When Bugs Attack

I recently had a conversation with a friend about the implications of living alone, and whether the ups were worth the downs. Well, something happened yesterday that convinced me I, personally, can not be expected to live alone without some contingencies.

I was the victim of a vicious attack. In my own home. If Nicole hadn't been there I don't know what I would have done. Probably scream and cry and jump up and down flapping my hands. Wait, yeah that's pretty much what I did anyway.

As I sat barefoot at my computer the culprit sauntered into my room without even the decency to recognize that he was out of place and unwelcome. And I tell you, if EVER a spider looked smug it was this one.

Also, let me clarify. I'm not talking, "oh no. a spider equivalent to the size of a quarter hiding behind my bookcase. whatever shall I do." I'm talking, "what is that small hamster doing in the middle of my room and OH MY GOSH THAT'S NOT A HAMSTER OR ANY VARIATION OF CUTE FUZZY MAMMAL AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY WHY DO THESE THINGS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?" It was a beefcake in the worst sense possible.

Although I registered some movement in my periph it wasn't until Nicole alerted me to his presence with an informative, "holy crap that thing is HUGE!" Somehow within two milliseconds I was on the other side of the door, peering into the room and trying not to convulse as I curled my toes under my feet as tightly as possible.

After some failed shoe-squishing attempts it was decided that the only way to catch this mongrel was to call in the big guns (read: vacuum cleaner of death.) I'm sure this is what vacuum engineers had in mind when designing the hose attachment. After letting the bug-sucker run for about 5 minutes we finally consented to switch it off, and store it in the garage lest the mutant crawl OUT of the vacuum and resume his reign of terror.

For the rest of the night every stray hair and every wisp of dust was in my mind a blood sucking hell-monster bent on tormenting me for his evil purposes. Luckily I made it through the ordeal unharmed. Well, mostly. The next morning I discovered something on my leg and for the first time EVER I prayed for a pimple.

No. This was not something I could have handled on my own. I think it's finally time to invest in one of these. Or reconsider my fall-back plan: a bee-keeper outfit marinated in bug spray.

Working For the Weekend

What does a normal Ladies Night entail? Pillow fights and facial masks and brutal waxing sessions? Hmm. Occasionally. This weekend I had one long, extended Ladies Night with Nicole. It went from early Thursday night until the wee hours of Monday morning. And there was not a single facial mask through the whole thing. (Although there's a small chance that we wore these matching "Ladies Night" t-shirts most of the time. No way to confirm it.) Really, I guess the only thing that qualified it as "a time for ladies" was the fact that there were no menfolk present. Which is a shame.

-Movies watched includes: I, Robot; Star Wars Episode III; The Island; The Witches; and a documentary on Andre the Giant. Normally I wouldn't go to Nicole for my SciFi fix but she really pulled through for me on this one. Ok, so there may have been several episodes of Saved By the Bell stuck in there somewhere too.

-Food consumed: S'mores; teriyaki chicken kabobs; the most amazing chicken, bacon and artichoke pizza; corn on the cob; potato salad; wonderful, greasy Italian (followed by an explosive episode in the bathroom); an entire bag of frozen rolls (we cooked them first); and loads of various candy-type products. We ate on plates decorated with American Flags so that it FELT like 4th of July weekend. Move over Martha.

-Books Read: We both finished off the remaining books in the Sisters Grimm series (I had two left, Nicole had 4) which gave the weekend a magical, enchanted type of feel. Also we smelled pretty bad from postponing showers in favor of reading.

-Topics discussed: The hubris of all singles wards; the creepiness of all humanoid robots; the endearing quality of Ewan McGreggor's bad American accent; the relief we feel because we didn't end up with any of our ex-boyfriends; the sole-wrenching effect of Hayden Christensen's acting (Nicole disagreed);and what all-around awesome people we both are.

-My Favorite Moment: A strangely heated debate about which is more deadly, a vampire or a werewolf. This took place while waiting for the lady at WalMart to tell us where the wooden skewers (aka small wooden stakes) are located (next to the spatulas FYI) and if they had anymore in stock (they were sold out). Nicole's theory was based on the fact that vampires have more weaknesses (garlic, crosses, wooden stakes, holy water etc.) because they are more deadly. I took the opposite view arguing that because the werewolf can only be killed by a silver bullet, it is harder to kill, therefore more deadly (girls can be geeky too). In the end we realized that this was all a ruse for our true, underlying opinions about Edward vs. Jake. Nicole roots for team Jake, I cheer for team Edward. Tragically, no matter who wins, we both lose.

