There's an admin at work who wears a wallet chain. Even though he's a grown man in his 30s, maybe he thinks he's a teenager in the 90s. Or maybe the crime rate at Microsoft is on the rise. Maybe all the developers and managers and other tech-savvy people that were hired to fill chairs have the secret ulterior motive to rob and plunder unsuspecting admins.
They work in teams, appearing not to know one another. One distracts the victim, perhaps by asking for directions to the company store or by spilling inexpensive Pan-Asian cuisine on them in the cafeteria. While the helpful victim is giving directions or wiping the tikka masala sauce off his Pac-Sun shirt, the second perpetrator swoops in and yanks the wallet right out of the admin's back pocket.
Often times, it is best to have one of the Microsoft shuttles waiting outside to serve as a getaway car. Unfortunately, due to the GPS tracking devices in each vehicle, the shuttle drivers will not flee anywhere off campus, so the thieves must also have a predetermined on-campus hiding place to take stock of their loot.
That hiding place is probably this building. Unlike most Microsoft buildings with multiple floors, individual offices, and comfortable break rooms, this place is a raving shithole. Even admins with stolen wallets wouldn't come in here unless they had to mail a package, but they'd probably still arrive in an armored car weilding a few machine guns in case the freak show in the mailroom gets to be too much.
Yep, the streets of the M$ Redmond campus are getting rougher every day, and my building is what Cabrini Green is to Chicago's North Side. Better watch your back and chain up your shit, especially if you make $20/hour and value your unviolated rear end.
As I've reminded each of you no less than eleventy billion times, I am capable of a much higher Tetris score when using a portable video game console. Considering it has been years since I've played Tetris on my Gameboy Advance SP (for shame!), I am still happily surprised by this outcome, as I'm sure are all of you. But it could have been better.
I could sit and write about this for hours (three-and-a-half exactly, since that's how much longer it will be before I land in Kansas City), but I will gloss over the fine nuances I experienced while playing this game and get to the point, maybe. Suffice it to say, things were going great and I was in the zone until the pilot picked up the intercom and started running his mouth about the weather or some shit.
Distracted, I misplaced a crucial "L" piece and that threw off my whole configuration. So I was all, "SHIT! What the FUCK!?" And the flight attendant was all, "Excuse me, can I get you something?" And I was all, "No, but you can get the pilot a tall glass of Shut The Fuck Up." And she was all, "Oh NO you di-in't!"
By then, my game was pretty much over so I threw my Gameboy at her and yelled, "Hell YEAH I did, bitch! You got SERVED!" So she was like, "Nuh-uh, it's ON!"
Suddenly a Russian polka band occupying the back row broke out their instruments and began playing a sped-up version of the Tetris theme while some virtually unknown but well-connected dj popped out of first class to throw a techno beat behind it. I asked some Islamic terrorists to put their raid on hold and use the various assortment of machetes and liquid containers over 3 ounces that they'd snuck onto the plane to clear out a few seats so I could settle the score with this meddlesome bitch. Everyone knows that when you exact your fiery vengance on the person who fucked up your game, your score automatically increases to exceed your current high score.
Anyway, that bitch and her flight crew were all frontin' and shit, so I lifted one of the metal drink carts above my head and threw it at them. When the co-pilot rushed to help ('cause the head pilot be tawkin'), I grabbed him by the legs and threw him against the cabin door till it opened. I pushed him out of the plane and watched him fall at our cruising altitude of 37,000 feet. This made the head pilot stop all his jibber-jabber and see what was happening, and what was happening was his ass falling 37,000 feet shortly after. At that point, the Islamic terrorists figured their work here was done, so they stole the only parachutes on the plane and jumped out, pleased that they would live to hijack another US passenger aircraft.
With both pilots gone and the flight-simulator-trained terrorists floating safely over rural Oregon, all the passengers turned to me like, "Dude, WTF?" except for a scraggly black homeless guy with a crazy look in his eyes who yelled, "You gonna die!" Then everyone started freaking out. I exclaimed, "This vessel is too heavy! We need to lose more weight!" and pushed the bum out of the cabin door.
As most people know, flying a plane is not very difficult. Various actors and actresses are called upon to do this all the time and they always pull it off. Besides, for this trip, I decided to travel smart: I took my vicodin BEFORE boarding the plane and ordered a screwdriver once we were in the air. This is quite preferrable to the reverse, which includes three pre-flight drinks, some guy from Tacoma, two more in-flight drinks, and a stomach ache.
