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Meh...
Things have been slow lately. I think I will have to make sure New Year's Eve is extra crazy, just to make sure I'll have lots to write about in '08! I want to be able to look back in a few years and say"
"Ah, the oughts. Those were crazy times. Crazy. At least the parts I was sober enough to remember..."
Heh, I just love the word "ought.' It makes feel all old-timey.
Heh, old-timey.
Think of the most disgusting thing you can imagine eating, fiends.
Now imagine putting it on a taco.
This evening, myself, Mr. Fiend, and another couple, met for dinner at a lovely restaurant specializing in "modern Mexican cuisine."
Yum, you might say, and for the most part, yes. I like me some tamales, ceviche and fresh guacamole. Who doesn't? In fact, we were having a swimmingly good time, pleasant conversation, tasty margaritas. And then.
And then Mr. Fiend and another member of our party, perusing the menu, decided that they would partake in grasshopper tacos, a local specialty. Yes, a taco filled with grasshoppers. Lot of legs, thoraxes, wings, you get the picture. On a tortilla.
One might assume that eating a taco filled with grasshoppers would qualify as a fiendish activity, but one would be WRONG!
You probably aren't aware of this, but "Do not eat tacos filled with grasshoppers" is Fiend Rule #1. Until this evening, it was Fiend Rule #27, but it jumped WAY up the queue, displacing the old Fiend Rule #1, "There is something mildly menacing about horses."
After politely expressing my distaste ("ew", "nastiest thing ever", "this reflects poorly on your upbringing", etc), I shared the following opinion:
If Mr. Fiend and I were stranded on an island together with nothing to eat except for grasshoppers, I would become a cannibal and eat him instead. It seemed like a logical view, but imagine my surprise when Mr. Fiend and our table mates expressed disgust.
Seriously?! You're about to eat a taco full of grasshoppers and you find it disturbing that I would rather eat human flesh? From what I hear, it tastes like chicken. I like chicken. I don't like grasshoppers.
Am I crazy? Let's take a poll.
I would rather eat:
a) a disgusting grasshopper taco.
b) a delicious human taco.
c) meat is murder! Give me a tasty veal taco instead.
Howdy Fiends, one and all. I'm back from a veeeeeeeeeeery long absence. A lot has happened in the nearly two years I've been gone and we've got a lot of catching up to do.
More to come later.
Promise.
Here's a preview of the next installment... new job, new home, new husband (Mr. Fiend?), same weird life...
Intrigued?
See you soon!
It has been quite a while since I last blogged from work (oh the subversive feeling of blogging on company time...) so I thought I would get back to it. I have a particularly fiendish story to share with you fiends out there. I will preface it with just two words that should have your spines tingling in delicious anticipation of the horrible things to come... BLIND DATE!
Who among us hasn't had at least one awful experience in the realm of blind dating? (Well actually, this is the only one I've had, thank Jeebus, but it is so ridiculous, I am compelled to share)
A few months ago, at the insistence of several friends, I was compelled to put a profile up on a certain dating website devoted to fomenting and fostering (or festering?) relationships between singles of a particular religion. For the sake of anonymity, I will call the website "kDate."
After only a week or two of having my profile up on kDate, I had received many many emails and requests for instant messaging from many men. However, if you have read even one other of my posts, you might realize that I am something of a cynic, and definitely do not fall into the category of a "warm and fuzzy" person. Hey, I'm a fiend, I admit it. So for the most part, I ignored the requests for instant messaging, and responded to only a few emails. However, one day at work I gave into the type of deadly boredom that usually inspires me to write blog entries, and decided to answer an IM request from a fairly normal-sounding man whom I will call Igor, because it's a dumb-sounding name and I do not think charitable thoughts when I look back upon my time with Igor. (Apologies to all fiends reading this blog who are actually named Igor)
Igor's profile showed him to be an attractive man, 28 years old, divorced, some compatible interests and views, nothing too exciting. Our IM was fairly typical, with us chatting back and forth about what we did for a living, hobbies, places we enjoyed hanging out, etc. At the end of our unobjectionable, yet none to exciting conversation, Igor asked me if I would like to meet him for a date. I told him I had no objections and he proceeded to plan a dinner-and-drinks date at a posh seafood restaurant near my office, a few days hence.
On the evening of our date, I, dressed in my finest dinner-and-drinks at a posh restaurant garb, walked over to the restaurant and met Igor at the appointed time. Igor looked like his kDate profile pictures, which was a fairly good sign as many people tended to use old and outdated photos of themselves.
Our dinner started pleasantly enough, with us choosing our entrees and Igor ordering a $50 bottle of wine. We chatted and made small talk while waiting for our food and beginning to eat. Over the course of our meal, however, Igor consumed increasing amounts of that bottle, while I slowly sipped from my glass. After the bottle was finished Igor started ordering wine by the glass. When he finally passed the boundary of tipsiness into utter and complete drunkenness, our conversation became most interesting.
"So, about my divorce," Igor said.
