I’d like to contribute more, I really would.

But it’s late and I’m tired and there were scary guys at work and then the police came and wow, doesn’t *Local Town* only hire hot guys? and now I’m going to go eat chocolate and try to stay awake for Craig Ferguson, whom I really must remember to tape because OMG SO FUNNY but SO LATE WTF CBS??? so yeah, this sentence is over.

I give you, a cat. And a baby.

Humorous Pics
Enter the ICHC online Poker Cats Contest!

You have no womb. Where would you gestate it? Keep it in a box?

I watched most of Monty Python’s Life of Brian this afternoon while spending an hour with Colleen’s the flatiron trying to burn the oil into my hair in an effort to make it halfway presentable. I think it worked, but I burned my forehead and my back is killing me.

Anyway, the quote was funny.

So you know my entry yesterday? Well, in an effort to avoid the Asian-American history flashcards (Do you know who enjoys the whole internment thing less than the Japanese? ME, THAT’S WHO.) and the feminist crap I have to summarize by Monday (Shut up, it weighs on me, dammit.), I followed some of the links. And apparently, it’s a thing. I can’t believe I didn’t ever notice this, because I read that blog, and this kind of hilarity is right up my little alley!!!

Now, I can’t comment on the women other than to say, um, no, no, they’re certainly not.

But the guys? I can’t imagine a situation where it would ever come up, but even if I was, oh, involved in a drunken Dork version of “marry, *insert inappropriate term for coitus here*, or push off a cliff”? Um, like at least three or four of them are going off the damn cliff. I don’t care what the rules are.

So despite the fact that my marriage prospects are significantly less attractive in the law school route (I don’t care what Colleen says, Indiana Jones was an archaeologist and THAT’S CLOSE TO ART HISTORY DAMMIT!!!), *I* become considerably more attractive.

Hmmm. I shall have to weigh this in my decision.

I finally got Boom! Voice from the Sixties from the library, only a semester after I ordered it, but that’s okay because I heart the sixties in all of their crazy glory, so I’m going to go read that and pretend that my parents’ generation didn’t irreparably harm my country and civilization.

I’m not naming names, but…

…at this moment, there are three movies on TV starring gentlemen that I won’t admit to and will deny adoring and yet own almost all of their movies. (So I guess if you want to know who they are, just look at my DVD shelf.) Yeah, that’s embarrassing. And I don’t know what to watch.


Reached stultifying heights of dorkdom last night. I was waiting for Craig Ferguson to come on and flipping channels, when I came across CSPAN 2, and then I laughed a little bit because just that morning, Colleen was saying how CSPAN 2 was just stuff that was Too Boring To Put On CSPAN. But then I realized they were talking to the guy who wrote The Nine.

And then I watched for an hour.

It was interesting, and he was very funny and smart and not as liberal as the critics of his books would have you believe. But my favorite part was at the end when he asked himself a question, about who, if elected, Hilary Clinton would nominate to the Supreme Court. He prefaced his answer by saying that it would be a move of “Clintonian, Machiavellian genius”, which made me laugh far harder than ANYTHING on CSPAN should, because I love the idea that SOMEBODY ELSE understands that THESE PEOPLE ARE CRAZY.

Anyway, he said that Hilary would probably nominate Obama. No, it makes sense. He was president of the law review at Harvard, taught constitutional law for eleven years, and it would get him the hell out of the way in 2012. He can’t really complain, either-it’s the Supreme Court.

It is Machiavellian. And Clintonian.

The Hopelessly Uncool Crowd

Every Friday on the back of my paper there’s a little article with contributions from a rotating assortment of 20-somethings in my city who all talk about what they’re going to do this weekend. Fantastic, fabulous things that usually involve lots of drinking and friends and probably some hooking up without any of the awkward designated driver stuff (Digression: Seriously. Am I the only one who thinks it is more trouble than it’s worth to go out and drink? This is Milwaukee for God’s sakes, you can’t walk anywhere and we have like TWO cabs.)

And because I’m a masochist, I read it every week. And then every week I go back out into the kitchen and think “What the hell, why shouldn’t I eat a brownie for breakfast?”

So today, I’m writing my own.