I rushed into the cockpit and put on a headset. I said a bunch of shit like, "Alpha nine-oh-eight to control tower, do you read me? Over." And, "Mayday, we need clearance for landing! Over." And, "Red Rover, Red Rover, can my Boeing 737 come over? Over." And, in a low, gruff voice, "It's OVERRRR! ...Over."
Then I pushed some buttons and steered for awhile until we almost ran out of gas and I had to land the plane. I crashed into the gate slightly ahead of schedule and only injured seven people. Yes, I could have taken a bit more care and spared them, but I had to catch a connecting flight and the layover was only 30 minutes. I barely made it onto the plane, let alone into a bar so I could pound a few cocktails with some fellow wayward travelers with whom I'd trade business cards and forget hours later.
So that's the story of how I got 163 lines playing Tetris. And crash-landed a plane at DFW.
Addendum: I ended up coming even closer to beating my score during the trip home: 193 lines. I'd really like to blame someone else for my not being able to get another 7 measly lines (which would beat my running score of 199), but I have no one to blame by my own lack of planning and deteriorating motor skills.
This letter finds us in difficult times, and I write to commiserate with you over the untimely loss of your girlfriend. I learned of your recent love lost during the untimely departure of the 545 Seattle-bound bus just moments before my arrival at the bus stop. With little to do but swear loudly and wait for the next bus, I opened my window to the world, a midnight-blue Sidekick LX. There you sat in a built-in application on my desktop, bearing news of a life-changing earthquake that shook up dinner plans with your girlfriend by swallowing her forever.
We're no strangers to love. You know the rules. And so do I. When you lose something you love, you want to chase after it, even if it means risking everything. Thus, it was no surprise that you didn't hesitate to jump into the chasm right away and begin a journey of danger and desperation.
Quoting the wise, under-recognized Danger community forum philosopher, CourtJester03, "I really hate this game...is there any way on earth to delete this stupid game?" If only there were a way to delete this stupid game of harsh circumstances and unexpected twists and turns. You can't turn your back on love the same way you can't turn your back on life. Love isn't easy; it never is.
But as Kyrios knowledgeably cites, "Nope, the game is apart [sic] of the core OS." See, there's no escaping these feelings of struggle and defeat as one battles large insects and spike-backed animals in dark, haunted rooms. Whether you're free-falling several miles, unintentionally bouncing into a pool of hot lava, or eating a cube that makes everything go dark, traumatic experiences like these are programmed into our lives, and it is our duty, to ourselves and our loved ones, to overcome them.
This letter may not reach the midpoint cliff in Level 1 before you meet your impending doom. However, if it does, I hope the rest of your journey leaves you relatively unscathed and that you find your round, bouncy paramour in good health despite being unjustly swallowed by the bowels of the earth.
I was a giant asshole today. I'm an asshole every day, but today I didn't even try to hide it. Whatever.
1. Team meeting
Coworker: "We should hire someone named Kit to take the empty cube next to you so we'd have 'Kit' and 'Kat'. AHAHAHAHA!" Me:(deadpan) "Yes. That would be hilarious."
No one else was laughing, but I really wish one of them had called me a jerk. As an aside, I used to work with someone named Kit back at NI. He was awesome and I miss him.
2. Chat conversation
Kat: you know way too much about the Spice Girls Jon: well, you have to take into account how old we were relatively when they came out Kat: No I don't
He should have called me a jerk too. As an aside, I liked Spice World. It was nice not having to think for 2 hours.
3. Bathroom
Someone followed me in. We took our stalls. Business ensued. I have a raging hangover, so today business is slow.
OG from two stalls over: *shuffle* *shuffle* (Business is slow for her too, apparently.) Me: *sits still* (Looks like we're about to have a bathroom showdown.) Her: *shuffle* *shuffle* *loud, annoyed sigh* (She wants me to leave, the fool.) Me: *flip* *clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack* (Yeah, that's right, bitch! I take my Sidekick to the bathroom! Whatcha gonna do about it? Nothing, that's what! I could be in here all fucking afternoon. I don't fucking know. Looks like you better be moving on or this could be a long day for both of us, know what I mean? Yeah, that's right, you're flushing. Go on, don't even wash your hands. See you on the flipside, idiot!)
As an aside... yeah, women's bathrooms are strange.