A Subtle Review

In all my post-bachelors-degree free time I've been watching a lot of movies. So I've decided to start posting my thoughts on them. No, I wasn't a film major. Or even minor. But I've got a lot of movie-related musings and they've got to go somewhere. And that somewhere is here.

Yelnats Talf

A few weeks ago I got a letter from my niece telling me her class had read a story about Flat Stanley and how she was sending me a Stanley that she made. I was supposed to take him with me everywhere I went and document our adventures, but I'm a slacker and so I did it all in one night.

One memorable outtake was when I tried to make it look like he was playing with my friends' cat toy, but instead it looked like he hung himself. I decided to leave that one out. Here's what I did instead:

Here is Stanley enjoying a a day of sun-bathing in Hawaii. See. You can tell it's really Hawaii because of the Sweet Maui Onion Hawaiian potato chips next to him. Also the "palm tree" is a dead give away.

Here Stanley is helping me study. His strangely askew reading spectacles denote his studious nature. Stanley thinks that Lady Macbeth's moral reversal relieves her of all blame, making Macbeth the real villain of the play. Oh, Stanley! You always spark such controversy!





Stanley wanted to fight Rocky, but he was too afraid to fight a South Paul. Wait. It's South PAW? Yeah that kind of makes more sense. I blame Rocky's facial paralysis.




Elvis and Stanley became best pals. I guess they just have a lot in common. What with being two-dimensional and all.

Stanley was a great help in the kitchen but . . . it was kind of demeaning. "Dump that package of generic processed cheese into the macaroni NOW!!!" "YES, CHEF!" And then I cried. And he liked it.

Then we tried to play hide-and-seek but I think he was cheating. Look at the smirk on his face, the smarmy little bugger.

Low-Point: The Institute of Official Cheer

This afternoon I came across this site run by James Lileks, who is a humor columnist in Minneapolis. Considering Minneapolis is often lauded for being a mecca for comedic talent (sarcasm.) I'd consider this a diamond in the ruff of -20 degree weather typically found there. I've never actually been there, so I don't have much to base an opinion on, but if I can get the same stuff online from the comfort of my air-conditioned cubicle then why should I?

Basically what he does is post old pictures/ads/comic book pages/cold war-era promotional artwork and make witty comments about discrepancies of old-timey politics.

In quiet, friendly letters the site proclaims what it does best: humiliate the defenseless past since 1996. If the subscript of the title page doesn't convince you of its inherent greatness then you're probably a grumpy pensioner yelling at all the readers to get off your cyber-lawn and wondering why all your commie neighbors haven't been black-balled yet.

Being something of a computer aficionado (double sarcasm.) I was instantly drawn to the compu-promo section. Lileks describes this section as, "big hideous computers, and the women who loved them: a salute to the early years of computer promotion." Once I saw this entry I knew I had struck the equivalent of Internet gold. Dotcom-karats I call em. Subtle references to other sources comedic genius, particularly those including old B-movies, always sit well with me. And this section is rife with them.

Thus far I haven't even strayed to any of the other sections. There are enough back-posts here that with a little luck I could probably stretch this out for the rest of the summer.

Hot Cookin

Normally I don’t like to admit that I watch American Idol. In fact, when I do watch it I’m usually locked in my bedroom with a blanket over my head. I debated a long time about writing about this, but I figured if I was ever going to blog about American Idol I might as well do it now during the post-AI media storm when my confession can be waved off as another piece of fan-girl blather and not seen as a reliable barometer of my personal taste. Wow. Can I write a run-on sentence or what?

The fact is, I love David Cook. As a friend once put it, I don’t love him like I love peanut butter. I mean, I luuuuuvvvaaaahhh him.

From the first moment Cookie walked in with his faux hawk and argyle sweater I was hooked. It turned out to be a bonus that he could actually sing. And once he sang his emo/rock version of Hello I knew I’d never think about American Idol the same. I guess you could say “He had me at ‘Hello” but I’d like to maintain SOME semblance of dignity here.