"Oy vey," I thought to myself. "Here we go."
"I'm not actually quite divorced yet, but the paperwork is gonna be going through any day now. So you wanna know WHY I got a divorce?" He asked me slurringly.
"Uh, sure, why not."
"So I had to have surgery and my wife was out of town for awhile, so this friend of mine was helping to take care of me while I recovered and she was pretty hot so I started cheating on my wife with her."
"Um..."
"Yeah, so my wife decided to divorce me, and I've been seeing this other girl, the one I had the affair with. But a few weeks ago I broke up with her and she was so pissed at me that she sent me photos of her and my ex-wife [don't you mean your soon-to-be ex-wife?] making out at a bar."
"Um..."
"Yeah so that's what happened. Pretty funny, huh?"
"Um..."
To be honest, my fiends, I am almost NEVER at a loss for words. I ALWAYS have something witty or funny or sarcastic to say, whatever the circumstances, but for the first time in years I was utterly dumbstruck. I had not one idea how to respond to that most interesting story. Was this where I was supposed to make a joke about what fabulous relationship material Igor made? Should I have made vague off-color references to threesomes between ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, and ex-blind dates? Should I have politely pretended not to have heard that entire story and asked Igor if he preferred The Beatles or the Stones?
Fortunately this conversation ended around the same time as our meal, and the bill was brought to the table. And now you fiends are probably thinking "phew, at least it's over," but no, the night wasn't quite over.
Igor looked the bill over and said "Your half comes to about $70."
What?!? Huh?!?
I am a lifelong feminist, and believe that there is absolutely nothing wrong with going dutch, or even doing the treating, however, I felt my outrage was more than justifiable under the grounds that he had asked me out; he had chosen the restaurant; he knew the restaurant was out of my price range because during our IM we had talked about our respective jobs, his high-paying computer job and my low-paying nonprofit job; and he had taken it upon himself to choose a $50 bottle of wine, most of which he drank himself, in addition to several other glasses of wine.
Once again utterly dumbstruck and completely unprepared for what to do or say, I pulled out my credit card and paid for half the check, which, with tax and tip, actually came out to more than I earn in a day. Yikes!
Of course the night still wasn't quite over yet. We left the restaurant, me walking, him stumbling. Outside the restaurant I had to fend off repeated requests from Igor that he would drive me home. After making it firmly clear to him that not only did I not want a ride from him, but that in fact he should give me his keys (which I was thinking about dropping through a sewer grate) and let me flag down a taxi, he gave me a big, drunken, gropey-handed hug, and took off at a fast stumbly walk, eager to keep his keys away from me. I walked home in utter disgust.
That is the last I have seen or heard of Igor. I even checked the papers the next day looking for accident reports, but found nothing, so I assume he made it home without killing himself or anybody else.
And that, my fiends, is my scary tale of that dreaded social ritual, the blind date. And, like Jerry Springer, I would like to leave you fiends with my final thought:
Whoever invented the concept of the blind date needs a good kick in the nads.
I have been gone for quite a while and a lot of things have happened during the interim. I hope to devote my next several entries to what has been going on in my fiendish life. (hey, you didn't think that my life had become boring and unfiendy while I wasn't writing, did you?) Just wait, my fiends, just you wait... Muahahahahaha...
Last weekend my fiendish twin came for a visit. I had invited her up to DC for the day to view an exhibit of the works of one of our favorite artists, the nineteenth century Japanese printmaker, Hiroshige.
Since I live 10 minutes from the National Mall, I am a frequent patron at museums of all types, especially art museums. However, since the museums I generally frequent are Smithsonian museums (hence, free), I have somewhat of an attitude about paying to visit museums and galleries.
Fun Side Note: When I visited the American Museum of Natural History in New York last year, I raised such a fuss about being charged admission to the museum that they gave me the student discount just to shut me up. I was somewhere in the middle of a grandiose speech about the sacred responsibilities of guardianship of ancient and unique objects meant to be held in trust for the people of the world, when they practically threw the ticket at me and waved me into the museum.
The Hiroshige exhibit, unfortunately, was not being held at a Smithsonian museum. Rather, it was being held in one of the small, chic, self-conscious galleries that appear ten to a block in certain District neighborhoods. The cost of two tickets plus various surcharges (from a certain evil Master of Tickets, who shall remain nameless upon the advice of my attorney) came to $25. The posh look of this ritzy blog notwithstanding, my fiends, I am not made of money. However, since my sister and I both desperately wanted to see the exhibit, I forked over the money and we made our way into the gallery.
The exhibit itself was fantastic, and my sister and I were thrilled to see Hiroshige first editions up close. However, the gallery was packed, and not by the t-shirt-wearing, map-carrying, ice cream-eating tourist types who flock to the National Mall and the Smithsonians. Rather, these were Burberry-accessorized, Prada shoe-wearing, $250K per year art snobs. These are the people who spend their weekends patronizing fancy galleries, peering disdainfully at the artwork, and talking in snooty sounding artspeak. These are the kind of people who you may believe exist only on TV and in New York. But that's not true; they are real. They are really real
Now being the fiends that we are, my sister and I view such people as fair game. Therefore, we decided to go with the overused yet utterly appropriate philosophy of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." And since my sister and I were raised to believe that we can be the best at anything we set our minds to, we were determined to outsnob the snobs. So we raised our chins, pointed our noses upward, and became... ART FIENDS!