Too much spice Too much rice Nothing else nice So I'll eat lunch twice
I feel strange going back to the cafeteria a second time to purchase a salad or sandwich with a predictable ingredient list and taste. I'd expect the cashiers to notice that I had already been there once today and tell me I fail at lunch. Today, this is true.
Addendum: I ended up being rescued from the clutches of Microsoft and magically whisked away to white-washed suburb of Kirkland, where I enjoyed a fish sandwich by the docks. Thanks, Josh.
...Once these songs are over. You know, everyone has a booty tape full of music that puts them "in the mood." But sometimes the occasion calls for anti-booty, and nothing says "Down boy," like one of these masterpieces:
Boots Randolph - Yakety Sax (Benny Hill Theme) Los Del Rio - Macarena The Darkness - I Believe Beastie Boys - Heart Attack Man The Lion King - Hakuna Matata Animaniacs - Wakko's America Lou Vega - Mambo #5 Weird Al - Eat It Ren & Stimpy - Better Than No One Smokey Robinson - Tears Of A Clown Jefferson Starship - We Built This City Will Smith - Parents Just Don't Understand Billy Ray Cyrus - Achy Breaky Heart Bobby Jimmy and the Crickets - Somebody Farted Any Wesley Willis Song
You could easily add a bunch of kids' songs, parodies, and comedic/novelty tracks, but I think these are the cream of the crop. You can add to this list if you feel like it. I'm sure I left out some epic libido-zappers. Like all my running lists, I'll probably add more as I think of them and change the datestamp. Rock over Tacoma, rock on Seattle...
I stepped out to console a friend and plan a trip with my sister, thus missing my opportunity to score a Bag of Crap for $6. Even though I brought several bags of crap home from New York a few days ago, I always seem to find room for more. (Thanks, Peter. Misery loves company.)
Alleviating the Impending Doom of Ten-Hour Workdays
There was a Woot-Off today. I didn't buy anything, but had fun checking out all the gadgets up for grabs. My favorite by far was the description for this Wireless FM Transmitter. Nice to see an item featured for its pristine manual, sad to see that mine might be yet another job that is outsourced to China.
This Flight of the Conchords video made me think of this Pet Shop Boys video. Probably should have been the other way around, huh? The weird part is that I found the former video on the myspace page of house dj Demarkus Lewis, who I plan to see tomorrow night. I feel like I'm making a great sacrifice going back to the See Sound Meatmarket—I mean, Lounge, but I love, love, LOVE house music.
So at long last, I finally returned to the Big Apple to get the rest of my stuff. I didn't get ALL the rest of my stuff, but I made a sizeable dent in the pile so it was a productive trip. Some highlights:
The Arrival I arrived "home" to find my city as I left it: loud, busy, and sparkling with grime. A few hours later I did my regular trek down Third Avenue to Union Square, where my Fark Party awaited. Great turnout, wonderful people, lots of fun. Although, the last thing I remember from that night was a cute little voice next to me saying, "Hey, do you wanna do shots?" Here are some pictures; I think the camera appeared after the shots disappeared down my throat.
The Storm On Saturday night, I watched the most beautiful storm I've seen in years from my bedroom window facing the Empire State Building. Thunder, lightning, heavy rain... all the precipitation action that Seattle lacks. I took advantage of New York's vast delivery options and ordered some lo mein. Nom.
The Shoot I was supposed to do a photoshoot, but I cancelled it. In addition to splotchy weather, they were doing work on the roof so there was nowhere for me to stand. And I got shy. Yeah, imagine that.
The Donation I donated about half of my belongings to the Salvation Army. Most of my donations were clothes with heavy sentimental value and very little practical use whatsover. It's funny how a collection of t-shirts depicting bands, 5Ks, charity events, and school-sponsored activities are as poignant of a trip down memory lane as a thick, leather-bound photo album. I also parted with a plethora of homemade projects and a few vintage pieces that I've had forever and will unlikely wear again. I saved the one-of-a-kinds that fit me and mentally promised myself that despite my abandonment of personal style for the sake of comfort and personal development, I would make a point to wear these clothes at least once this year.
I hauled my donations down to the ground floor on a broken luggage cart and dragged them down the front stairs. I stood around for 10 minutes like an asshole amidst what looked like a pile of garbage waiting for a cab to approach. When one finally came and helped me load all that crap into his car, I informed him that we were going ten blocks and he didn't even run the meter. (I paid him anyway.)