But what really gets me? He’s so darn articulate. Every time I see him on a talk show I giggle to myself then sigh in recognition that I will never be that eloquent. I want to use my feminine wiles to trick him into a philosophical conversation that requires a delicate formulation of logic and necessitates explanations of complex ideas. Then I’ll lean back in my chaise lounge and watch him articulate. And yes, you can watch someone articulate. At least I can. I don’t know what your problem is.

Also in my fantasy he’s pacing back and forth in a black tee-shirt and intermittently flashing his crooked half-smile.

Some people would accuse me of rapidly jumping from obsession to obsession, claiming that I’ll be over him in another month. But only idiots with shiny new ‘stangs would actually believe something stupid like that. Unbeknown to most Shia’s likeness still lives on my door, Danny Wallace’s book still lives on my shelf, and Brand New's croonings still live on my ipod. Perhaps the initial intensity wears off a bit, but I never go back on something I truly love. (Good Charlotte I’m still rooting for you! Even if it’s just for old time’s sake.)

So, to sum up: David Cook, I am your Cookie Monster, and I will continue to steal from the Cookie jar, because I know this Cookie will never crumble . . . and various other double entendres Cookie puns.

I have retarded tingles for myself.

Getting Rooster-y

Something amazing happened to me today. I managed to inadvertently tap into the male ego for a brief moment. Much the same way Gibson learned valuable lessons about the female gender in What Women Want, I too learned how easy it is to be corrupted by the sense of entitlement men seem to experience all the time. Like that one Big-Dirty who believed he had a shot with you even though you’re clearly out of his league? Yeah, I can see how he could disillusion himself into thinking that despite being TOTALLY off base. You know who I’m talking to.

So this weekend I bought a pair of jeans that were more expensive than I’d normally go for. But they were ridiculously on sale and there was only one pair left that someone had returned and so, in my shopping equivalent of a blood-frenzy, I snatched them up and hauled them home.

Only today did I discover the best thing about these jeans. Behind the zipper of the fly there is stitched a small and unobtrusive lightning bolt.

I wish I could describe the rush this discovery gave me. It was like I was instantly teleported the psyche of a man who was greatly endowed and asserted this confidence in his everyday life. Like I could suddenly get away with anything, and more importantly anyONE, I wanted to.

I immediately stormed into my office and confronted my boss about the bug report I’d been working on all morning, waving it wildly in his face and proclaiming that his inability to grasp simple explanations should not constitute hours of redundant work on my part.

Ok, so I didn’t actually do that. Partially because everyone I work with is fairly pleasant and quite competent. But I could feel myself just waiting for someone to cross me because then I could jab my finger in their shoulder and say, “Oh yeah? Cross THIS.”

Finding this hidden treasure was like free admission to the world of ego centric men who think they’re the best thing since sliced bread despite all evidence to the contrary.

As if my mind rationalized all outlandish actions because I have a hidden force to fall back on that would shock and amaze all if they only knew! The fools! They have no idea of the power I wield!

And then my female rational slowly returned as I realized that this secret weapon of mine was nothing more than a lightning bolt on my crotch.

I guess the Justice League will have to wait a little longer for my services.

Oh, and this also means that I WILL NOT be showing up uninvited on David Cook’s doorstep with any unfounded confidence. But I will still show up on his doorstep. Just without the confidence part. You never know.

Low Point--Whatever

I debated about posting this as another low-point because it comes from another sf/f author and if I haven't already driven you away with my sf/f geekiness I'm sure you're just waiting for an excuse. But then I read this post about a stupid headline and it managed to distract me for a full minute and a half and successfully brought me out of low-point territory.

This is a blog by John Scalzi and while he talks a lot about the sf/f genre and writing world, he also throws in lots of other amusing tidbits which should allow all you closet SciFi fans enough of an excuse to read guiltlessly. Also he seems a bit enamored with his cats, which also makes it a good fit for anyone who likes to divert all their unrequited love on the feline race.

And if you like sf/f AND you have seven cats . . . well.

Also, his actual novels/short stories are really good too. Even if you DON'T like sf/f OR live in MEOWtropolis.

