Really glad my name is not Katrina right now

http://xtramsn.co.nz/news/0,,11965-4711152-300,00.html

"Croak, croak."

I am sooooooooooo sick. Like I said before, sick as an oil slick. Started feeling yucky on Saturday, really sore throat. On Sunday my mummy took a look down my throat with a flashlight (the flashlight wasn't actually down my throat, you get the picture) and since she couldn't actually find an opening, she took me to el hospital. I spent Sunday in the emergency room with a 103 degree fever and unable to talk or even really breathe cause my throat-hole was like, this big. Or maybe even smaller. Starting to feel better today, I even made some Pillsbury Doughboy biscuit-y thingies. Granted, that doesn't take a lot of work, but I think the fact that I derived enjoyment from the popping of the can-thingy is a good sign. But that might be the Vicodin and steroids and various other scary, long-named drugs they have me taking. I swear, it's a different pill every three hours, with food, without food, I'm getting kinda confused.

Drama in the SLT

Just like being Snoop D-o-double-g, it's kind of hard being me. There was lots of drama in South Lake on Thursday, drama in La Selva today. Drama, drama, I hate drama. Well, if it's fun scandalous juicy drama, I'm okay. I hate emotional, hurtful drama involving drunk dials and police.

I don't want to get into the stupid, stupid details. It's all stupid immature drama involving lots of tears and an ex-boyfriend and two ENTIRE bottles of Jagermeister. But let me just state one thing for the record, in case anyone is confused;

I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH ANY OF MY EX-BOYFRIENDS. I DO NOT THINK WE WILL GET BACK TOGETHER, I DO NOT WANT TO GET BACK TOGETHER. ALSO, I WILL NEVER DEFEND YOU AGAIN WHEN I HEAR YOU HAVE A COCAINE AND PAINKILLER PROBLEM.

Alright, I feel much better.

I spoke to Caroline from the company that is sending me to Thailand on Wednesday. Things are moving along nicely. She's heard they need more teachers in the far north of the country. I'm a little iffy on going there, however. It's a very traditional area, and most towns are very isolated and everyone lives a very primitive, traditional Thai lifestyle. Might be a little much for me. I did agree to go where I was needed, however, so we'll see. Might not have a choice.

T to the HOE

I spent the better part of ten years shoveling mulch this morning. The entire bed of my former Teal Ranger was filled with sneeze-inducing bark dust. Yes it's a small truck, but still. I fit two kegs and seven or maybe even eight people in there when I was a freshman in college. That's a lot of ground-up dead trees! It had to be shoveled out and spread around 1200 acres of these ice-plant wormlings recently installed on the hill-like edge of my yard. Which meant the truck had to be maneuvered around the corner of my house, blocking the road half the time. Which meant, of course, that everyone who lives near me plus all their cousins and aunties and old family friends had to drive that particular stretch of road on this particular morning. I was quite frustrated. Let's just say there is a very, very good reason they won't give me a network reality show.

On a happier but no less profane note, I'm going to Kelly "Bo Belly" King's house tomorrow, for a delayed birthday party. Much Coors Light and Jager will be consumed, many drunk dials will be, uhh, dialed, many Bennys will be punched if their tongues get anywhere near my ears. I am talking about a 5 foot radius here. Seriously.

So probably no posts until Friday or Saturday. Try not to be too disappointed. If it'll cheer you up, you can come to the Flea Market with me at the butt-crack of dawn on Saturday. I have the unenviable task of putting together an outfit entirely from that Graveyard of Broken Radios. Considering the only things I've bought at the Flea Market include a three-foot high inflatable Jager bottle and a freestanding lavender sink, I think this might be an interesting outfit.

Formal Apology

I hereby apologize to Jake, of tangled-up-in-kitchen-chair fame. My sister informs me he was very hurt by my fun-poking. So Jake, I'm sorry.

Britney Really Hit the Jackpot With This One!

"It's kind of like a turn-on knowing that she's having my child."
--Kevin Federline, quoted in People magazine, August 19th, 2005.

Break out the Sombrero

Hooray!! Not sick as a slippery dick anymore. (Okay, I know that is totally gross, but I swear, that's one of the phrases that pops up when I search for "sick" in the rhyming dictionary. And really, if I have the opportunity to say "slippery dick" in a sentence, do you think I'm going to pass it up?) Feeling much better today, hooray for me. Which is good because, DOUBLE HOORAY, on Wednesday I am going to T-Hoe to celebrate Kelly and Christine's joint birthdays. BBQ, some ETB (El Toro Bravo, better Mexican food than in El Distrito Federale), sun and sand, and lots I mean LOTS of Coors Light. Only, sad times, Em can't come along to show us how it's done. She's got school, boo. That's okay, we are definitely going to drunk dial her.