The Interception As I unloaded stuff on the curb, a skinny bum came out of nowhere and asked if I needed help. What he was actually asking was for me to give him some free shit. I didn't mind doing this, but I was slightly bothered that I had to explain multiple times that most of my clothing was female gender-specific, as I am female. I let him stuff a duffel bag full of towels while I hauled the rest of it into the store. Nice people there. I took my receipt and left feeling strangely unmoved. I was neither relieved to be rid of the burden, nor sad to see my things go. Hm.
The Reminder I wanted to eat something I wouldn't normally get in Seattle, so I went to Molly's, a great pub with excellent burgers. Feeling rather accomplished that afternoon, I started to see the good things I missed about New York. As I walked down Third, excited about the delicious burger I was about to eat, I thought, "This place isn't so bad. People are decent, it's not so dirty, there's always something to do..." And I carried these sentiments with me as I sat down in a booth and waited for my burger. Moments later, two girls about my age walked in and took the booth behind me. One of them started blabbing on and on about how mean she was to some girl the other night. She had a smug air of superiority and the most grating accent I'd heard since I got to New York. She went on about getting into a fight with some guy, breaking some stuff at his house, etc. And then I remembered why I left. I left in part because THESE are the types of women with whom I was expected to eat, shop, work (God forbid I get a decent job!), and basically live alongside. There's no escaping it. Ninety percent of young New York girls are fucking crazy, and most of them are in my demographic. Thanks for the reminder, ladies.
The Lower East Side Victor missed the Fark party, so I agreed to meet him at an LES bar. Unfortunately, I did this after he'd been drinking for 5 hours and had no intention of getting as drunk as he was. After drinking a few shots, then mocking my choice of beer (Blue Moon instead of PBR), stealing it, and spilling some on me, he decided he wanted to go see his friend Joe on 60th Street. This involved a 15-minute cab ride during which Victor leaned across my lap, stuck his head out the window, and sang "It's Business Time!" at the top of his lungs. The cabbie was thrilled and decided to drive us eight blocks past our destination, running the meter the whole time. Hey, you picked up a fare at 2am and you're not cleaning puke out of your backseat—Don't be a jerk.
The Upper East Side Before hitting Joe's place, we stopped at a convenience store. "Get some really shitty beer!" said Victor, handing me four dollars. I got a 40 of Bud Light and six-pack of Corona, which turned out to be Corona Light that the shady-ass store was probably trying to dump. Assholes.
We got Rickrolled at the checkout and some tipsy funny-haircut hipsters started dancing to it. I made a phone call, as I am wont to do when I get Rickrolled, and I ordered the dancing hipsters to sing. Response: "I don't know all the words," followed by an eyeroll. Counter-response: "Why are you dancing like you know it if you can't even sing the chorus? You suck!"
Kat + a few drinks + hipsters = unabashed insult madness!
Joe's apartment was nice. Almost as nice as ours—I mean Gus's... (I'll touch on that awkwardness a little later.) Joe is a chef and had a large kitchen and dining area. He also had five kinds of dark chocolate that a vendor had sent him to sample. Magnifique! In addition to food, we both like traveling, so I ended up getting his number, at the off-chance we would be in the same place at the same time.
The Delay My flight was cancelled due to severe thunderstorms (which lasted all of 20 minutes where I was). I was glad they informed me before I spent 60 dollars to cab it over to JFK, but not happy to find that my earliest alternative involved a connecting flight that would amount to over 11 hours of travel time. I had Jetblue reimburse me so I could buy a cheap ticket on a connecting Delta flight with a later departure time and only 8 hours of travel. A far cry from a 5-hour direct flight, but those are the breaks. Fuck flying and everyone who does it.
With my extra time in NYC, I did the following things:
-Rode the subway -Stood clear of the closing doors -Found an awesome wine shop I'll never visit again -Returned to Joe's apartment for a delicious Italian meal -Discovered new and interesting ways to cram miscellaneous junk into suitcases -Felt pleased and astonished that the doormen and maintenance people in my building remembered me -Got ice cream with Drew -Remembered that Tasti D'Lite is neither tasty nor a delight
With my extra time in NYC, I didn't do the following things:
-Trash a dressing room at Pookie & Sebastian (my former workplace) -Go to Union Square (one of my old hangouts) -Go to Rudy's (the first runner-up for the Fark party) -See Ryan Christopher (missed you, dude)
Overall, the trip was successful. I had some fun (highlighted above), but when I wasn't doing that stuff, I was sorting and packing. Thus, it was somewhat annoying to come back a day late to an office full of people asking me if I "enjoyed my vacation." I dealt with the hassle of flying clear across the country and back to retrieve some items from a fantastic living space that I once shared with the greatest love of my life. In addition to paring down the unique commodities that characterize my journey through adulthood, I was also tasked with figuring out how to pleasantly relate to the person I once called my one-and-only, all the while knowing that this whole situation could have been avoided if I'd made better decisions a few years ago. Am I being melodramatic? Maybe. This is nothing I'd actually discuss with anyone. But to any motherfucker who calls what I did a vacation, I have some plane tickets and orders to pick up the rest of my stuff for you.