Low Point--Writing Excuses

It seems that everyday at work I hit a point, a point where I find myself in the darkest reaches of my mind, one might call it the "depths of despair." Usually this hits around 3pm. A time when I'm burned out from classifying documents within nested zip files, and just the thought of writing up an issue report makes me left lung collapse. Typically, I've already cruised all my normal blogs, I've either gotten sick of my music, or left my ipod at home, and I'm so bloated-full of Diet Coke that Joe Banks could use me as a life raft instead of his luggage. (Anyone? Here's a hint.) PLUS it's Thursday, which is already my low-point in the week which makes today's low-point uber-low-pointy.

Tragically I can't just leave work, and they don't like it when I sing along to SA-LINE DEE-YON in my cubicle. Instead I'm forced to find some OTHER way to amuse myself. Today it was this:

This is a series of podcasts called Writing Excuses from three writers in Utah Valley about some of the pitfalls of writing fiction. One of them was a professor of mine, Brandon, whom I've mentioned before but all three have great advice to give. Each podcast is about 15 minutes long because, as they say, "you're busy, and we're not that smart." Well I don't know about how smart they are, but I am SERIOUSLY not that busy. I've already listened to about 5 episodes today because luckily I can take in writerly wisdom while formatting npg files. Oh the life of a software-tester. So glamorous. (Sarah? If you will? *Glamorous Glamorous* Thank you.)

I know this won't appeal too much to non-writer-types out there, which is pretty much all three of you, but if you've even been curious about the classification continuum of villains you might find it interesting. And if not then just read this list (which they also link on the podcast site) of things to consider when you're an evil overlord because it's pretty much the best thing ever.

Also, these pictures have nothing to do with this topic, they're just to distract you from the mundane nature of this post. "Well excuuuuuuse me Princess!" This, m'friends, is a low-point.

Gradua-SHON Celebra-SHON

Graduation is an institution's last-ditch effort to humiliate students. And it works. You're forced to wear funny clothes in front of crowds of people who's only care is when the %@#& this thing is going to be over. Hint: the graduates are thinking the SAME THING. Nevertheless I managed to enjoy mine and here are some highlights for you to enjoy vicariously:

-For once in my life it made sense to plan an outfit based on the shoes, for which I received several compliments. One was even from a guy who felt the need to shout across a crowd of several thousand graduates, "JANAY'S SHOES ARE HOT!!!" which, let's face it, they kind of are. (These are not my feet but these are the shoes. My feet are much sexier. And the shoes look even hotter sticking out of a judge's robe.)

-At the large commencement I stood in my designated area blithely greeting all my fellow English graduates, until I realized I was the only one with a brown tassel. In a sea of white and gold I was the one, brown turd floating in the bowl. I was supposed to be graduating with a Bachelor of Arts, not a Bachelor of FINE Arts and SOMEONE gave me the wrong color tassel. Sheesh people. Do we graduates need to do EVERYTHING for you?

-We stood lined up for said commencement for at least 45 min outside. Which wouldn't be so bad on a spring-y April day, but this day was less spring-y and more snow-stormy. So instead of looking pleasantly flush from the quiet breeze meandering throughout the trees, we looked red-nosed and purple-knuckled as we tried to cut off the breeze meandering up our skirts. Also looked a bit like Harry Potter which is not very dignified.

-I finally saw the fish in the basement of the Widtsoe building. It was kind of anticlimactic but would be cool if you had an office down there. When my 2 year old nephew saw the big lobster he spent the next several minutes explaining how if the lobster tried to pinch him he would kick it, then poop on his head. I told him he should teach a self-defense class.

-My Mom and I graduated at the same time. This meant that while walking in together I had to listen to her whine that everyone was pointing and laughing at the "old lady." Then when we got our fake diploma's, "Janay's mother graduating with a degree in Family Life" got way more applause than Janay did. Plus it was the only applause that wasn't followed by an adamant "Shhhh!" *sigh*

-I FINALLY got to get IN the fountain in the courtyard of the JFSB. Of course, we had to tempt all my nephews away with the promise of ice cream to suppress a riot when "Aunt Nay" got to go in. The wet foot prints walking away from the fountain were a bit incriminating but I'm just glad I didn't slip on the marble and dunk myself.

