play with me again? If not, remember how I turned all the terminology into dirty jokes and keep in mind that I brought cookies. I'm fun to have around. And stuff.

Ew. Ew. Ew.

Lisa Marie, I've tried. Really, I have. I've stood up for you. Pointed out your philanthropy. Pointed out that it wasn't easy growing up in the limelight. Tried to ignore the whole Michael Jackson debacle. Defended your apparent inablitly to smile for more than five seconds straight. Argued that your quickie-marriages were no worse than the rest of Hollywood's.

But, really, you've gone too far. Husband number four (yup, Lisa Marie got married. Again.) is just a goober. There's really no other word for him. Look at him. I'm sorry, but this guy CANNOT be Elvis Presley's son-in-law. Ew.

Lisa Marie, look in the mirror. You are a hottie. And your dad is ELVIS. You don't need to be slumming it with this guy. Elvis had finally settled down after your marriage to MJ, but now he's rolling over in his grave once again (*allegedly*). Give the man some peace. Stop getting married to losers.

Oh, and stop singing, too. Just a little advice from me to you.

The following takes place between 8:05 and 8:09

Here are some of my thoughts on last night's 24.

Question: How bad ass is Jack that he can kill someone, while he's lying on the ground AND handcuffed to a table?

Answer: There is no way to compute the sheer ass-kicking-ness of Jack Bauer.

Why doesn't someone give Chloes some metamucil? She is clearly constipated. Also, what on earth was the first lady wearing in this episode? That had to have been the ugliest shirt I've ever seen. She was a Designing Woman, you'd think she'd know better. Also, does the President's neck-stretching and head-turning action when he's nervous or feeling *inadequate* bug anyone else? And could they play up his Nixon-jowls a bit more?

Ok, that's it. Have a good pseudo-holiday.

A very long post, but oh-so-interesting

Before I shame all of you have mocked me for Omaha, I do have a hotel story to tell.

And it's not one of those hotel stories. Maybe some other time. Uh, yeah.

So I walk into the hotel, and the guy behind the counter greets me. By name. Apparently there were only two guests that night, and the other was a guy and already checked in, so by this genius's powers of deduction, he figured out who I was.

And you'd think that with only two guests in the whole hotel, they could keep the rooms straight, right? Wrong. I was given a key and I toddled off to my room. I let myself in, dropped my suitcases, and turned to see a very surprised man on the bed. I bet he was wondering what kind of hotel he had checked into. Apparently a full-service one.

Thank God (maybe) that he was fully dressed. The desk clerk had given me not just the wrong room number, but also the wrong key. It made the continental breakfast the next morning with that one other guest a bit awkward. Made even more so by the thin walls the night before. He liked to sing along to commercial jingles. Loudly.

Speaking of TV, the hotel had more channels than I do at home. Loved. It. And I have a confession: I am in love with not just Omaha, but also Stephen Colbert. Anyone who can make me laugh out loud (okay, and occasionally snort) is a winner. Word of the day: classy.

You might be wondering now, besides watching TV and listening to my weird hotel neighbor, what else did I do? I strolled around Omaha's downtown and Old Market district. So here's my part for Omaha's tourism industry. If you need a yummy pastry go to Delice on 12th and Howard. I had this eclaire-type cream pastry called Napoleon something. So, so good. If you can make this, you will be my new best friend. Enticing, yes?

Moving on. If you need a good bookstore, go to Jackson St. Booksellers. It's really quiet in there, so you can kick back and read away. Two recommendations: (a) please to be reading I Know This Much is True by Wally Lamb and (b) if you walk around this store, make some noise so unsuspecting people can hear you coming. I learned this the hard way. On a related note, I saw two lesbians making out. In the horror/mystery section. Apparently either bookstores in general are a turn-on, or there's just something about the latest Stephen King book that got these two going.

Back to downtown. If you need a good beer, go to Upstream Brewery and may I recommend the raspberry honeywheat ale? I made two new friends there. Two new drunk friends. Last, but not least, if you need a good CD, tape, or record, go to Drastic Plastic. It is conveniently located right across from Delice. I bought an Elvis album (shocking, I know), a Smothers Brothers album, and two Rolling Stones (if I haven't already rubbed it in your face, I'm going to see the Stones next month in Vegas. Face rubbed, bitch. And I need to stop saying bitch.).