But it has not yet oogled back. Yet. (insistent stare) Yet.
I met a Google-friend of a Google-friend for a Google-lunch, who was no doubt Google-humoring our mutual friend. For once, I'm not just being self-loathing. To sum it up: a) the Fremont office isn't hiring; and b) I'm not technically proficient enough to meet Google's tech writing need... in any office, probably. This was not an interview, merely an info-gathering session, so the lack of pressure made asking questions easy. What I took away from this: a) a few programming classes would do me a lot of good; b) I should learn, live, and love as many Google apps as humanly possible; and c) it's time to revert my nice 'n squishy, communication-oriented resume into the uber-direct software-smack it was before.
But enough about me. No doubt, if you're still reading this, you want to know what the office is like. Concubines in the conference rooms? Chocolate fountains by the restrooms? A chimpanzee for every employee?
No, but almost as good.
The Fremont office is right by the Fremont bridge in downtown Fremont, so the commute (once I found the right bus) was a sinch. The cafeteria overlooks a trail that goes from Woodinville to Ballard and runs along Lake Union. It's not shit-yourself-scenic, but it's pretty nice. The food in the cafeteria is as good as what you'd find in any restaurant. The Greek-inspired choices topped most of what you'd find at Microsoft, and everything was free. The game room is like a small Dave and Busters. The office setup is open-air cubes (meh). And everyone there was really nice.
I was surprised to find the women's bathroom fully stocked with hair and skin products, but best of all, a Chi iron. This hair-straightening tool runs for $150 to $200. Must be nice to work in an environment where everyone makes enough money not to be tempted to steal. (Not that I've had any experiences with theft at MSFT, but I wouldn't leave my shit lying around for the degenerates outside my group to take.)
My taste of the good life was delicious indeed, but worth a semester-long programming class at the local community college? We'll see...
1. Eric: lol wet nut. Sometimes your awesome is so deceptively flamboyant it appears to be trying for subtle.
2. Jon: take care you saucy little minx
3. Jessica: U r so cute, ur like satan only smaller.
Pick up PlatKat today for a (sort of) risk-free trial. This offer is limited, as she most certainly will die sometime in the future. Don't let your chance at PlatKat slip away—CALL NOW!
On my way to work this morning, I walked by a row of active sprinklers in the grass by the parking garage.
Sprinklers.
In Seattle.
Where it has been raining 6 days out of every week since I got here.
(Sidenote: I can't believe the fools here call this "May." This month was supposed to be warm and toasty, not chilly and overcast. I should be honey-brown by now. Instead, I'm just Honey Bunch. *smirk*)
This Day Five of my seventh master cleanse finds me in much better spirits than last Day Five. This time, I'm not dealing with lawsuits (or threats of them), freezing weather (it's just plain cold now), broken hearts (mine or anyone else's), bad hair (at least no one has said anything), or uncontrollable depression (it agrees to wear a leash four days a week now). Check out the January Archives if any of that stuff interests you.
I've been meaning to write something intelligent on here, which I try to do at least quarterly, but I'm afraid I'm tapped out these days. So here are some more pictures.
It's an important question that every twenty-something living in a major U.S. city must contemplate: Am I a Hipster? Granted, no hipster would ever openly admit to being a hipster, but if it turns out that I am one, it's important that I admit it to myself. I'm not sure what extreme measures I'll take to correct this artfully pretentious behavior, but I'm hoping for everyone's sake it involves something a little more permanently damaging than razor blades and a bathtub.
Arguments FOR:
I live on the cheap, no car or TV.
I moved to Seattle on purpose.
I used to live in a "really amazing" artist's loft.
I smoke off-brand cigarettes.
My nose is pierced.
I have an iPod.
I have a myspace profile.
I don't have a lawn.