-I had my suspicions confirmed that graduates are not exempt from just being plain stupid. Especially when they're trying to be seen by their parents across a crowd of 20k people in the Marriot Center. One guy I know struggled for at least 20 minutes saying, "Can you see me? How can you not see me I'm RIGHT across from you. Can you see me? Ok, now I'm pointing to my head. No . . . everyone ELSE is waving I'm the one pointing to my HEAD. Now I'm jumping up and down. Can you see me now? I'm pointing to my head and jumping up and down. I'M RIGHT ACROSS FROM YOU!"

-While walking to our designated areas my Mom and I ran into some family friends. Greetings were exchanged. Smiles were shared. Congratulations expressed. And all by exclaiming, "Heeeeyy! Hey! Haaaay! Heeeeyyyyyy!"

How to get on my good side

Step 1: See me at some point during my busy day and engage in a wholly forgettable conversation. Preferably referencing our work, class, bongo lessons etc.

Step 2: That night in my dream accuse me of always showing up for work (class, synchronized swimming) hours late and generally tell me what a bad employee I am and therefore an awful human being.

Step 3: Ensure that I have at least a momentary understanding that what is happening is not reality and therefore I feel justified in giving you the railing of your life, complete with brightly colored words that I secretly admire the potency of but never use out due to an inclination towards a modest vocab. (You in your perfectly tailored, pin-stripe suite. A pathetic attempt at professionalism.)

Step 4: Immediately following said railing politely suggest that my dream is NOT in fact a dream and that I have just deeply offended you and all your posterity.

Step 5: The next morning at work (class, D&D sesh) smile at me, reminding me that in reality you're NOTHING like my dream version, consequently making me feel horrible about myself for belittling you so effectively. (Although I am quite pleased with the clever execution.)

Following these simple steps will ensure that for at least the following 24 hours I will bring you your printing (hand-out, moon-boots) I will rummage through the snack table looking for the best fruit-snacks available, and send you helpful hints on creating a local DocLibrary replica of a Notes database which doesn't replicate with the Domino server (ain't work excitin'!) All out of guilt. In short. I will become your B-word.

ABC's of me, if I have to, I guess.

A - Attached or Single: attached to the idea that if I answer these badly enough no one will ever make me fill out another one. But otherwise single. Single like a fox.

B - Best Friend: anyone who gets this reference: “The time for talking is over. Now call it extreme if you like, but I propose we hit it hard, and we hit it fast, with a major, and I mean major, leaflet campaign.” Which will be no one. Oh well.

C - Cake or Pie: unless James McAvoy is going to jump out of the cake, pie.

D - Day of Choice: Thursday. I don’t really know why except that I hate Thursdays and that’s more than I can say for any of the other forgettable slacker-days.

E - Essential Item: several random notebooks that I fill with genius ideas then never look at again.

F - Favorite Color: green. It has all the austerity of a blue or red without that stigma of over-popularity.

G - Gummi Bears or Worms: bears, but only because they come dipped in chocolate.

H - Hometown: Bothell, Washington, the Snohomish side, where we welcome you for “a day or a lifetime.”

I - Indulgence(s): anything British or Canadian, or in particular hilarious and unconventionally attractive men from England or Canada. Oh, and I’ve been reading a lot of SciFi novels recently so, yeah.

J - January or July: January. I’ve decided to balk the dictating conventions of the Gregorian calendar and rename all the months after my favorite literary heroes. In that case I prefer Jude-ly. But Rochester-uary is right out.

K - Kids: Let’s just say I’m headed down to my brother’s place for Easter. He has four boys under the age of 7 and it’s about time for my bi-annual birth control.

L - Life is Incomplete Without: oxygen. Well, technically only 20% oxygen and about 78% nitrogen. (See SciFi above.)

M - Marriage Date: no thanks. I prefer marriage raisins.

N - Number of Siblings: three. None of whom would ever make me fill out a stupid questionnaire.
O - Oranges or Apples: apples. Fuji.

P- Phobias or Fears: spiders. And alphabetic-themed tags. (Tired of this yet?)

Q - Quote(s): "Smooch my big, white alien forehead."

R - Reason to Smile: this.

S - Season: where I come from we don’t have seasons. There’s only rainy, and slightly more rainy. But I really prefer fall and spring because they writhe with inner turmoil.

