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I'm stealing from a real live famous blogger, Que Sera Sera. I am SHAMEFULLY stealing her ideas because, hey-- they are good ones and it's Saturday and I am lazy. There is Disc 5 and 6 of Season 1 of Veronica Mars, Halloween costume detailing, house cleaning and run-taking to do. Oh, and then copious amounts of fun to be had!

So, I'll just give you a list.

Here, are some text messages that I find in my cell phone this very minute:


Whoops. Out of hair dye. See you at the party.

Is it wrong of me to love Forever 21?

Je suis arrive. and stuff.

1. Shake excess water from hands.
2. Push button and release.
3. Rub hands briskly under hot air.
4. Dryer stops automatically.

Eh. you don't think about it until you need one. Then you REALLY need one.

Awake and upright. Surprise! Still interested in dumplings?

Brock lifted my dress up. Hate him a bit. it's ok, he's pretty!

OMG [redacted] is at this party. Lying profusely. Yay!

I have no idea what that means. I can only presume you are drunk.

OMG you must make that soup. It is like a cheeseburger dressed in cream clothing!

24

I think I may have had the best 24 hours ever.

Let me elaborate.

I got cable TV. Need I say more? I'm now free to watch things like "40 Dumbest Celebrity Quotes EVER!!!!!!!" and waste my whole life watching Food TV.

I ate a tasty dinner. I cheffed deliciousness for me and the the DK.

I put on a dress and footless tights. Purple eyeshadow and faux-hawked my hair. I took a cab with Runjit.

I drank VERY cheap booze at the Common Share. I think I had a gasoline and Red Bull. Who can care?

I danced to much amazingness at Brit pop night at the Black Cat.

This is a big one. Brit pop night is SERIOUSLY one of my favorite things about living in Washington. For those of us working for geeky or wonky places, it's our answer to MisShapes and NYC style revelry. I've been going since I was in college, and there's nothing better than putting on a ridiculous outfit, getting a little loose, and dancing. But dancing in all ridiculousness. Thrashing of arms, flailing of limbs, wiggling of heads, stomping of feet, and general silliness.

I'm so sore today. It's like battle wounds of a good weekend. And all that interpretive dancing about swimming that Shifty and I did to Pulp blaring in the background makes a girl feel like she ran a marathon.

I dragged my ass home drunk on the metro and ate leftovers and animal crackers while gulping down water and watching food TV. I woke up at 6am with an infomercial on and I dragged myself to bed in my clothes from the couch in my clothes.

I woke up, miraculously not feeling the affects of any of my fun. I made coffee and bummed around my apartment. I watched Giada Bigface make some stuff. I caught up on the celebrity gossip. I got some phone calls.

Then Shifty and I and our S.O.'s went for dim sum. To Hollywood East Cafe. Far away, in Wheaton. I have never experienced such a delicious meal of dumplings, nor have I ever experienced an MSG high THAT HIGH. Everything we ate had pork and shrimp in it, and we giggled, drunk on sodium about the follies of the night before.

Then we got into the car.

And went to Michael's.

Swoon!

I'm either dreaming, or I've died and gone to heaven.

In the past 24 hours, I've eaten delicious things, drank some beers, danced my little heart out, went to a craft store, and had a lot of fun.

Bring it on, Monday. Bring it on.

Live blogging cable installation

1:00pm: my Comcast-given "window" begins. Any time now between 1 and 4pm a cable fairy will magically descend and let the food network come to my TV. I drool with anticipation (or was that the Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich?).

1:10pm: I fret. What if the cable guy doesn't know that there's no buzzer. What if I miss him? Should I write a sign? YES! A SIGN!

1:24pm. Write "Hello Comcast, I am so effing thrilled that you are coming so I can watch Paula Dean eat butter. call me! xxx-xxx. thanks!"

1:26pm: Realize that's abhorrently geeky. Change sign to "Comcast: please call xxx-xxxx. Thanks."

1:29pm: Can't find keys to go put sign outside. WHERE ARE THE KEYS? Under the bed? No. In hoodie? No. In door still? NO!?

1:37pm: Finally find keys. On table, in plain sight.

1:45pm: Decide to actually update blog. Write half a post about how I like some tunes and wish they'd be in a movie sometime. Some brief googling settles that. Who knew Grand National was on the Transporter 2 soundtrack? Delete post.

