Misfit Thanksgiving

So, my mom came to visit for Thanksgiving. We put Shannon's boxsprings on the floor in the office and inflated the camping mattress on top of them. The air mattress has a very slow leak, so when you wake up in the morning, you are kind of swallowed into it. It's hilarious. I want all of you to know that I offered for my mom to sleep in my bed and for me to sleep on the air mattress, but she insisted that she preferred the air mattress. It's true.

Anyway, I don't have a dining room table, so my mom and I went shopping for a card table on Wednesday afternoon. Well, apparently, so did everyone and their uncle, so the pickings were slim, and expensive. Ultimately, we had a whole scheme concocted that involved balancing the pegboard that the old homeowners used for their tools on top of the big Rubbermaid bins that my mom makes me keep with all the family photos because she is terrified of a Florida hurricane blowing her house away. We were planning to sit on my porch chairs and the piano bench (I only have a bench, not a piano). It was totally a la Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, or Dinner at Jeff's. Then I remembered that my desk is basically a big table (I am an office furniture minimalist), so I put the computer on my coffee table, and the printer on a nightstand and dragged the desk into the dining room. Brilliant!

Our festivities started at 9 PM on Wednesday with chocolate cake and a 2-episode Project Runway Marathon. We love Tim Gunn. Shannon almost passed out when SJP was the mystery fashion icon!!

My friend JD came over for french toast on Thursday morning and then we all went to the movies to see No Country for Old Men, about which I will only say, "Holy Crap!" My mom was cracking up because the movie was very bloody and emotionally intense (wait for it -- she's not a sicko) and Shannon, who was sitting next to her, kept squirming and squealing and scrunching up in his seat and watching through his fingers. I, of course, was doing the exact same thing two seats over. By the end I had both my feet up on the seat and a death grip on JD's shirtsleeve. I almost (almost) had to stop eating my popcorn.

We came home and played a VERY lengthy game of Tri-Bond, during which we all kept forgetting to move our pieces on the board and the nickname "Crappy McCrapperson" was used liberally. I won. We also put together a 500-piece puzzle that was a collage of clock faces. Shannon kept working on the beige ones (which all looked exactly alike) while the rest of us worked on the unique, colorful ones. We don't know why he did that, but my mom kept encouraging him, because she's the mom. The best part was when we did "joins" where two big parts came together. I know, I know -- nerdy. But I bet we had more fun than you.

Our Thanksgiving meal consisted of beer, make-your-own-pizza (except I sort of -- go figure -- took over the project), field greens (but not Shannon, who has issues with lettuce) and more chocolate cake. Hooray! I hope we have another one just like it next year!

Photo by heypaul

Pure Terror

Last night we were sitting around the island in Shelley's kitchen eating dinner. She was sitting on the stool, and I was opening the refrigerator when she screamed liked banshee. Shelley jumped off the bar stool, ran into the hall and stared wild-eyed into the kitchen. After checking my pants for poo, I asked, "Was it a roach?" I walked over to where she had been sitting to investigate. Nothing. As she gained her composure, Shelley said, "I thought a rat dropped on my head but I think it was just my scrunchy that fell on my neck." Wow. That's all I could think. Wow.

I Heart Mac

I drug my computer savvy friend, Lisa, outside the perimeter last weekend. We went to the mall. I know. It's disgusting. But we did it. But I had a noble reason. I'd say it was to buy Christmas presents for needy children, but that would be a blatant lie. And I'm not a liar. Besides, I haven't bought a Christmas present for anyone in about five years. I know. It's awesome. So anyway, Lisa was there to guide me in my purchase of a MacBook. I know. It's thrilling. As the packed parking lot indicated, the mall was busy with mindless shoppers, and the Apple store was no exception. Lisa and I stood in front of the MacBook display and waited to be noticed. It took about 10 seconds. I know. It's amazing. A nice, young, skinny guy approached us with nice, young, skinny woman in toe. I informed him I wanted to purchase a laptop. He started talking about features and some $250 warranty package. I let him talk, but not because he was cute in a quirky, disheveled way. I was staring at his discolored tooth. I know. It's unfortunate. After his little speech, I was like, "Uh-huh. I'm ready to buy it." So he leads us to the back of the store to check out. And so we did. It was the easiest $1,200 purchase I've ever made. Until I got home. Being computer retarded, I had no idea how to rig my computer to get online. I waited for Shelley the Great Domestic Goddess to get home, but she was a bit business with her own life. I know. It's inconvenient. But Shelley assured me she would try to hook up the wireless Internet over the Thanksgiving break. Meanwhile, there's a hunk of expensive equipment sitting unused in my room. I know. It sucks.

