…beyond nice.

Ever had a night where you just can not get drunk for the life of you? At some point during Saturday night, I honestly thought every bar I was going to must be serving me water instead of Grey Goose, because they look so similar I can see how that’s a common error…except for the damned 80 proof part! Oh and one tastes like death seeping into your body. Of course drunk-logic would dictate that the only way to combat this would be to keep drinking more shots. In the course of the night I had around 5-6 Grey Goose tonic and 5-6 more Chocolate Cake shots, at least a few of those were doubles. I was ridiculously sober for the night, but dear god did I wake up with the world’s worst hangover. I spent all of Sunday asking God why has he forsaken me…I know he’s up there shaking his head at this idiot that he still somehow manages to love and randomly making neck wringing gestures.

I saw my sister’s boyfriend, Chris, tonight, who was matching me drinks and shots, and I told him how all the drinks backhanded much much later. He told me the same thing happened to him, he was stone cold sober then he got home and passed out while brushing his teeth. Considering the guy is a 6’3” German dude, I don’t feel so bad that my little 5 nothing Chinese self got smacked around by a few drinks.

Today I finally got off my ass and joined my buddy JC’s karate class. (Karate class at 30? Yeah, next thing you know, I’ll start taking piano and ballet lessons. Maybe learn how to do double dutch while I’m at it. Hell, I’ll just go back to grade school.) He’s tried to get me to go for a while, but I’ve always found some excuse or another (yeah, I’ve got to reorganize my mp3′s for the millionth time)…but it is the winter of sucky snow, so I ran out of cheap excuses . He emailed me saying he’ll tell the instructor to plan an extra painful workout for me, because we’re still in kindergarten and he’s a jerkface that likes to scare me. Of course, I told him to please tell the instructor to do that because “I welcome pain with open arms”…mostly because I’m a little chicken shit that likes to make up for that fact by talking really big. Still, all the hiking I’ve done made karate much easier than it might otherwise have been, I can squat and kick for years, and it was definitely good fun. There were lots of awkward arms being flung while pretending I know how to do a proper block, but at least I didn’t slap myself silly by accident (which sadly, I have done before). If you’ve ever knocked yourself out before, you’ll know it’s every bit as embarrassing as it looks – can’t even laugh your way out of that because…oh the pain, the pain.

Friday felt more Friday-like than any other Fridays before. I wanted out of work! I wanted to go home and crawl in bed. Last night, I made plans to hang out with my old roommate, Dave, whom I’ve missed dearly, but about halfway through the day, I’ve simply decided I missed a good nap more dearly. So I begged for a raincheck on hanging out and Dave, feeling a bad case of Friday himself, was happy to postpone.

As I was leaving work, my sister called and asked if I wanted to go catch Dream Girls at the Big Picture theatre. I really didn’t want to see Dream Girls because Beyoncé had fallen out of favor with me since Austin Powers. I loved her in Austin Powers, I thought she knew how to not take herself too seriously. From the previews of Dream Girls that I’ve seen, I felt like this was going to be a movie where it’s all about Beyoncé and how fabulous her ass is. I also thought this movie had certain over advertised and over-rated feel to it. Still…never under-estimate the convincing power that is my sister. I mentioned I needed a nap, she told me I could nap at her place…and she just cooked up all these vegetarian dishes. Did I mention my sister is a really good cook? I’m there.

Big Picture is a tiny little theatre under one of the best steakhouse in Seattle, El Gaucho. In my former life, I was very fond of this place. The coolest thing about the theatre is that it serves alcohol from a very full bar and because this is part of a fine establishment, their popcorn doesn’t come with cheap fake butter, it comes with white cheddar powder which is so damned good. We arrived right before the movie time, so the place was packed and the six of us had to split up to sit. I sat next to these three lovely ladies that were drunk off their asses and giggling like school girls (in a very endearing way). The ladies look like two sisters in their forties-fifties with their mom. I asked if the seat next to them was available, they laughed and said, “Sure, if you can tolerate us.” I smiled and told them, “Well, I’m sure I can put up with you ladies for one movie. After a few more drinks, I won’t even notice you’re there.” They giggled, one turned to my sister who was sitting behind us and asked, “Oooh, feisty. Does she bite?” My sister said, “No.” I cut in with, “I bite, but I’ve had all my shots.” The ladies were howling with laughter. It’s nice to be in a theatre where people are obviously having a good time.

