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We’re watching Moog, which is certainly a fascinating story. But I feel my ears start to buzz when I watch/hear about things like this.

Like, the husband will explain synthesizer stuff that he’s working on or tell me about some work he’s doing in one of his engineering classes and I hear, “So you know when you oscillate triglycerides and the Rubik’s cube osmosifies with pi and then square it zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz?”

Or like when someone asks me if I have change for a five. “Um, I don’t know. Here’s some quarters. Does that help?”

Christ. I need to just get one of those “Math is hard!” Barbies and get it over with.

Of course it must not be that fascinating since the husband is fast asleep on the couch.

Friday was my sister-in-law’s birthday, so that night we went out for dinner and drinks and cavorting. I’ve been feeling very on-edge lately, so I found myself wanting to blow off some steam.

Three clubs, two beers, a shot of Patron, four gin and tonics, and one lapdance later, my steam was officially blown. And I was in some alternate drunkiverse.

I felt alright the next morning, though I was surprised to find myself in bed since I didn’t remember much after slurring at my cousins in the middle of Shadyside. I started drinking water and still felt okay, though not great. But I noticed that every time I talked or moved around I felt a little woozy.

Suddenly, I had a Bad Feeling. The thing which I fear the most was inevitable, but I felt surprisingly okay with it. I calmly went to the bathroom, removed and hung up my sweater, tied my hair back, knelt before the toilet, grabbed onto the adjacent sink and bathtub, and barfed and barfed and barfed. And barfed. I emerged sweaty, watery-eyed, and with an impressive red mark on my chest from where the heaving had thrown me against the bowl.

I schlepped upstairs, sighed, and announced to the husband, “I just yakked.”

However, I did not cry and I did not demand to be taken to the hospital, convinced I was dying, which is what I’ve done pretty much every other time I’ve vomited. And I hadn’t actually done the deed in many years.

All of this leads me to believe that, despite the fact that I mixed drinks like an amateur, I’ve grown as an individual and am, like, totally mature now. I own my barfiness, and that’s a big deal for me.

Also, after I had brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth out, the husband still gave me a kiss on his way to work, despite my lingering eau de spew. I think he likes me.

Okay, so we ended up celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. It was very special, recreating ancient rituals performed thousands of years ago by my Celtic ancestors.

I’m referring, of course, to going to the McDonald’s drive-thru and getting three Shamrock Shakes.

The baby kept asking me over the weekend why we don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. My explanations ranged from, “It’s not really a holiday here,” to “I don’t need an excuse to drink,” which isn’t really true. I do need an excuse but I’m usually able to come up with on on my own without resorting to stories about snakes, leprechauns, or paganism.

But specifically, we didn’t go to the parade or anything. I guess that makes me a party pooper. I used to go to the parade with my family all the way up until the time that I was legally allowed to go and do what all of the other adult parade attendees do, which is stand outside in the cold, get drunk, and then screw in an alleyway downtown.

Call me crazy, but I’d rather just sit at home, drink on my warm couch, and then diddle the husband in our room. I mean, I guess we could move that party down to the basement if we wanted to celebrate.

But the last time that I was downtown on St. Patrick’s Day was in 2001. And what was notable about that particular St. Patrick’s Day was that despite my well-documented love for booze, I was in no mood to drink. I sat at a crowded bar with my mom and grandparents and assorted cousins and bemoaned the upset stomach that I had been dealing with off and on for a few days. I played some pinball before finally convincing someone to take me home since I really wasn’t having any fun.

A few weeks later, I realized I was pregnant. Dur.

Aside, I switched over to a “full feed” upon the suggestion of the MamaPop betches. So you lazy people won’t have to go through the arduous task of clicking a link to read my amazing posts. No need to thank me.

I think part of my molar just broke off.

I think.

I’m not in any pain.

I was eating mushy Indian food and felt something hard in my mouth and figured it was perhaps a shriveled lentil and considered swallowing it but decided to investigate. I tried to place the off-white chip among my food and slowly realized that it might not be food.

And then I freaked out a little.

Then I moved my tongue over all of my teeth and felt a difference in the way my back molars felt on right side compared with the left side.

I hate hate hate having tooth problems. This whole thing is making my eye twitch.

The dentist is sick and can’t see me until Thursday. “Uh, am I…like…in any danger if it waits that long?” I asked the receptionist. I’m new to this situation. I don’t know what questions to ask.