Driving the boat

My Shitzuki is in the shop again. I swear I hate that car. Long story short: bought brand new in 2005, replaced transmission six months later, replaced transmission another six months later, transmissions problem again but "fixed" after hooking it up to a computer, a/c breaks and rattles, a/c replaced but doesn't cool, a/c replaced again but doesn't cool. So my craptastic car is currently in Marietta as mechanics try their best to figure out what's wrong with it. Meanwhile I'm driving a maw maw car (aka Ford Taurus) that drives like a boat. All the parts are in the wrong place. The lights are on the dash. The gear shifty thing is attached to the steering wheel instead of in between the front seats like my car. It only has a tape player. Who has tapes anymore? Blah!

Dinner with a Methane chaser...

So, last week, most of our original improv cohort from Dad's Garage got together for dinner at Jeff's new apartment. Although we are all still connected in various contexts, it was great to see everyone all at once. Jeff's apartment is kickass, and dinner was an excellent assortment of his surprisingly delicious cooking and items everyone brung (most of which I had to forgo because of the aforementioned sugar/white flour hiatus). The new IKEA dining table, which we all helped fund (I think we probably contributed, like, two legs) was very comfortable, though lacking in adequate chairs... thus, various coolers, crates and even the coffee table were enlisted to provide the missing seats. The best part was looking at Kevin sitting about a foot lower than everyone else on a plastic storage bin -- his chin was almost resting on the table. Hilarious.

Anyway, we're all having a good time, chattering away, when Katie, in her typically dramatic fashion, says "Oh my god, y'all..." and proceeds to tell us, in highly graphic detail, how she recently read about a new teenage "getting high" fad that consists of (I shall be clinical) collecting human excrement into a bottle and leaving it out in the sun for a few days to ferment... at which point in the story I exclaimed, "Please, Katie, I am eating here!" to which she replied, "It's okay, it's okay.... they don't eat the poop!" and then went on to explain that they inhale the fumes, pass out for awhile, then wake up utterly hallucinogenic and, as Kevin so punfully described, "sh*t-faced." Katie's closing remarks consisted of an enthusiastic speculation about how crazed drug-addicts would desperately seek out people with the worst eating habits, who would thus, presumably, produce the most noxious/potent poop (again, I have edited for decorum). Here I pushed my plate away.

I love my friends. I truly love them.

Back pain and singing

First of all, I did have legitimate back pain on Monday. It was very ouchie and uncomfortable, and there were moments where I couldn't even walk. I think it was back spasms or something else weird. Even the slightest move would send me writhing and cursing. And it was the Diet Coke. I know it was.

Now, here's some dirt on Shelley. She likes to sing while she walks around the house. But she doesn't sing a whole song. She'll sing one line and stop. Then a few minutes later she'll sing another line. And stop. It's amusing.

The Pressure...

Okay, okay, you nagging a-holes. Here's what I got...

The week in bullet points:

• Shannon was born and raised in Mississippi and never snapped green beans until last week. He did a fine job. He just told me that he has also never picked cotton. That will be our next adventure. Does anyone know when cotton season is?
• Shelley has met a man person. She is not inclined to blog about it. Just deal with it.
• Shannon won't stop talking to me while I write this. It's making me feel schizophrenic. I told him to stop talking to me and he responded "But I haven't seeeeeeen you all daaaaaaaaaaaaaay!" (I love him SO much!)
  
• Shelley has gone off sugar (and white flour) again. That means no beer. Tragic. Just tragic. Also, she has not gone grocery shopping to prepare for the event, so yesterday she was reduced to eating a lot of melted mozzarella cheese on top of tomato slices (genteel folks might could call that a "crustless pizza," but I call it pathetic).
• Shannon hurt his back on Monday for no apparent reason and had to stay home from work. He thinks that his Diet Coke consumption may be the culprit. His back was better in time for him to go to his improv class.
• Shannon is wandering from room to room singing a ridiculous made-up song with only one line, which is: "Fat guy in a little co-oat." He has repeated it approximately twenty times. He is doing it to drive me insane while I write this goddamn blog entry. I left our friend Karen's hoodie on his bedpost so that we would remember to take it to her tonight. He put it on and came in here because I wasn't paying any attention to him. Thus, the song. (UPDATE: Shannon has just informed me that the song is NOT made up, but, rather, from that classic cinematic masterpiece, Tommy Boy).
  
• Best for last: we both own possibly the smallest cars on earth, and yet we cannot seem to maneuver the parking pad to get down the driveway in less than a twelve-point turn. And I was really good at geometry in high school, so I just don't get it. We are giving the whole "woman driver" stereotype a lot of traction.