The movie itself blew me away. The singing was amazing, and while Beyoncé’s ass was amazing as ever, it wasn’t the movie focal point. It could be the double Grey Gooses (Geese?) talking, but I really enjoyed the movie.

I mentioned I went hiking up at Mount Si this last Saturday, but I forgot to mention that I ran into someone there that I had met at my climbing gym. Yeah, some guy that I’ve met like oh 4-5 times, each time forgetting his name. I saw him at Si and I said, “Oh hi, Richard…um…Art…um…I forgot your name but you climb at Vertical World.” The guy looked at me and said, “Oh hi, Champagne.” I’m such an asshole. I saw him at the gym on Wednesday again and asked my buddy, William, what his name was…Peter. I wasn’t even close. I suck. Peter was cool, he climbed with us a bit and gave me some pointers, like “You suck at climbing, please for god’s sake stop!”   (I made that up, Peter is too nice to say that.)  I apologized profusely for forgetting his name over and over because I like reminding people that I not only think so little of them that I don’t care to remember their names, but…hell, I enjoy kicking them in the balls again for it. Then at the end of the night William said, “Let’s go, but I have to say bye to Donna,”…I mentioned he never introduced us. He insisted he did plenty of times. I said, “Never! I would remember that name.” I see her…yeah, I’ve met her plenty of times. I suck with names.

I was still reeling with my shame when I had dinner that night with my buddy Charlie. I related the story of my woes, saying, “Oh man, don’t you hate it when you forget the guy’s name over and over and it makes you feel like more of an asshole when they remember yours?” He shook his head and tells me he never forgets a name because his grandfather said it’s important to always remember people’s names…so he does. He goes on to tell me how it’s such a simple thing to remember but it’s so important…blah blah… I smacked him and told him it’s okay to nod and just agree with whatever I say. He argued with me on the merits on remembering names like I don’t get that it’s a good idea. God, why do I keep such asshole friends? Oh yeah, it’s because I’m a certifiable asshole myself. Fuck everyone and me. This morning, I sent him the Charlie and Candy Mountain link that I’m sure everyone has seen about five hundred times more than they should ever have to, by now because…payback is a bitch. He is currently haunted by crazy unicorns calling his name. He thought the video was funny, but I consider the video a fair warning of what could happen to him if he pissed me off, or if the stars were misaligned, or if I didn’t like the way he parted his hair.

I went out with my sister, her man, and her newly engaged friends for dinner tonight. Dear god…next time I decide to hang out with a couple and their newly engaged friends, just shoot me in the head. The only thing I can imagine as being worse is being the only carnivore in a vegan party where everyone tells you meat is murder…because Jesus Holy Christ everyone else has seen the light and it’s not shining on my ass. Wheeee! No, in all honesty, these friends of my sister, I’ve known since grade school, I’m happy they’re finally getting married…and I’m glad they made it. I just hope that people realize the long painful stretch that they made sacrifices for isn’t for everyone. They have their grimy dirt and filth that would tarnish many relationships over but they’ve decided to work things out…and somehow with those two, it simply works. I admire their tenacity and stubbornness. The problem with people that are moving to different pastures is that they want friends to move in with them. Her gal friend asked me why I’m still single and if I have problems and how long has it been and if I needed help with meeting some good single guys. Really just kill me now. Even my sister keeps asshole friends. Seriously fuck everyone. Oh but they had this amazing bread pudding at Marjorie. If you ever go to that place, have their bread pudding for dessert. Um…and meat is murder, stop eating meat you sicko. God that argument is so lame, I just might start eating meat if someone says that to me.

