Chopstork

I have a very deep love for Alabaster Cleaners.*  I discovered them a few weeks ago, when I had mountains of laundry to do, but only one machine in the apartment, and little time or desire to accomplish such a major task.  I thought I’d try one of those “wash n fold” services where you can drop off your clothes dirty, and pick them up fresh as a daisy.  I started googling around, and came across the website for the ultimate service, provided by Alabaster.  They actually come to your house with laundry bags, pick up your shit, wash it, fold it, and deliver it, all for just $1 a pound.  (note:  an entire wardrobe weighs roughly 40 lbs).  I was hesitant to let a complete stranger take my clothes, but the yelp.com review was positive, so I tried it.  They came at night, and the next day, I had neatly folded and stacked bundles of clothes.  Somehow, I once again wound up with piles of dirty clothes, and made the decision to pay once more for my laziness.  The guy came this morning.  He says he will deliver my clean clothes this evening.  It’s like all of the benefits of living with your mother, with none of the drawbacks (i.e. actually living with your mother).  And ok, I still wash my own delicate unmentionables, because lets face it, nobody wants to have to reclaim her underwear on eBay.   I fear that is what would happen if I outsource that job.  Not to mention the hell I would unleash if somebody put my favorite bra in the dryer.  (nerd note:  underwire is actually made out of shape-memory alloy, thus making it “dryer safe,” but the rest of the material doesn’t fare too well).  Now all I need is somebody to cook me dinner and iron my dress shirts… anyone know where I can get a wife?

*continuation of very deep love dependent upon return of my favorite jeans unruined, and all tank tops accounted for.

Last week, against my better judgment, I bought a Motorola RAZR V3m.  While I loved how easily it fit into my purses — even wristlets — I did not love how the alarm function would only work when I set it for a PM time.  So today I took it back to the Verizon store on University Ave and got the parking spot right outside the door!  Good sign.  I walked over to the customer service counter, where I was immediately complimented on my outfit (not gonna lie, I looked cute today).  Another good sign.  The guy behind the counter asked what my issue was, so I explained my dismay about the alarm, which is a crucial feature for me.  He asked for my receipt and everything that came in the box, so I asked what my options were.  He said I would get a new phone.  The conversation that followed went something to the effect of:
“Are you getting me a new RAZR?”

“Yes.”

“Do I have to get that same phone?”

“No.”

“Good.  Because I’d like to play with the Chocolate.”

::awkward pause, as we both realize that this guy is black::

“Ha, yeah you can definitely do that.”

“Um…  that came out so totally wrong.  I, um, meant the new LG phone.  The Chocolate…”

“I wasn’t going to go there.”

Anyway, so he shows me the LG phone, and it looks purse-fittable.  I don’t care for all the bells and whistles (why are they trying to sell me an MP3 player in a cell phone store?), but it lights up brightly (excellent beacon), has several alarms (good for my neurologically impaired drowsy mornings), and can make and receive calls (I need a fuckin phone, after all).  While he was getting the new phone ready, I discreetly move the gold and diamond (ok fine, gold-plated and CZ) ring from my right hand to my left, in case he thought my poor word choice was hinting at activities I would currently like to engage in with Ty Barnett.  I am so lame.  After a long time and much small talk (they had problems transferring my phone book), he asked me out.  It caught me pretty off-guard, and I just wasn’t feeling it. So there will be no chocolate for Christine.  Just a new phone.

Tonight while watching TV, I tried to change the channel to 45 (Spike, great channel), but screwed up and tried to reset by pressing 0. Somehow, the channel box read 504. I was expecting a blue screen, but instead I got THE LIFETIME MOVIE NETWORK! I immediately made sure Gina was aware of our good fortune. Curious and eager for more, we started flipping through more channels and got to 476 (FUSE). Never heard of it. Nor have we heard of Pants Off Dance Off, the show that was playing at the moment, but it is gold! The whole show is people stripping down (boxers, briefs, bras stay on) to popular music, while the audience votes for the best one. No stripper poles, no clear platform shoes, no hardcore T&A. But plenty of bad visual effects, mediocre looking people, questionable rhythm, and Justin Timberlake songs. Like I said, gold. Oh, and they also have interviews with the dancers, asking them such questions as, “what do you consider erotic?,” “what kind of dance do you like?” and, “when was the last time you danced naked?”  Forget the ninja/pirate/knight/cowboy party. I want to throw a Pants Off Dance Off party.