T - Tag Seven: I don’t want to be held accountable for tagging anyone else so I hereby allow seven people to tag themselves. You know who you are.

U - Unknown Fact About Me: I've self-diagnosed myself with reverse seasonal-affective disorder. I get depressed when it's sunny for days on end.

V - Vegetarian or Oppressor of Animal: oppressor. I just can’t get enough of waiters telling me “it’s nice to see a girl who can eat” when I order a steak.

W - Worst Habit: thinking that my life is too boring to have anything to blog about.

X - X-Rays or Ultrasounds: x-rays, the more x-rays there are the less times “xylophone” will have to show up in alphabet books.

Y - Your Favorite Food: watermelon. “Just plant a watermelon on my grave and let the juice slurp slurp run down.”

Z - Zodiac: Taurus. But only by one day which is lucky because I am SO not the same sign as Haras.

When Your Powers Combine. . .

Three of the most powerful forces in my universe combined this week: an author I LOVE (Jen Lancaster) doing in a book signing in the city I LOVE (Seattle, where else?) the same week as my MOST beloved Folklife Festival.

As if I weren't planning it anyway, I'm hereby officially doing a road trip home the end of May. Yes it's awhile off but that just gives me time to ponder the wonderfulness of this triple threat.

First, there's really no need to laud the magnitude of said author. Seriously? Just check out her blog and prepare to be converted. 'Nuff said. But what makes it better is that she's condescending to do a signing at one of my favorite bookstores, which happens to be within 10 minutes of my house.

Pretty much the only thing this bookstore DOESN'T have going for it is that it's not in a creaky old building with misshapen, wobbly wood floors and tight, jagged corners wherein to crack open monstrous tomes filled with Russian disparity. Ahhhh.

Luckily, they DO have several restaurants, over sized chess games, and weekly literary readings to make up for it. And the best bit? The used books are mixed right in with the new ones! I know some people prefer the crisp whiteness of new books but old books have history. HISTORY. Reading a used book is like constructing an emotional connection with some unseen spirit of the past. Unless it's a really crappy book, then you can feel all elitist for not having such awful taste.

As if it weren't enough the same week we have the Folklife Festival. This is my all time, hands down FAVORITE thing to do in Seattle. Every year that I go I leave feeling like I need to start wearing more tie-dye, and that my (limited) jewelry collection is gaudy and crypto-fascist. I resolve to eat nothing but gyros and peroshki from that point on, and to finally pursue my obvious talents as the key member of a drum circle. In my opinion, if you're too self-conscious to get up and bang along with the group then you shouldn't be allowed to stare at the bra-less hippie dancing next to you. And that's half the fun.

So if you're in Utah, you're invited on my road-trip. And if you're in Seattle, well, you're invited on a one-way road trip back to Utah.

One word of caution, I WILL be singing my family's favorite road trip song . . ."Country roooooooad take me hoooooome to the plaaaaace I beloooohooooong!"

V-Day

This year I've managed to harness the brute force of optimism and recognize why it's great to be a single girl on Valentine's Day. Just don't call it "Single Awareness Day" because really? That stopped being funny in about 8th grade.

I think my path to enlightenment started in high school when, in an obscenely romantic gesture a guy showed up to my early morning seminary with a bouquet of roses and a bucket of chocolate (you heard! a bucket!)

Terribly sweet right? (Definition Sweet: Used to describe an act that has the potential for excellence but only if it came from someone else. See Great Personality)

Yeah, it would have been nice if I wasn't dating someone else at the time (holy awkward moment Batman!). . . someone else who thoughtfully forked out the dough for a bouquet of baby's-breath (FYI guys? Not good. Nooooot gooooood.) It didn't make matters any better that Casanova lived about two hours away putting his start time to somewhere around the 4am mark. Yeah. I inspire greatness . . . just out of the wrong guys.

But this year I'm optimistic. Any guy bearing flowers and chocolate will be received graciously and not with the adolescent awkwardness I'm still trying to shake.