I’m having a weird day – a day where nothing gets done to my liking. Well, I had a decent day at work…then work day ended. My climbing buddy bailed on me.  I went to the bank to deposit a check and the fucking ATM told me it couldn’t complete the transaction. You’d think the ATM had some kind of instant drug litmus detector and it sensed that I not only hid the check in my stripper friend’s g-string all day, but we’ve also used it to crunch down, powder, and snort coke the night before. Then, I went to the post station place where it’s not really a post office but a place that sells stamps and boxes and could work as a post office, to get a stamp and envelope to mail something, and it’s CLOSED. Thanks. Then I thought, hey look it’s Trader Joe’s. I could buy me some of my new crack of choice, Just Mango. I get there and they are out. OUT! If you’re Trader Joe’s, you could do more than get rid of half your inventory and just stock up on Just Mango and retire in style. *sigh* Then I went out with my sister and her man for dinner. We went to my favorite restaurant where they ran out of my favorite grilled trout…the only thing they were really good for.

Still they had this wonderful dessert with pecan ice cream and they gave me an extra serving of the ice cream, so life is pretty sweet.

Oh and in case anyone cares, Twinkies are for carnivores. Yeah, my coworkers just read the box in our snack pile and found that it contains beef fat “(Contains One Or More Of: Partially Hydrogenated Soybean, Cottonseed Or Canola Oil, Beef Fat)”. But if you’re eating Twinkies, I’m sure you’ve got more to worry about than some lard going to your ass.

I had big big hopes and dreams for Super Bowl Sunday this year, most of which involved being on the slopes while the menfolks are howling in front of their TVs. Unfortunately, my previous excitement over being rained on all day yesterday only resulted in some greasing on the sheet of ice they sometimes call a ski resort.

So I took much comfort in hanging out with the guys and their pizza eating, beer swilling ways. Our host for the game, Harold, like Jesse was also from Chicago, so he went all out and ordered pizzas from Chicago to celebrate the Bears making it to the Super Bowl. I have to say, I really love real Chicago pizza. The ones I’ve tried from around here really doesn’t compare because usually they grease the hell out of the pizza dish so you get this thick pizza dough soaking in oil, which while still good by its own greasy pizza right, would stop your heart half-way through the second slice. He also picked up this amazing dessert pizza/cheesecake thingie, sooo good:

Harold told us we would all be killed if the Bears lose – so hot damned, even if you weren’t a Bears fan, cheering for your life might be a good idea. The first quarter started out great for the Bears and then it pretty much went downhill from there. I’m not much of a football expert but from the untrained eyes’ perspective, it looked like the Bears kicked their own ass. Between the extremely homoerotic commercials and the Bears not making their plays, watching the game became more and more painful until the final bitter end.

In the end, Harold forgot to kill us in his depression. That and I’m sure he just wanted to be rid of us so he can cry in peace. To imply that my male friend cries might seem like I’m calling him a wuss but I’m pretty damned sure that written somewhere in Man Law is:

You are allowed to cry only in two events:

1) When your dog dies.

2) When your team loses the big match.

If your cat dies, bury the cat and everything that suggests you’ve ever owned a cat, then get a dog. If a family member dies, clench your jaw and look emotionally wrought. If you’ve just witness the birth of your child, cover your eyes and feign feelings of being deeply moved. If your team loses the Super Bowl, sob your eyes out, wail with grief, tear at your clothes in agony…if you don’t cry when your team loses something as important as the Super Bowl, you just might be gay*.

*Extensions could be granted if the team losing caused you to go into shock in which case you can stumble around eyes-wide, soulless and feeling cold inside. Be sure to cry when you snap out of it.

I consider myself a snarky person where my cup forever runneth over with wise-cracks galore. My buddy, Jesse calls me a “Ball-buster” because most of my wise-cracks are targeted toward the guys – but it’s only because I know they tend to take it better. My buddy, Charlie and I tend to get into these crazy text message wars and one night while I was in the middle of composing some old post, we got into a discussion of my wise-ass ways:

C: Why are you up so late?

Me: Oh, just doing a bit of writing.

C: Oh, what are you writing.

Me: Just my blog for writing exercise.

C: Boring!

…

C: Just kidding.

Me: Actually, this last post was kind of boring. I was just writing about how I was out with my buddy, (referring to him) played pool…kicked his ass. Went bowling…kicked his ass. See. Boring.