I still have half of my lunch left but I’m afraid to eat it lest I one of my fingers falls off or something.

Someone left a box of that new Orville Redenbacher’s Naturals popcorn here. I just tried some of the Buttery Salt and Cracked Pepper variety. It’s pretty good, even if most of the pepper sticks to the inside of the bag.

Which reminds me of reason #65 why my hair is awesome (in that sarcastic sense): when I eat stuff like popcorn or anything that can produce light crumbs, that stuff sometimes falls in my hair, where I fail to notice it. And I will blissfully walk around with half of my lunch in my hair like some crazy slob. Usually nobody points this out to me and I can’t really blame them. I mean, who wants to have a conversation that starts out, “Um, did you mean to put ham in your hair?” which is a statement only a short hop away from, “Are you aware that you just shit your pants?”

Also good: the new Erykah Badu album.

Hi Kelly,

By accepting Pittsburgh Bars as your friend, you will be able to send Pittsburgh Bars personal messages, view Pittsburgh Bars’s photos and blog, and interact with each other’s friends and network!

Wow, all of them? All of the bars in Pittsburgh want to be my friend? I feel special. And alcoholic.

Also, here’s a short list of awesome things that happened since 8:30 a.m.:

1) flat tire
2) lost nose ring while blowing my nose. I’ve done this twice now.

Guess what I did on Friday? It involved wheels and lots of testosterone and patriotism. Indeed, I went to Monster Jam with the husband, the baby, and the sister-in-law.

It was…alright. Certainly, the most interesting part of the evening was the prelude, in which the announcer came out and started paying tribute to all of the firefighters and policemen and “the troops in Iraq who are fighting for our right to be here at Monster Jam tonight.” No, seriously. He said that. That’s why we’re over there. Monster trucks. Now, I’m a cynical bizatch but if I was a soldier and someone told me that I was fighting for a bunch of jackasses to go see monster trucks, I would probably kill a whole bunch of people. Or myself. Of course, they then brought out an enormous flag for the national anthem.

(more…)

Since the wind chill was -7 last night, we busted out the super thick half of this insane comforter I bought at Ikea a couple of years ago. Normally we can get by just fine with the thin half, but since walking back to the car from Wal-Mart led to my experience of having my breath taken away by the frigid wind, thereby preventing me from shouting at the assmunch who had the audacity to honk at the frozen pedestrians from inside his heated car, we decided to bust out the big polyester guns.

I didn’t so much fall asleep as slipped into a coma. And, frankly, cocooned up in my bed is where I still am.

But I managed to take my folder of W2s, 1040s, and FAFSA forms to enrollment services, push it across the counter and say, “Here. Turn this into $2,000 please. I don’t know what I’m doing.” I’m attempting to not gnash my teeth through the tax-paying process of my graduate education and I’m thinking one of them thar fancy student loans will be just the ticket. Not that I’m terribly excited about adding some more debt to my pile, but it needs to happen.

Speaking of taxes, I need to file them shits so I can start stimulating the economy. It’s all up to me, apparently.

I also trekked to my mom’s office and hashed some things out with her. See, I told her that it would be better for us to wait to talk to each other until after I had had some time to calm down and she had a chance to speak to someone not in our deranged family (read: a pro). Lo and behold, our conversation was civil and productive. It did not end in my mom crying and me getting pissed at her, as every other serious conversation of ours has. See? I don’t know why people don’t listen to me all the time. I’M BRILLIANT.

Apparently, I’ve seen everything on the internet and am just starting over at the beginning.

I forget where I saw the link for those pictures that I posted about yesterday, but I’m guessing it was Google Reader. This morning, one of my friends’ shared items was a link to a post on MetaFilter about the same pictures and the discussion was full of complaints about it being a re-post at least 5 times over. Following the links in the discussion, I found myself at this video and realized that I had definitely seen those pictures and that video months ago and had completely forgotten about them.

Is there a name for this phenomenon wherein a dork spends so much time looking at dumb shit on the internet that it eventually starts looking new to her?

I don’t know. ‘Tis a question for the great minds of our day. Alright, I’m off to email everyone about this unbelievable Lysol douche ad and this hilarious video game translation. Because as far as I’m concerned, those are brand new all over again.