I can be a sarcastic asshole when I want to be.
I have black hair with black bangs.
I own a pair of footless tights.
I wear hoodies and old-style Adidas.
My last pair of glasses were black and chunky.
I am open to the idea that I could be a hipster.
Arguments AGAINST:
My parents don't lend me money for living expenses so I can "explore my creative talents."
I moved to Seattle and work at Microsoft on purpose.
The "really amazing" artist's loft sucked, so I moved into a corporate-owned shoebox on the north side of town.
I don't smoke Parliaments.
I don't have any tattoos.
I don't have an iMac or iAnythingElse.
I daily contemplate deleting my myspace profile.
Get off my lawn.
I am a sarcastic asshole all the time.
I have unhighlighted hair and unstyled bangs.
I have no idea what to wear with footless tights.
I can't buy new jeans because they're all too tight/low-rise.
I got eye surgery so I could no longer wear glasses that were thick and chunky.
Six months of Seattle residency and I still haven't crawled up KEXP's ass.
So what's the verdict? These lists aren't complete, but I think they provide a decent framework on a slack-worthy Friday afternoon. If it makes any difference, I plan to make up for the company time lost and work late into the evening. Afterward, I will go home and stay there. I'm not going to drink a 10pm-latte. I'm not going to a loft party. And I sure as hell am not going to a show in Capitol Hill. I might cut myself though. It all depends whether I hear any Morrissey or not.
So my stint of productive Sundays ended when I celebrated Cinco de Mayo on Cuatro de Mayo and knocked myself out of commission until Seis de Mayo. Not much to blog about other than the usual antics, and thus a week of barren nothingness.
Slug sex is almost as good as seahorse sex, but I can't find a decent, linkable video of that. (Decent = not recorded with a camera phone at an aquarium with a thousand screaming kids in the background.) So here's to being second best. Enjoy!
I haven't had (or really needed) a full-on Life Improvement Sunday Workshop lately, but my recent barrel o' Sundays have been quite productive and enjoyable nonetheless. Most of them involve cooking, tex-pats, music, and trippy screenings of films from yesteryear. This Sunday was a little different, in that I had a wild hair up my butt to bake something, which happens once every year-and-a-half or so.
Everyone knows my favorite food is bacon, but another fun Kat-factoid is that I love chocolate chip cookies. Real original, huh? I am pleased that other people share my love for these two foods and see the potential in mixing them together. With my knowledge of baking being zero, I've been patiently waiting for someone to invent a method for doing such a thing.
The results weren't what I expected, but the cookies still taste pretty good. They're better than they look anyway, especially considering this is a camera phone pic:
I started with three pounds of bacon, and kind of burned the first batch on the stove since I wasn't familiar with Joe's kitchen and equipment. Since wasting edible bacon is a crime, I gave it a good home in my belly while I put the next load in the oven.
I used dark chocolate chips only (no white), and I think I may have used a few too many, which made the cookies more chocolatey than baconey. I also may have eaten some bacon from the oven too. My memory is a little hazy from all the smoke. The recipe calls for crispy bacon to mix into the cookies, and not all of it came out that way. The consistency of the bacon inside the cookies tasted fine once baked, I just wish there had been more of it. I think using larger pieces (Junior Mint-size instead of M&M-size) would have helped too.
The glaze wasn't that important to me, so we just threw together some stuff that Joe had in his kitchen. We only had a little over a cup of powdered sugar, so we used corn syrup for the remaining cup. We didn't have maple extract (who keeps that shit around?), so I made a similar (?) concoction with some remaining almond extract and pure maple syrup. I also mixed in a few stray bacon pieces, hoping the salty juices would add a little flavor. The jury's out on that one, but the glaze was still a lot better than I thought it would be. If you just dump it on the cookies, you'll make a royal mess, so I recommend using the glaze as dippin' sauce. And instead of crumbling more bacon on top, just wrap the cookie in a strip of bacon. Like all things, it will taste better when wrapped in bacon.
Thus concludes my yearly attempt to mix more than three ingredients together and heat them. Joe's kitchen is still intact and no one died. People even ate these things and liked them. Like Thanksgiving in September, I made cooking history in my own little world and got to eat afterward.
Just in case this quasi-annual baking jaunt ever takes off, we've already formed a marketing campaign. "Kat's Cookies: They taste better than cigarettes."
If I ever find myself in a high-speed police chase, I will have the appropriate music, composed by none other than Miss April at her stylin' new organ.