I just want to add, Benny, that if you stick your tongue in my ear again, I will punch you again, and this time it won't be a nice soft warning punch.

Sicky McYicky

I'm sick as a tick, as a hick, (wait, I need a rhyming dictionary) sick as a fish stick.

If I were stuck on a desert island and I were this sick, my message in a bottle would say "please send ginger ale and ibuprofen."

Which reminds me of that U2 song (or was it The Police?) "Message in a Bottle," that has within it this line, "A year has passed since I wrote my note." The little sister of a very close, dear, beer-snob law-student friend of mine used to think it was "A year has passed since I broke my nose," which is quite a bit funnier and more interesting, if you think about it.

Which reminds me of several other song-lyric confusions. Such as the Flashdance song by Irene Cara, which does NOT contain this line, no matter what Jack says; "Take your pants off. . .and make it happen." Nor is the Elton John song "Tiny Dancer" really about "Tony Danza," sister Julia.

But I'm guilty too. The Johnny Rivers song is, unfortunately, about a "Secret Agent Man," not a "Secret Asian Man." Also, at Christmas, most people like to "Rock around the Christmas Tree," not "Walk around the Christmas Tree." Walking around the Christmas Tree would get pretty monotonous, I think.

Which reminds me of "So You Think You Can Dance" on Fox. Last night a judge described a dancer's routine as "monotonous" and half the crowd didn't know what in tarnation that meant, so the audience reaction was a kind of "yeaa...boo...umm...yeaaa." More entertaining than the dancing.

So, anyway, I'm sick as a flutter kick and I think I'll got back to bed now. Please send ginger ale and ibuprofen, when you get a chance.

Depressing Thought

It is 1 p.m and here is the sum total of everything I've accomplished today:
~ate two delicious bowls of Crispix.
~washed my face.
~checked MySpace to see if anyone had left me a comment or a message (no one had).
~wrote two posts for Thai One On (this is one of them).
~played tug-of-war with Sid Vicious, the Cutest Dog That Ever Lived.
~read the interesting bits of newspaper (the "Celebrity" column and the one that mentions my mom).

Real Conversation. . .

Justin: ". . .now he's a bartender in Las Vegas and his girlfriend's in a cabaret show."
Nate: "Wow, that's cool. How'd she get hooked up with something so expensive?"
Justin: "Expensive?"
Nate: "Yeah, like messing around with $300,000 eggs."
Everyone: "Eggs?"
Me:"Cabaret, not Faberge, you idiot."

Why I'm Moving to Thailand (besides the food)

"I think the baby-boomer parent ought to say, "I've learned from mistakes I may or may not have made." -- quoted in the New York Times
"Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream." -- Campaign Speech, LaCrosse, Wis., October 2000
"There is a lot of speculation and I guess there is going to continue to be a lot of speculation until the speculation ends." -- quoted in Austin-American Statesman, October 18, 1998
"If affirmative action means what I'm for, I'm for it." -- Presidential Debate, St. Louis, October 18, 2000

Speaks for himself, doesn't he?

More great Bushisms can be found here.

Part 3 of 3: Happy Burfday Kelly Bean!

Anyone watch MTV? Anyone, anyone? (Bueller, Bueller.) Well, if you happened to catch even a microsecond of Real World: Las Vegas, chances are you saw either Ghostbar or Rain, the two hot spots at The Palms. Those are the spots we went to Thursday night for Kelly's big 2-3. Her birthday was actually Friday, but since no one goes anywhere until about 11:30, it was close enough. The Aussie boys accompanied us, although we had to send them back to their hotel to put on pants and real shoes. Apparently Australia is like Santa Cruz in that flip-flops are the footwear of choice.

The bouncer asked us "Cuantos muchos?" which confused the hell out of me until I figured he was trying to ask "How many?" I had already done a few Jager shots straight from the bottle and was working on my third or maybe seventh Coors Light, which might have been the problem.