On a rather unrelated note, does anybody know what an ass clown is? This saturday I heard AJ refer to Michael Bolton as a “no talent ass clown,” an expression I always enjoy. But the deep, soul-searching side of me went beyond the laughter to try to determine what exactly an ass clown is. I went to www.urbandictionary.com, and they supplied a myriad of definitions, but I don’t know if any one in particular is generally regarded as correct.

On a more related note, the guy dancing right now appears to be a no talent ass clown…

…Whoa, nevermind. He just keeps all his talent in his shorts. Wow.

So, most of the girls/women I know — especially in this area — are pretty tough and practical. But every woman, no matter how smart or sporty, has some sort of trait that reaffirms her two X chromosomes. Take me, for example. I know a decent amount about football, and can even throw a spiral (somtimes). The first “bad boy” I ever fell for was Megatron, and I think I still know my way around the first and second quests of Zelda without a map. I have most of Spaceballs memorized. So what makes me such a girl? Not the ridiculous number of shoes I have, or the number of supplies in my office that are purple. Nope. It is my penchant for Made for Lifetime movies (not to be confused with the more ambiguous “made-for-TV” movies, although they do sometimes overlap, like in the classic Death of a Cheerleader). I don’t know if it is the sassy female protagonists, the too-suave-to-be-trusted male antagonists, the spoiled-brat-turned-jailbait-slut teenage daughters, or the fact that not every ending is happy, but I can’t get enough. Every once in a while I’ll turn on a Lifetime movie that doesn’t quite do it for me, but for the most part I sit patiently through the commercials, waiting for the estrogen to bring me justice. I’ve got a movie on right now, and even though I should go to bed, I can’t tear myself away. Guys (and some girls) have given me a lot of crap for this over the years, but I can’t change it. It’s irreversible… just like my raincoat.

I hate mail. I like email and gmail (pronounced “guh-male,” of course). The only unwanted things I get from them are the occasional offers to enlarge a piece of anatomy I do not possess. And I love how I can send a message to my best friend 2000 miles away, and she gets it near real-time. But nothing good ever seems to come out of USPS mail, nor does anything come in a timely fashion. Current case(s) in point:

1. My cowbell came today. A week later than it was supposed to. What the hell am I going to do with a coda percussion cowbell now?

2. I got a letter from Blue Cross, my HMO. They sent me a form that pretty much wants to know if my stroke happened as a result of “an accident in which another party may be responsible for payment.” Apparently, they want to get out of the near $300k they spent to save my (priceless) life. Too bad for them this was the wrath of mother nature and not an auto accident, workplace accident, medical malpractice, or “slip and fall” (one of the potential reasons they listed). I wish them luck when they try to sue God.

3. I got two letters from the San Francisco DPT. One for parking in front of my house for longer than 2 hours at a time, and one for street cleaning. F-ing street cleaning. Church Street still looks dirty to me. And how do they know how long I’ve been parked for? Is that douchebag in the makeshift golf cart stalking me?

I think I’m done ranting now. Time to watch “So You Think You Can Dance?” (fun useless trivia tidbit: last season’s winner was a guy from Sunnyvale. a friend of mine from work knows him. he’s hot, but his sexual orientation is rather ambiguous)

Oh, and does anyone ever see that Piper girl from B2B? I have her black hoodie (which is so obviously a woman’s garment). I don’t know who she is… my only encounter with her involved standing in an awkward pose while reinflating the back of her horse.

I can’t sleep. Rather than read the next 100 pages of Atlas Shrugged, I decided to find an Apple II emulator and play some Oregon Trail. (side note, I wish Playstation would come out with a version). I ended up making it all the way to Oregon, but next time I’ll know better than to take Armen along with me.

Can you imagine how bad it would have been if I took Luke? Regardless, I had a good time playing. Who needs camping when you have this stuff? All of the excitement, none of the bugs. Just some occasional virtual dysentery.

right now I’m supposed to be either:

a) sleeping

b) reading about fiber optics

Instead, I’m

a) playing around with Flikr

b) waiting for John Krasinski to come on Jay Leno

c) smirking at how dirty that last phrase sounds

The whole reason I got started on this thing is because I was going to tell the sordid (and embarrassing) tales of my hospital stay. I never got around to it, but lately I’ve been remembering things about those 10 days that I had previously forgotten, so maybe I should choke them out before they disappear… then again, nobody wants to read about me getting sponge baths from young nurses…

hey, how the hell do I put my Flikr photos on here? It’s about time the world saw Steven J in a tiara.  If you have Flikr, they are listed under the name “StrokeChristine.”  If you are AJ, please do it for me.