As an added bonus, this store played the most eclectic mix of music I have ever heard. Sample: "A Fifth of Beethoven" followed by "Turn! Turn! Turn!" followed by "Amazing Grace," then Weezer's "Sweater Song," CCR's "Proud Mary," then "Jeremy," then "Oh Mickey!" followed by "Good Vibrations." Odd. Raise your hand if you sang along to each. Uh, just me then?

Alright, thus endeth my ode to Omaha. Two thumbs up to that city, so suck on that everyone who mocked me. See how I didn't say bitch? Aaach! That doesn't count!

Stories of terror from the air!!

Catchy title, huh? Grab your attention, did it? It's not a tease, terrifying story is to be found below, but first . . .

Be prepared to mock: I think I fell in love with Omaha. Omaha, Nebraska. I can't even type that without smirking at myself. Who falls in love with Omaha? Apparently me. I'll get back to that later.

So my little work-trip was great. Lots o' good fun. For this post, I'll just sum up my flying fun.

On my first flight, I sat next to some college girl who apparently felt very close to me, as she talked most of the way. She didn't have a good sense of segues, either, moving rapidly from one topic to another with no discernible train of thought. Best example: "So I just visited my boyfriend for a week. God, I love him. I can't walk straight for a week after a visit!" She must have seen the look on my face, because she quickly clarified that little nugget by saying he had horses and they rode a lot.

On the way back, I had a four-hour layover in Denver. FOUR hours. Technically, four and a half, but after you hit the four-hour mark, who's counting? Four hours sitting in an airport makes Ace kind of grumpy, but luckily I had plenty of good reading with me. And my cell phone. I almost wore out the batteries. If you didn't know I was talking about my cell, would that have been the dirtiest sentence ever?

Yes.

The flight from Denver to Spokane was, uh, interesting. We hit some major turbulence. The guy behind me was praying out loud. I knew it would be alright, and I was more annoyed by the fact that I didn't get a refill on my coffee due to said turbulence. But that's me, always concerned about others. If, that is, "others" are me and my coffee.

Ok, so amidst all this turbulence, this little girl (like 3 or 4) starts sobbing. Heart-breaking, and I'm not being sarcastic. Seriously, it was the saddest thing I've ever heard (even more than hearing that Arrested Development ended last night. Seriously. What's up with that? Uh, okay back to the crying kid.) So she's sobbing, because it was pretty scary up there. Some ASSHOLE decided to yell at her to shut up. As much as I like to keep to myself on flights (I'm not big on making friends with the random stranger who's been assigned to sit next to me), I felt it was time to say something. I might have muttered something under my breath about him being a first-class jerk-off who was probably just envious that the kid could cry out loud when he was just a crying little pussy on the inside.

Uh, so he heard.

And responded by calling me a name. A less-than-flattering name. Something along the lines of a See You in Toledo.

Luckily, most of the other passengers had my back. Yeah, suck on that bitch! As we were all getting off the plane (because we did eventually land safely, although about an hour late), someone might have said to this ASS-MUNCH something along the lines of hoping he fell on his face on the tarmac.

As a self-professed expert on judging who is going to hell, I can say, with authority, that this mother-fu*&$er is going straight there. His hand-basket is waiting. Yell at a crying kid, my ass.

Ok, so more Omaha fun to follow.

Mother of the Year

Hey, y'all. It's me, Britney Spears. I just had to respond to all the uproar over what I did the other day with my little 'un. If y'all don't remember, I had me a baby a few months ago! I's all grown up! I gots married to my hot and talented boyfriend, and I don't care what y'all say, we's in love and we's gonna be together 4-ever.

Since we love each other so much (and the marriage thing was getting old quickly, the press was focusing on other people!), we decided to have us an itty bitty baby. K-Fed was all, "It's cool baby, because I knows how to raise babies. I got a couple with that lady I was married to just a minute ago." So I got all fat and stuff and had me a baby of my own. After selling his first baby pictures, we quicky became a cute little family.

But now people are saying that not only am I a fat cow and white trash, but that I's a bad mom to my little un. So I just want to tell y'all what really happened. We wuz in my SUV, and I had my bodyguard run in to a store to buy me some Slim-Jims. The paparazzi all comes up to my car (K-Fed calls them the Pavarattis, and he's probably right. He's so smart. I love his corn rows. And his crazy talent!) and I got all scared. I was holding the little baby at the time, and I just hit the gas.

People are saying it wuz all dangerous for me to be driving holding little Sean on my lap, but in case the pictures don't show it none, my arms wuz around him! I wuz holding him! He wasn't just flopping around! Geez, people! Don't y'all remember how much you loves me? I sang about hitting me one more time, and I kissed Madonna! How can you be mad about this little thing?