Rain is hot, and I don't mean that in a Paris Hilton kind of way. I mean it in a surface of the sun kind of way. Lots of dancing, lots of sweating. Verrrrrrry good times. Every song they played was one of those songs where the crowd starts screaming with happy recognition after the first few chords. We danced and danced and danced and danced and. . .well, you get the picture. I do love me some booty-shaking, even though I have very little booty to shake.

After the sweaty dancing got to be just too much for even me, we journeyed up to the top floor of The Palms to Ghostbar. THE ultimate coolest bar in the universe. 60-odd floors up, it juts out over the street and has A PLEXIGLASS FLOOR. I luurrvv heights, if you didn't know. (When I went skydiving in Arizona, I tried to talk the pilot into taking me just a leeetle bit higher than the 12,000 feet I'd signed up for.) Had a great time scaring the panties off my friends by jumping up and down on the plexiglass floor.

Around, I don't know, morning, we left Ghostbar. I think I actually went to sleep around 7:30 or 8, got maybe an hour and a half of sleep. Then we got up and started packing in that frantically confused way girls have. It was amazing how much my stuff had expanded after only three days. I got to the airport pretty early because everyone else's flights were before mine and I didn't feel like hanging around Vegas alone. Too hot. Proved to be a mistake because my flight was delayed by an hour and a half and so I ended up hanging around the Vegas airport alone for, I don't know, maybe two weeks or so. I kept eating junk food because there was nothing else to do. Did you know Pizza Hut has quite worthwhile buffalo wings? Not quite Saturn Cafe standards, but not bad. I also watched "Texas Justice" on t.v., which is really a very interesting show. Nothing could make me dislike Texas more than I already do, but this show certainly would have helped if I'd had any questions in that regard.

But I finally got home, ate some cheesy rice (natch) and went to sleep around 9:30. I slept until 3:30 yesterday, by the way. And took another little catnap around 7.

So Vegas is done, and though I might have left out a few of the more salacious details, everyone I trust enough to tell those details was on the trip with me.

Again, for pictures, click here.

Part 2 of 3: Hair of the Dog

Next morning, er, afternoon, we did the only two things a girl can do after a serious night out; we went to Denny's and then we had some more beer. At breakfast, er, brunch, we chattered until the grease arrived and then an intense silence descended on the table as we inhaled untold amounts of sausage. I ordered a Lumberjack Special and almost finished it.

We also made a looooonnngg visit to the friendly neighborhood Walgreen's for the necessities; enormous bottles of water, blister cushions, and bottle openers shaped like male strippers. We spent the rest of the short day (it was about 3 by this point) either sweating in the sun like rotisserie chickens or jumping in the pool yelping about how hot it was. Oh, and drinking beer, natch.

We went to Fremont St. that evening, old town Las Vegas. That was a lucky night for us all. Kelly and Christine sit down at the bar at the Four Queens casino. Without a word or a wink exchanged, the bartender (or "barkeep" as they would say in old town Vegas) says, "Two shots of Jager?" Altogether we drank approximately $50 worth of Jager there, without paying for a cent of it. We also got some very oddly-shaped beer cups. At some point Emilie slipped off to play a little Wheel of Fortune slots. We're drinking, we're bantering, we're angling for some more free Jager, when all of a sudden, Em appears behind us and says, "I just won $250!" Of course, the richest girl wins money. It was so exciting, Kelly and I felt the need to do a slow-motion victory run.

Later on, we felt the urge to do some karaoke. A favorite of mine, despite the fact I have a singing voice like that thing in Ghostbusters. I also wore a lovely slutty outfit composed of a very short skirt. And we were at a club called the Pink Taco. Gross, right? But so so Vegas. We sang, of course, "I've got friends in low places" by Garth Brooks. I didn't get the disgusting sexual innuendo (Pink Taco. . .low places. . .) until later. We also met a friend of Kelly and Christine's called Joe C., who made me laugh quite a bit. After some care-eeee-oak-eee, we went to a hilariously fun bar called The Piano Bar, where they have dueling piano players playing requests and bantering with the crowd. Very fun, until the played "I Love Rock'n'Roll" by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, at which point it became VVVEERRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYY fun. Love that song.