C: What a loser. He shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce.

Me: Yeah, but I wouldn’t say that to his face.

C: That was your opportunity to say something nice, wanker.

Me: Saying something nice gives me indigestion. It could kill me.

C: Wankers never die, tis true. They live forever feeding off the pain of others.

***At this point, I was laughing my ass off at his emo reply and willing the let the chain die.***

C: Is that all you got?

Me: What? No, I got caught up in celebrating my newfound immortality. I can insult you another day.

C: Eat shit and die.

Me: I love you too.

C:

The man’s got a point…bad guys never die. I want to play the bad guy.

I’ve been a bit cranky lately and by a bit cranky, I mean my company is not fit for human consumption. I met up with some friends at a bar named Shorties last night and left early for this very reason. Most days when I say something like, “You’re a fat-ass,” to my friends, I really mean, “I love you and I’m so glad you’re my friend. Forgive my obvious lack of social intelligence.” When I’m cranky and I say, “You’re fat,” I mean, “Here’s a knife why don’t you cut your face off so that I don’t have to see it anymore.” See. Just a tad cranky.

I did the proper thing this morning; I dragged my cranky ass over to see my favorite therapist, Mount Si. It’s rained during the entire hike but that only served to better improve my mood because rain means snow on the slopes. Damn, it was a good hike.

Oh, hi there, my dear friend! I just went hiking and I was all alone on the trail for many hours. It rained on me the whole time. I’ve missed you! Let us never spend a moment apart from each other…wait…did you gain some weight? It appears your waistline have expanded by an inch or ten.

Ever have one of those days at work where you end up doing a whole lot of nothing by accident? Then at the end of the day, all you can do is sigh and leave. I just had one of those joyful days; I can only hope that tomorrow when I return, I will write code to a game that will make small children cry in a state of confusion between joy and fear. Yeah, I’m not fully thawed yet. For some reason or another, my project was in a state of broken for most of the day. In the end, I only checked in a few lines of code change…which made me want to embellish my check-in email with: Fixed a bug, wrestled a bear to save a small fawn from being mauled, oh and stopped an accidental demolition of an orphanage. How the hell else could I explain the little I’ve done in the last eight hours? Nope, sorry, just one bug fixed.

A customer rep for Dell called me this morning around 11 to ask me how I’m loving my Dell and asked me if I would like to jot down some phone numbers that are handy to have.  I told her no.  I think that confused her, so she moved on to telling me how I should navigate the Dell website, at which point I had to interrupt her and tell her that I was at work and that she caught me at a bad time.  She apologized but then said in an accusing voice, “Well, this is the only phone number I have for you.”  Well…yeah, I only use my cellphone.  I’m not sure what most reps expect when they call people at 11 on weekdays.  Did she expect that I was just sitting on my ass at home, having a toke and waiting to take down phone numbers in case my brand new computer blows up on me?  I would hope that more of our good citizens are actually trying to make a living during these hours.

I’ve been laying low for the last couple days, which is nice. I love how a good backpacking trip could lay my spastic ass down for a moment to enjoy a book or two. I’ve been reading An Anthropologist On Mars. It’s good if you dig reading about people and their neurological disorders.

One major reason I tend to lay low for at least a day after a grueling trip, aside from the “gruel” part, is gear maintenance. During this last trip, I think I hauled home at least 5 lbs of stowaway frost…which of course melted into water and got all over my stuff. Used to be, when I was younger and we go on little car camping trip, I would be super lazy about stuff like properly unpacking soon as I get home. I would drive along a week later, notice a dreadful smell and wonder which nasty beast was trying to pickle cabbages in my car. Of course that nasty beast would be me, pickling some soggy swimsuit. No big deal…yay, new bikini! Backpacking gear on the other hand would cost over a grand to replace. Sure, I could always suck it up and just sleep in a small enclosed space that smells like rot and mildew – I’m sure that would give some people the true feeling of being home away from home but it just doesn’t quite cut it for me. It would take that and a dray of squirrels throwing a rave on the roof top to properly simulate my home for me.