It's like that time I went into a gas station bathroom without no shoes or socks, and people got all riled up. They wuz pitchin' to throw a fit! I's a good mom, and I's gonna be sexy again once I lose this pregancy weight. And K-Fed's gonna be a famous rap artist. But I'll always be famouser. And when I drop my weight and be's all purdy again, I'll be famouser than Jessica Simpson again. She don't have no baby! She just gots a dog and she's getting a divorce, y'all! I's married AND has me a baby!

One for the thumb

That's a phrase I learned today. It was said often, as I watched the game with Steelers fans who are probably very happy tonight.

Speaking of people who are very happy today, all I can say is, "Fifty bucks." That's right. Five. Zero. Yup, I bet on the game and won. And you know who you are. Pay up, bitch. That money is going straight towards my Elvis-A-Rama purchases next month. Let's hear it one more time: $50. In my pocket.

So the game was all nice and stuff. Especially since it had a cash bonus for some of us. And, almost as importantly, the food at the Superbowl Party was GREAT! I had wings, mozzarella sticks, chips, brownies, cookies, and much, much more. Yum.

Favorite commercials: the streaking sheep, the cavemen Fed-Ex (mainly because I enjoyed when the caveman punted the little dinosaur) and the Sierra Mist airport commercial with Kathy Griffin.

Least favorites: the creepy Burger King one with the women dressed as lettuce, tomatoes, buns, onions, etc., and all of the Diet Pepsi commercials. "Brown and bubbly" is a tagline that makes me not so much thirsty as nauseous. Good work, marketing geniuses.

Fatty's new toy

Three things from my weekend:

First, I had to run to the grocery store today. I bought four items. FOUR. So I went to the express-lane. And got behind the man who couldn't read the sign that said 12 item limit. He had a full cart, and was fine with this. This was after I had had to make my way through the obstacle course of a store, negotiating my way around people who have about 30 kids, decided to bring their SUV strollers, and get those super-cute carts that the kids can pretend that they are driving.

I wasn't in the best mood to deal with this guy who was obviously flaunting the strict rules of the grocery store. Luckily, there were new magazines for me to gawk at while in line. I'm easily distracted.

Second, I saw a commercial for "Doggy Stairs" today. They are to help your dog climb up on the couch or bed. It's for really short dogs, dogs with arthritis, older dogs, and overweight dogs. Besides the fact that people are buying something to help their dogs get where they don't need to be, they are paying over $40 for this. Forty bucks to have dog hair on your couch, and a very unattractive set of stairs sticking out into your room.

Third, I'm making cookies later today and I am overly excited for that. Which means I'm so far overdue for a vacation, it's not even funny. Gingersnaps, anyone?

Happy Second of February!

Did the groundhog see his shadow? Does anyone know? Does this seem like the weirdest tradition to anyone else? Does Groundhog Day amuse everyone as much as it amuses me? If I keep asking questions, do you suppose I'll get any answers? What is a groundhog, anyways? My dog saw her shadow today (and was a bit scared); does that mean winter is over?

In other February 2 news, it is now just four months to my birthday. Which means I'm a Gemini. Which is the sign of the twins. Which translates into: you have to buy me two presents. Start shopping, kids, because these days will go by quickly. Unless you see me often, and get the daily countdown. Then, or so I've heard, the days kind of drag by.

Whatever.

Four months until my favorite holiday. Mark the calendars, whip out the credit cards, and find your recipe for WORLD'S YUMMIEST BIRTHDAY CAKE.

Raisinettes, anyone?

Raise your hand if you got to work far too early. Mine's up. I guess it doesn't need to be, though, since no one can see me. But it was up.

I completely miscalculated the time it would take me to run some errands this morning, so here I am with over 20 minutes to kill.

Sounds to me like it's time to waste the morning by writing about my dream from last night.

I dreamt that I was on a sitcom, and that I was the side-kick of Calista Flockhart. We worked at a movie theatre. Harrison Ford was also in the cast, and during the opening credits you would just see his leering face in a darkened theatre, lit only by my flashlight as I searched for people who illegally brought in their own candy.

So this theatre served beer, and my main job (besides bringing the smack down on the candy-smugglers) was to get the alcohol into the plastic Dixie cups. I was constantly talking to the camera, and Calista's main job was to go throw up her lunch in the bathroom.

I vividly remember one of my camera monologues, where I was discussing the meaning of The Iliad. While still serving up the beer.

What on earth do I eat before I go to bed?