Around this point, Em's choice blister became too much for her to handle (don't blame her, that thing was gross) and she caught a cab home. The rest of us, including Joe C., moved on to Nine Dancing Irishmen, or Nine Drinking Irishmen, or something. Nine Irishmen were involved, anyhow. Funnily enough, we did meet some Irishmen, who gave Kelly some Irish dancing lessons. However, we've had some un-positive experiences with Irishmen, so we moved on. To some Australian Hottie McHots. I spotted one with the messy blonde thing I like, so of course Kel felt the urge to go grab his ass and tell him I thought he was cute. In this case it was okay because I really did think he was cute, but she's done that before when it wasn't so okay with me. Things start to get a little fuzzy here, but there was quite a bit of laughing and riding on someone's shoulders and I think I remember something about mullet wig.

On the cab ride home (I won't even tell you what time it was), we had a very smart and philosophical cabdriver who corrected us when we said "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." "No," he says, "only your money stays in Vegas." Which I thought was frighteningly true. That day we slept until past 1 pm. Before I left, my delicious mom tried to suggest some lovely museums I could visit. Ha. We couldn't have made it to any museums even if we had wanted to, which we didn't. We just ate some of the best burritos in existence at Chipotle and then went shopping. Feet hurting, bought a lot of alchohol the night before, so I didn't buy anything. The Aussie boys (we weren't 100% clear on their names, so we just called them the Aussie boys) did call, which was good. Although they called Kelly, not me, buttfaces.

Next up; Kelly's birthday, sweaty dancing, and the traditional 3 and 3. Don't touch that dial. Until I get around to that one, you can see a carefully edited selection of my pics here.

Part 1 of 3: Greetings from the Intersection of Convention Center and Debbie Reynolds Dr.!

An amazing thing happened this week; I survived 3 action-packed nights in Las Vegas with my best girls. It's amazing, but true- I am still alive, and, as yet, have had no symptoms of liver failure. Granted, I am fresh out of bed (at 4:45 pm), but I am told these things are readily apparent.

On Tuesday evening, the four of us (Emilie and Kelly, my bestest friends in the world, and Christine, Kelly's roommate and a super duper chickita also) met at Jose Cuervo's restaurant at McCarran airport. Normal people meet at the Information Booth, or gate C-something. We meet at a tequila-themed restaurant. Beer ensued, then we hopped a taxi to the corner of Convention Center and Debbie Reynolds Dr. I just have to say; only in Vegas, right? We'd all, separately, had the bright idea to bring our own pre-drinking supplies. (We're poor and cheap, Vegas is expensive.) By the way, the Marriott Suites in Las Vegas is highly recommended- clean, quiet, family-oriented yet okay with one stumbling in at 8:30 am, plus a very nice pool.

Much clubbing ensued. The bouncer at Club 54 in New York New York got an up-close-and-personal screening of Kelly's voice-volume modulation problem. Emilie wore heels for the first time in approximately, um, ever, so of course ended up with a choice blister. We also decided around 3 am that we were going to walk rather than take a taxi back to our hotel. Emilie insisted we were close, and since I would still be wandering around Amsterdam if it wasn't for her, I followed. Getting home was like The Odyssey, only instead of ocean there were several of the largest parking lots in the world. My feet will never be the same. We finally gave in and caught a cab and of course we were walking in the wrong direction the entire time. Fortunately, we had made good use of the bars at all those clubs, so all of this was irresistably funny rather than traumatic. Because Em would kill me (if she ever reads this, which I highly doubt), I won't mention popping any squats. To be continued. . .

One Last Thing. . .

. . .before I go induce liver failure in myself.

VIVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA LAS VEGAS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Finally Something About Thailand

Things are gearing up for my movement abroad. The agency I'm working through, I-to-I, just requested an ass-load of documentation. And not just any ass, but a huge mountainous J-Lo kind of ass-load. Basically I have to prove I am who I say I am and that I've done everything I've said I've done. (Good thing I didn't give in to the temptation to tell them I was a celebrity and they should provide a camera crew to follow my every move.) So I'm working on putting that together while also writing another article for the Sentinel. It's quite odd to go back and forth between telling someone why I want to move to Thailand and telling someone what brand of designer jeans to wear. Quite a brain switch.

Speaking of brains, it has come to my attention that my father occasionally reads this. (Hi, Daddy-O). This is unfortunate because it's going to severely restrict the number of stupid drunken pictures I feel comfortable posting. Haha, just kidding. Love is knowing a person inside and out, drunk and sober, right KBR?

Which is good because I leave tomorrow for Las Vegas, and much drinking will happen. I mean, why else would four 22/23-year-old ladies go to Las Vegas? Besides the male strippers, I mean. I'm also quite looking forward to coming home from Las Vegas, because then I won't have to resist the urge to sing "Leaving Las Vegas" anymore.