Therefore here are my reasons why it's great to be a single girl on Valentine's Day:

• Everyone EXPECTS you to go out with your girlfriends and yet staying at home in sweats is equally acceptable


• You can smile at the tension in the faces of the married men you work with as they try to finagle some time alone with their wives


• It's not quite so sad when you tell someone that the best gift you received was from your Aunt


• Or that that gift was complete with a mini-teddy bear, a bottle of body spray in "cotton candy fantasy" and a "glamour pack" with sparkly accoutrements for "the young at heart"


• You can get as glammed up with the afore mentioned sparkles without anyone assuming you're going to put-out at the end of the night


• While all the other smug couples are crammed into their chick-flicks you can sneak into the only Sci-Fi flick playing and have plenty of leg room


• In future years you can look back on the day and not remember a two hour wait outside Olive Garden, but the announcement of another Star Wars movie, which fills you with glee that Lucille's admonition that Annyong go "see a Star War" is now entirely possible!

Happy Lovin.

I Heart FotC

It's official. If you haven't heard about Flight of the Conchords by NOW you're officially uncool. I can say this with confidence because I've already forced it on most of my friends (aka the only people who read this blog anyway) and if you've somehow managed to dodge out of the line of fire well, we'll just consider you cool by association.

I haven't been this overtly obsessed with something since the first time I saw Little Shop of Horrors and I watched it 12 times in that first week. To this day I still have something of a latent crush on Rick Moranis.

So when I realized that I was spending an average of an hour each day re-watching clips of their show on youtube I knew something needed to be done. Kari and Shawn, I apologize. I didn't mean to go behind your back and purchase the full season on dvd but I couldn't help myself. I saw it on the shelf at the store and it just looked up at me with these big, baleful eyes what was I supposed to do? I'll tell you. I did what any self-respecting person would do: I brought it home, made up a bed with an old blanket in the corner and laid out a piece of newspaper for it to piddle on.

FotC was previously New Zealand's fourth most popular digi-folk parody group, they've now been upstaged by an FotC tribute group, and their HBO show is the story of Bret and Jemaine's quest to expand their solitary American fan into a full-blown fan base. (Because if you put base on the end of it it sounds bigger.)

I have promised Shawn and Kari that I wouldn't watch any episodes without them so thus far I've just been replaying the first 5 over and over again and giggling manically to myself. So far my favorite moments include:

• Jemaine finally getting tired of Bret's nagging and conceding that the reason he's moving out is because Bret eats too loud and it's "deefining"
  
• Bret's helmet that looks like his real hair
  
• Jemaine accusing Bret's girl friend (Cocoa) of trying to break up the band, then slurring "Cocoa, oh no!" to sound like Yoko Ono
  
• Jemaine's face when asked what his rap name is to which he replies "Hip-hopapotamus. But you can call me Jemaine if you like."
• Jemaine swiping his hand across his throat and nodding towards Cocoa indicating that Bret should break up with her and Bret saying "no man, I'm not gonna kill her"

Also, the entirety of this post is much more amusing if you read it in a whiny New Zealand accent. Now, please to enjoy what is possibly my favorite song from the show. Or at least the one that I've had stuck in my head for the last two weeks:

Steriods vs Time Travel

Every time a new horror movie comes out Haras makes a deal with me: I'll go to the scary movie with her in exchange for her going to a SciFi movie with me. We're getting more and more like an old married couple every day. We literally finish each other's sentences. Or at least predict the perfect quote/retort with surprising accuracy.

So far the score is Janay at scary movies:2 Haras at SF&F movies:0

Haras has a unique talent for wriggling out of commitments that might expose her closet obsession with SF&F.

Although Rambo technically isn't a scary movie, I've decided to categorize it in the general "I don't really care about it but Haras is obsessed with seeing it so I know she'll make me go anyway" category, and I'm require that she go see a movie with me. But not just any movie. This movie.

So far my favorite reviewer quotes include gems like : "Is this movie so god-awful bad that it's hilariously good? Can't be bothered deciding. Figure that's an answer in itself."

And, "Just where this kingdom is I don't know, but since the king of the title is played by Burt Reynolds, I'm guessing it's the Lost Continent of Atlanta. "

And, my favorite, "Uwe Boll isn't the worst director in the world, but In the Name of the King might be more enjoyable if he were."

Thus far Haras is proving resistant. Feel free to harras Haras (eh? ehhh??) on her blog to convince her that being an old married couple means making concessions.