Friday I’ll be eating vegetarian lasagna…at home. In my kitchen. While watching “Amne$ia” on FOX, because, well, I’m a bottom feeder. Then I’ll probably fall asleep watching Best Week Ever because I suck and am inordinately tired for a perfectly healthy youngish person.

Saturday morning I’ll be washing my hair, drying it with two different towels, and spritzing it (YES IT IS A PROCESS STOP JUDGING ME) ignoring my blues lyrics that I’m supposed to write (and no, not because I’m in some band, but because God HATES ME THAT’S WHY) and probably bake some more brownies. Or coffee cake. Because my mom said she wanted some and dammit, she is ill and I should help her, right??? Then I’ll probably watch some Family Ties on DVD because there is nothing I love more than an ’80s sitcom that deals with pressing, real-life issues like the fact that Mallory maybe wants to sleep with her boyfriend who’s in college and does NO ONE REALIZE THIS IS STATUTORY RAPE!?!?! Then I’ll go to Mass and try really hard to avoid hitting my grandfather with something heavy, like perhaps a hymnal or maybe a candlestick. Hey. I was a server for eight years. I know where they keep the good shit.

Sunday could go two ways- I could work all day, which would suck, or I could pawn my hours off and probably repeat Saturday except without the hair washing because that much cleanliness? Cannot be good. Sunday night I am expecting to get roaringly drunk and watch the Oscars and then cry when Johnny Depp doesn’t win. Oh, and eat some brownies.

I don’t think I’ll get published.

Did go see Definitely, Maybe this afternoon, though. A few thoughts.

-I flippin’ love stories about how parents meet. They’re flippin’ adorable.

-So is Ryan Reynolds. And Abigail Breslin. And Isla Fisher. Indeed, the’re all flippin adorable.

-Kevin Kline is really old. Dude.

-Was not amused that there appeared to be no reason for the divorce. None at all.

-There was a trailer for the new Indiana Jones. I don’t care that he’s old and decrepit. I’m going. It looks awesome.

-There was a trailer for Miss Pettigrew Lives For a Day, and holy Christmas on an oceanliner is Pushing Daisies Guy hot.

Red Letter Day

New pictures on Flickr, including a couple from the Super Bowl party when I was drinking entirely too much out of entirely too little interest, and that may be why my cousins look like shapeless blobs. But go check them out.

Not really a fantastic day, but several rather fun and not unpleasent things occurred, and as I have nothing else to talk about except how unbelievably pissed I am that Lost keeps drawing me back in Kate raising Aaron, wtf???, you’re going to hear about them.

-Last night I got a letter from UWM saying “OMG UR SO SMART COME GET CERTIFICATES PLEASE?!?!?” Or rather, I received sophomore honors and can go to a boring ceremony on some random Sunday afternoon which I won’t because, hello, boring and SUNDAY AFTERNOON when I could be watching Crossing Over or American Justice or maybe even a Snapped marathon, but still cool.

– Got my hugely stressful essay (as in, one huge-ass essay) test back with a…wait for it…100. As in I got every single point you could possible eke out of that damn essay and everybody else got like B-‘s and I am thrilled, dammit. And my Lord was the professor taking his sweet time getting them back to us, going over the grading and doing the “Chin up, you’ll do better next time!” speech and whatever, old man, I just want my damn test!!! When he was handing them out and said “Kathleen…{mangled last name that’s totally not right}? Is that right?” I just went “Yeah,” and grabbed the book. But is okay. Because I’m smart!!!

-Mostly likely did not fail environmental geology test, as it was ridiculously easy and not nauseating at all. Whew.

-Actually saw Hot TA. And he smiled at me. Although that may have been more of a “Response to the Crazy Staring At Me With a Look That Says 18 Months Ago She Wanted to Have My Babies SOOOO Badly” smile than an “OMG I want you to have my babies!!!” smile, but hey, I’ll take it. Incidentally, he’s put on weight. Not a lot, but still. Which isn’t bad, because I do not like to be in worse shape than the person I’m lusting after. I can’t obsess over David Beckham. It would be too depressing. And make the brownie sundaes I’ve taken to living off of seem less normal. I don’t think Hot TA would turn down a brownie sundae anymore.

-My hair looked good. Enough for it’s own section.