So no posts until Friday or Saturday, probably, but the wait will so be worth it. Because when I get back I'll have all sorts of fun pictures to post.

I'm going to have to say it. . Good Times!

Ten MORE Things You Didn't Know About Me

Some smart-aleck thought they'd point out that they knew 9 out of 10 of the things on my "Ten Things You Didn't Know About Me" list. So, smart-ass, here's ten MORE things you didn't know about me.

Smart ass.

1. I am absolutely addicted to crossword puzzles. Addicted, I say.
2. I didn't name Sid Vicious, though I like to take credit for it. It was actually ex-boyfriend Cody.
3. I am a secret nail-biter.
4. I put myself to sleep on insomnia nights (every night) by imagining I've won the lottery and visualizing my mansion in excruciating detail- down to the color and placement of the bathroom towels and the style of doorknobs.
5. I'm a Lindsay Lohan fan. Sorry, Kel.
6. I am obsessive ear-cleaner. Q-tips pretty much daily. Behind the ears too.
7. I have a deathly fear of getting dandruff. I use anti-dandruff shampoo, just in case.
8. I need a lot of attention. More than you think I do, which is why this qualifies as something you didn't know.
9. I cannot abide thong underwear-- how is butt floss preferable to visible panty lines?
10. I use man deoderant- Speed Stick, Sport Talc fragrance. Emilie's fault.

Noon the next day

It's noon, and I'm still a weensy bit drunk from party last night. I feel like Bridget Jones.

Pizza, people!! Pizza.

Happy day today, friends. I got to eat PIZZA!!! As you may know (since chances are you are a member of my immediate family that I have berated into reading this), I have a vile reaction to tomatoes, which makes pizza pretty much off-limits, even though I love it so.

But Poo-poo, lovely man that he is, remembered me at the pizza store today and got some non-tomato concotion involving chicken that was DELISH. It's always exciting to me to eat pizza. It's like Twinkies or sado-masochism, something that is forbidden all your life and so has that naughtily indulgent appeal. It's hot, my friends, as Paris Hilton would say if she ever ate pizza, which I doubt. Unless someone makes a diet-and-stupid-pill pizza.

I checked some Thai language tapes out of the library today, which was complicated and difficult and involved assuring the clerk that I did not have kids, discussing what I would name them if I did, giving them the address of the place I lived before the place I lived on April 7th of 2004, and promising them my first-born. (I hope Sid doesn't count.) And then I tried to speak some Thai. Actually, being the anally nervously over-prepared person that I am (sarcasm there, did you catch the sarcasm?), I listened to CD One three times over. I'm getting okay at imitating the native speakers, but the alphabet looks like earthworms mating, so I doubt I'll ever be able to read or write it. HA! I just wrote "right" instead of "write" and I almost didn't notice. Some journalist I am.

Speaking of journalism, I was wondering something along the lines of the chicken-egg thingy today. Am I in the journalism industry, writing about fashion, or in the fashion industry, as a journalist? Or neither, as a lazy layabout who only writes every couple of days?

Bo leaves for Chile tomorrow, to start his year-long exchange in Valdivia. Don't quite know what to say about this, which doesn't happen frequently. I mean, he's a dirty little argumentative turd half the time, but he's my brother and he has his pretend-Renaissance Man moments. If he would let me get the blackheads in his ears without a full-on "American Gladiators"-style battle, I would like him a lot more. "Sit still, Razor! You have an enlarged pore on your nose!"

E-Trade and I have forged a deep and lasting friendship in recent days. I have told their pleasant-voiced operator my life secrets and can warble along with their delightful hold music. My cockles are warmed when they say, oh so personally, that my call is important to them. Luckily, with as little effort as it takes to launch the space shuttle (sorry, bad simile) I have discovered how to get all my childhood investments turned over to me. Yes, I was a childhood brokerage and securities genius, but I lost interest around the time I discovered the Mall. (Get it? I lost interest? Haha.) So look for me at your friendly neighborhood high-end shopping district. I'll be the one buying the ridiculously overpriced and impractical but beauteous leopard-print shoes.

Just kidding Mom. But I am on the lookout for some snazzy cowboy boots, so keep your peepers open.

In Case You Forgot. . . .

If he were Native American, his name would be "Cutest Dog That Ever Lived."

(I'd be "What Do You Mean There's No Nordstrom's In Thailand?)