1:54: A CALL!

1:57pm: Charlie, the cable guy arrives. He's a nice enough fellow, calling me ma'am (which is totally freaky) and I try to make idle chatter with him but he'll have none of it. He is here to get in and get out. Knee pads and all.

1:59pm: Charlie realizes there is no cable jack. NONE. That he'll have to drill outside, through a lot of brick, by the window to get cable into my living room. Charlie almost doesn't believe me, he looks around for a cable jack that does not exist. Swears slightly under his breath. Takes apart my window and looks for the sea of other cables on the building. Finds them. Notes how far the box is away from my house.

2:01pm: Charlie sighs. Deeply.

2:05pm: I take Charlie downstairs through the laundry room. He inspects some wiring, and sighs again.

2:07pm: Charlie brings his truck around the back. I realize that the back alley was just repaved, so he cannot park right up against my building. Must park about 15 feet away. He carries heavy things to and fro while I fret about breaking apartment building rules, namely keeping the door open with a piece of wood, and letting him at least U-turn on the macadam.

2:11pm: Charlie starts drilling.

2:15pm: Charlie still drilling.

2:25pm: Sweet Jesus, poor Charlie! He's balanced perilously on a ladder and leaning into the drill with all of his might. He's drilling through a foot and a half of brick. He asks me if I could hand him his bag through the window.

2:26pm: I hand Charlie his bag and inspect the progress. He's halfway there. Apologize profusely to Charlie. Charlie shrugs. Charlie drills some more.

2:28pm: I have visions of my neighbors throwing darts at my picture; of them cursing my name. The noise is unreal. I have visions of Charlie, day dreaming about laying on the couch and watching football.

2:31pm: Charlie abandons drilling for hammering. Swears softly again. Hammering goes SUPER loudly. Take that, STOMPY!

2:34pm: Headache ensues. Embarrassment ensues. I hope no one has a migraine today. Or is home. It's too pretty a day to be inside anyway. Convince self that neighbors are not at home, but rather out in the world!

2:37pm: SUCCESS!!!!!! Sweet success!!!!!

2:41pm: Charlie gets the box and everything installed super fast. I offer him a glass of water and a banana, but he just goes for the water. I wish I had coffee, or a cheeseburger, or like, caviar for him.

2:42pm: Charlie calls up Comcast for the job and asks them to let the cable on through. Let it flow, baby, let it FLOW!

2:47pm: No cable. Charlie calls up Comcast again and is all "There's no juice!". Tina, on the other end of the phone sasses him. He tells her "C'mon boo-boo. Do your job now." I decide I like Charlie. He is sitting on a huge coil of cable sideways in the middle of my living room telling Tina about herself.

2:52pm. I handed Charlie a check, thanked him profusely, and am sitting on my ass watching Project Runway reruns.

There is a god.

heffalumps and woozles

My upstairs neighbor is a force to be reckoned with.

I've had upstairs neighbors before. Loud ones. Upstairs neighbors who bounced basketballs at 7am and upstairs neighbors who, like Craig David, were Born to Do It.

But current upstairs neighbor takes the cake.

Let us call her Stompy.

I know it's a single female inhabitant. I know her name. I know she orders prints from snapfish.

I also know that she has a tendency to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, generally around 4am. She probably has gone to lots of concerts, because her TV is loud enough for the both of us to enjoy. I know she washes dishes only in the evenings, and she eats dinner roughly around 7. She wakes up, and probably goes to the gym, and then comes back and takes a shower. She wakes up before I do but leaves after, so that's the only guess I can properly make.

Doesn't that just make you feel uncomfortable?

It makes me uncomfortable that I know THAT much about her. It also makes me uncomfortable that I have to fill in the gaps in the story. I don't know her face, but I know how often she pees? Give me a break. Creepy! But, to my own defense, it fills the time while I'm staring at the ceiling laying in bed, swearing quietly to myself, wishing for her sudden purchase of thick, expensive wall to wall carpeting. There must be some good to this woman, though she stomps around mightily.

I imagine she's training injured elephants who have been shipped from Nepal who were mis-treated how to perform gallant tricks so that an organic, free-range circus can take them around the country and have them shake hands with disabled children. How can you hate an animal lover? An activist?