-SRSLY KATE RAISING AARON???? WHAT DOES IT MEAN!?!?!?

New room?

I live at home.

That’s not a complaint. I’m owning it, I’m not that old, makes financial sense, family issues, blah blah blah. And guess what suckas? In five years when you move back in with Mom and Dad because you have exorbidant student loans and no jobs? I’ll be moving into a nicely appointed appointment ALL BY MYSELF. So yeah, I’ll talk to you then.

But anyways, the only part I’m not absolutely thrilled about (except for the fact that my parents decided the Boonies was a good place to settle) is that I do actually share a room with my little sister. Which is embarrassing. A little bit. It worked fine when we moved in when we were 11 and 9, but at 20 and 18? Notsomuch.

So I don’t remember why I was whining about it (Oh wait. Yes I do. But in the interest of family relations, I’m not mentioning it.), but I was whining, and my mom’s all, “OMG IDEA!!! Do you want the den?”

I think I was offered this once like a bunch of years ago, but then The Crazy moved in (person, not thing, which currently lives with us) and I was an emotionally scarred child who didn’t want to sleep on the first floor ALL BY MYSELF OMG.

But now it’s sounding pretty good. I could repaint with paint that doesn’t have little clouds, buy wallpaper that doesn’t have horses, and have doors that actually closed. And did I mention it’s connected to my bathroom, like a real grown-up bedroom!?!?!

(And room for a bookshelf. Which is massively exciting, because my book situation? Has gotten out of hand. I now have every single mass market paperback piled on the ends of shelves, and then two stacks of unread books on a table downstairs.)

(Ugh. And I’m getting another one from Amazon today. Will I never learn?)

(But that’s not the point.)

Teensy weensy little baby problem. You know that emotionally scarred child? Is now an emotionally scarred young adult. And those clouds? She painted with her mom. And the horse wallpaper? She picked out because horses were her absolute favorite things ever. And the doors closing? Well, okay, there is no downside to the door.

So I can’t even think about doing this until spring break because you know those family issues mentioned above? Means that I’m the only one who can do the work unless I ransom my cousin and frankly he takes enough heat from the earlier generations. I shall have to think about it.

But would you like to know my major objection? If I move downstairs, Colleen will get my room. And, well, if you’ve ever met her? It’s tantamount to the British troops pulling out of Normandy, leaving the Paris of my beloved room open to her Nazi disorganization.

I don’t think she’ll kill any minorities though.

In which I am accompanied by my Empress and do my civic duty all the while compromising my principles. But I did have a muffin.

Obscenely early trip to GHS when I had to physically restrain her from leaping from the car and telling several passing students that SHE WOULDN’T BE THERE TODAY LOSERS.

As though that wasn’t enough, I was under strict instructions from my mother to “omg don’t show her anything not pretty, do you think you can find a hot guy to show you around? what do you mean you don’t have time for lunch maybe you should skip a class so you can show her that there are many fun lunch options ONLY PRETTY PEOPLE DID YOU HEAR ME? IF SHE LEAVES IT’S YOUR FAULT!!!!”

Or, you know, something like that.

I was not able to find a hot guy to take her to lunch, but I did manage to take her to a class with a blue urine story, which surely must count for something. And there was muffinage.

Then I voted- whoo!!! For someone I disagree with almost completely and I actually felt a little teensy bit ill filling in the little box but it’s okay! I’m alright with it! I like being a sabatour! No! Really! I’m fine!

(I am pretty sure that my grandfather would tell me I was going to hell though. Which is why I didn’t talk to him about it.)

But as I was leaving the town hall, Colleen like jumps up behind me and goes “Who did you vote for!??!?!” When I informed her that frankly it was none of her damn business, she looked seriously disturbed for a moment before screeching like a howler monkey about how I seriously need to tell here what it wasn’t HILARY WAS IT?!?!?!

(No, it wasn’t.)

Now I’ve been doing reading and shit for like five hours and dammit I’m tired!!!

Um, yeah. No shit. Perhaps I should publish a paper “Undergrads Like Those Too!!!” and forgo this whole “capstone” thingy.

(Which I’ve been having an existential crisis about lately anyways. But that’s another entry.)