"Observe," I murmured, in my most blue blooded manner, while peering disdainfully at a print. "One can see the influence of eighteenth century Dutch traders in the Anglo-style rendering of the backdrop."
"True," replied my sister, in the frosty tones of a Rockefeller. "Yet the strong lines and concise proportioning of the foreground are reminiscent of early Edo-period woodcuts."
In this vein we murmured our way through the many rooms of the exhibit. We threw out artsy words and phrases that we had picked up various places, while having no idea of the actual meanings; words such as "chiaroscuro," "grisaille," "lavoro di intarsia," and "parsemage." By the time we worked our way to the end of the last room, the other art snobs in the gallery were backing away from us in confused fear and respect.
Mission accomplished! We had won! We had outsnobbed the snobs! We were fiends triumphant!
Hello my fiendy fiends! I would like to apologize for letting an entire week go by without a new entry. Although I was physically here, I sent my brain for a week of well deserved R&R in exotic, romantic Boise. But never fear, for I am back and working on a fiendish new entry!
There are many people in this world I admire, Jonas Salk, Mohandas Gandhi, Kurt Vonnegut and Mr. T to name a few. Now I have someone new to add to that list. Her name is Marina Bai and she is my new hero.
Who the hell is Marina Bai? You fiends are probably asking. Should I know who she is?
You may remember that less than a week ago, the NASA spacecraft "Deep Impact" (yes, that name is just WAITING for porn jokes galore) crashed into the comet, Tempel 1. NASA hopes that the gas, dust and ice ejected from the comet during the crash will give scientists insight into the formation of the solar system.
Enough with the science lesson. Get to the good stuff!
Marina Bai, as you may or may not know, is the Russian astrologist who is suing NASA over the Deep Impact mission. She has claimed that the trajectory of the comet was slightly altered by the impact, which naturally will affect her horoscope for the rest of her life. Her lawsuit is asking for... wait for it... $300 million!!! What a fiend!!!
In fact, I recognized her as a fellow fiend the moment I read this wonderful quote from her claim:
"The actions of NASA infringe upon my system of spiritual and life values, in particular on the values of every element of creation, upon the unacceptability of barbarically interfering with the natural life of the universe, and the violation of the natural balance of the Universe."
Who else thinks this crazy lady rocks the house? Don't be shy! Raise your hands!
I must admit that I felt a great sense of relief when I first discovered that Marina was out there. Until then, I had thought that I was the only one concerned about the cosmic astrological effects that would befall both me and the universe at large if NASA had its way.
I am an Aries (in case that wasn't obvious) on the cusp of Seaquarius, blancmange ascending. According to my extremely accurate astrological calculations (done with a homemade crayola-and-construction-paper star chart) performed whilst walking counterclockwise around the Prime Meridian and listening to the latest hit from Yanni, the effect that the impact will have on my future is monumental!
Whereas I once had a fabulous future filled with wondrously fiendish world domination, the return of 1980s-style pop, and a shoe collection to outshine Imelda Marcos, under this new cosmotological era, my future has taken a horrifying turn.
According my new horoscope, my future is filled with... good deeds (NO!)... charity... (HELP!)... reading to orphans (WHY GOD, WHY!)... and a Nobel Peace Prize (OH, THE HUMANITY!). The cosmic ramifications of this are almost too painful to bear!
That is why it appears that our only salvation lies in the wise and capable hands of Marina Bai. She has become a voice for the cosmological voiceless, for those silenced by cruel corrupt governments, and a world that cares little for the astrological happiness of the have-nots. With the emergence of Marina, a leader has appeared who will save us from the new, unbalanced universe, and will fearlessly lead us back to the glorious dawn of a beautiful, astrologically-correct world.
Viva la revolucion!
Never fear, my fiends. I am still here despite my poor showing, blogically speaking, this weekend. In fact, I am in the middle of working on an entry as we speak. However, it is not going to be finished tonight as I spent most of the day in 90+ degree weather and I think I may have fried my brain a bit. Sun damage, meh!
The exhibit itself was fantastic, and my sister and I were thrilled to see Hiroshige first editions up close. However, the gallery was packed, and not by the t-shirt-wearing, map-carrying, ice cream-eating tourist types who flock to the National Mall and the Smithsonians. Rather, these were Burberry-accessorized, Prada shoe-wearing, $250K per year art snobs. These are the people who spend their weekends patronizing fancy galleries, peering disdainfully at the artwork, and talking in snooty sounding artspeak. These are the kind of people who you may believe exist only on TV and in New York. But that's not true; they are real. They are really real