Maybe she has a life long dream of being in a revival of "42nd Street" and has been a self-taught tapdancer since the age of 7. She practices at night to keep her dreams alive and her apartment warm. At night she cries herself to sleep, but to dream of glimmering character shoes and bow-ties. That dream keeps her moving, and that moving keeps her going.

Or, she's plagued by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's ruined her life, and the only way she can cope properly is to rearrange the furniture on a daily basis. Her dining table has been in all possible corners and now is occasionally moved into the bedroom, just to shake it up a little. Her medication also gives her superhuman strength, so it's easy to lift those couches but her OCD makes it hard for her to select the proper locations.

She has 24-hour dance-a-thons for Easter Seals. Twice a week.

Perhaps she is a determined Catholic who wants to bring drifters back to the flock. She MUST know I gave Catholicism up for Lent in 2003, and has decided that the only way to get me back in touch with the Lord, is to irritate me to the brink of summoning Jesus, Mary and Joseph by name. Only after I take them in vain so many times will I properly feel Catholic-flavored guilt and repent. Become a nun. Decide that the noises from above are not from a neighbor, but from God himself. Give up sleep and food in favor of fasting and meditating upon said noise as divine intervention of syncopated footsteps and nonsensical creaking of floorboards as the modern burning bush.

Is a Republican and saw all my liberally-leaning mail and has decided to make me pay for my bleeding heart.

Is a Democrat and doesn't think I do enough for the cause. Isn't the relinquishing of my relationship until election day enough? Doesn't the DK do enough for the BOTH OF US?

Is Satan. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of silence. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.

Is Jake Gyllenhaal. Tempts me with forbidden fruit of self. Thinks I'm hilariously cute when huffy.

Is my mother, so she can guarantee that I can't sleep in.

(DCblogs, Express: kisses!!)

The first words spoken to me today by a living, breathing person were:

"Thank you, ladies back there for waiting patiently for the light to change, unlike THIS young lady who seems to be in a hurry!"

Gee, thanks crotchety capitol police officer, for pointing that out. You are TOTALLY right.

I was impatient.

I was in a hurry.

Haven't you ever, dear capitol police officer, ever woken up late?

I woke up at 7. I hit snooze many times. I woke up at 8:05 in a blind panic, because I had 25 minutes to be on time. Ok, not like I am EVER on time, but it's a jolt into your day.

So I hustled. I chugged my coffee. I skipped eyeliner (short hair = I've taken to wearing actual make-up, instead of just my standard blush/chapstick/one swipe of cream eyeshadow former technique).

I ran out the door, at 8:27, resigned to being late, but doing my best to be as LEAST late as possible.

I show up at your fine intersection of 1st and C, SE on my way to the subway. It's a very nice intersection. Sometimes there are cars. Sometimes, like this morning, there are not. I hustled along, minding my own business, until you pointed out my haste.

I contined on, rolling my eyes into my sunglasses right past you.

This made me huffy, because:

1.) I am not very good at being "in trouble". I obey rules (minus WRONG rules, like say, not being allowed to wear white after Labor day and no jaywalking when NO TRAFFIC IS PRESENT). I have never gotten a ticket, and I buckle my safety belt. I send thank you cards, and pay bills on time. Don't go against my grain here and point out how I am DISOBEYING. Because the light turned green JUST as I had taken my third step, and also you are a capitol police officer. You got right in my face and wiggled around like a good, topical political joke (ps isn't it like, DC martial law to make Mark Foley jokes? The ones I loved, which are hilarious, can be found here).

2.) I am an aggressive pedestrian.

I have no patience for people who have a comfortable, cushy drive from their mansion in McLean. I haul ASS to work and sweat on the subway and freeze while I wait for the bus. I am an urban scurrying machine. I don't appreciate being called out on being a good urban citizen. Guess what? I don't pollute as I stroll. Lay off.

I bet as your precious and rightful cars roll by you don't yell, "Thank you, kind pedestrians, this big ass-hat over here in the VE-HIC-LE had to just push on through because SOMEONE needs to get onto 66 while the HOV lanes are still open".

Doubtful.

I hear you yell at everyone in this fashion, congress-people and tourists alike. I suppose this is a good "welcome to the neighborhood" moment, because I will continue to cross against that red light to Capitol South if I am in a hurry and no cars are coming. And if you continue, I'll start yelling back.

But only in my head, because I am a giant wussy rule-follower.