Icanhascheezburger is looking for moderators here in Seattle. If I could work here, I'd be teh MOSTest happay! My LOLcoverletter:
Hai,
I lurves the lolcats so much, I maek mahself teh honorary lolKat in picturz attachd. I liek teh kittehs, but no can has aminals in mah parment.
I can has flexibul schedul and extra-moar good werk ethik (evn tho ah sitt all day an look at an maek teh lolcats). Iz a reel writr/editr in reel lief and Iz verrah techniclee savee. Also iz intristd in teh viral innernetz lexikahn. Iz lookin fer part-time werk to kombain wit othr werker-human activahteez.
Also throw in a Kerbey Lane-ish breakfast, monkey party shopping, reuben sandwiches, Pee-Wee Herman jokes, and homemade carrot cake, and I gotta say it was a good day.
Believe it or not, there's such a thing as public transportation etiquette. Even though no one practices it 100 percent of the time (myself included), it's good to know the rules. Similar to my partial listing of the Gym Rules They Don't Post, here are some idiocy-inspired guidelines for a calm, uneventful journey. (Note: The Gym Rules They Don't Post are also applicable to the bus, and pretty much anywhere members of the public congregate.)
Find a seat promptly. Now is a good time to practice thinking on your feet. It is likely that there are people behind you who are also attempting to board the bus and find a seat, and they'd rather not stand behind you while you perform a cost/benefit analysis of whether it's best to share a seat up front, or find an empty row near the back.
Hold on tight. Now is not a good time to relish in your vertigo. Move to the first row of seats quickly so you can make use of the handles at the back of each chair and steady yourself so as not to slam into those around you when the bus lurches forward. You may be taken by surprise, but remember, the bus isn't doing anything wrong. It's moving like it's supposed to. If you're flailing about due to this undiscovered revelation, you're just a jackass with no self-control.
Don't ask questions. If you're already on the bus and it's moving, it's fine to ask the driver for clarification on the stops he makes. But if you're some tool on the street who didn't map a route to his destination before leaving the house, the bus driver is not obligated to do it for you on the fly. In fact, you can call Metro's Rider Information Phone System and talk to someone who's job it is to answer your questions. So pick up a phone and quit wasting everyone's time.
Shut the fuck up. This rule applies mostly to commuter buses. These types of buses transport regular working people like me to our place of business. We make use of our time on the bus to catch up on e-mail, read books, and mentally prepare for the day ahead (or relax after a full day's work). While it must be super to work on a rotating schedule, please spare the rest of us of your boisterous ramblings as the result of your fabulous mid-week bender of drinking paint thinner and sniffing glue.
Avoid using your cell phone. See previous rule, "Shut the fuck up." Sometimes it is necessary to make or take a call in order to inform your boss, coworkers, or family of your whereabouts and ETA. However, it is not appropriate to engage in a long emphatic conversation in your shrill native tongue with an entire bus full of people as your captive audience. We also don't need to hear your flight plans for next month, how good your mom's casserole recipe is, or whether you think it's going to rain tomorrow. (FYI: Yes, it's going to rain tomorrow, and the day after that.)
Don't sit by me. I'd prefer this to be a no-exceptions rule, but when the bus is crowded, go ahead. (No fatties.) Nothing irks me more than some asshat who gets in my space when there are a million empty seats to choose from. Even when one person occupies each row of two seats, I hate being the first to give up my spare seat. It makes sense that a seat by me would be preferred; I'm female, so I'm generally smaller and I smell better. I don't partially commute by bike, so I'm not hauling around a gunny sack of shit everywhere. Still, the extra three inches of room doesn't mean it is my destiny to be rubbing thighs with you for the next hour. But speaking of commuting cyclists...
Rack your bike right. I can't give specific directions on this because I don't ride a bike and then change my mind part-way through and decide to take the bus. If you do this, learn how to use the bike racks at the front of the bus properly to avoid long interruptions that inconvenience the driver and his passengers. If you must "learn by doing," start practicing on a bus that isn't en route at rush hour with a zillion commuters on it.
Pay quickly and disembark. Many buses in Seattle are pay-as-you-leave. If you happen to work for one of the handful of companies in the city that don't offer a Flex Pass, have your money out and ready to deposit when you reach the front of the line. It goes without saying that the driver can't make change, so don't ask. Once you've paid, swiftly exit the bus and stay the hell out of my way. Thanks!
