u s e y o u r h a n d s

bullshit assholes - w4m

oh baby, you asshole. it makes me sad that I even miss you at all, but at least I don’t want to vomit when I think about you anymore.

seeking Polish man with overbite, green eyes and curly hair - w4m - 45

If you are a man of Polish descent, with an overbite, brown or gray curly hair, green eyes, and you are between the age of 45 and 55 then you are my fantasy man.

YOU ARE JOAN A COOK I AM SPECIAL R - 50

WE MET EARLY 80′S. YOUR GOOD FRIEND IS DONNA. WE ALMOST HOOKED UP AFTER THAT BUT NEVER HAPPENED. YOU WERE A COOK AT THE SHERATON AND ALSO AT LARRY’S GREENFRONT WHERE WE MET. ANYONE OUT THERE KNOW HER OR HER WHEREABOUTS? I THINK YOU USED TO HANG OUT AT BAR UNDER WEST SEATTLE BRIDGE. I’M ROSS OR YOU LIKED TO CALL ME SPECIAL ‘R’. PLEASE CALL OR EMAIL SOMETIME. 4255019473

chapman guitar singer guy

somewhere in my mind i noticed it was a different song but i didnt register which one. stairway to heaven? huh. hes been playing those other two(redemption song is the other) for so damn long. i remember when he didnt have that damn microphone. im dying to know who gave it him.
im laughing remembering a time he got on the train, this couple on the train had a sleeping baby in a carriage. they had the routine pegged. the father quickly grabbed the carriage, the mother threw a blanket over the childs face. the father then charged to the other end of the train car, where he took the corner seat and tried to shield the carriage as best he could.
if only someone were there for the rest of us tired folk.

February has been a record-breaking month for UYH, stats-wise. I have to thank to delightful little entries for bringing on shitloads of hits.

1) Complete lyrics to Eamon’s “F You.” Again, sportsfans, links to the shittiest hip-hop power ballad ever.

2) That totally retarded sand ceremony that Bachelorette Trista and International Male model Ryan had during their vagina-pink wedding.

The title of today’s entry. Yeah. So, I was racing around this a.m. looking for these yummy Target man’s mocs I like to scuff about in. But there were nowhere to be found. Hence, the title.

America’s Next Top Model is the best show ever. Why do I like it so much? It features women who never eat, smoke like chimneys, and actually say things like “Be the shoe.” So why? For the exactly the same reasons why I love demolition derbies.

I’m not into cars, either. But when they smash against each other, you can help but root for one. And whether it’s that General Lee-wannabe or the ex-police car with “69″ painted on its top, you’ll spill you’re beer when you yell and clap for your car. Smash, smash! And whoever can still rev their engine wins at the end.

Does that make sense? Did you get that I like ANTM because it’s so full of stupid conflict? That it makes these women commodities?

I also like it because everyone on the show, from diabolical genius Tyra Banks to “first supermodel” Janice Dickinson, refers to it by the whole title. I have taken to calling it ANTM(tm).

I’m exploring other ways to make money besides a full-time job. Aside from hoing and crack dealing (both of which I’ve been assured I lack certain skills for) I’ve been considering event planning and decorating. Sure, I’d have to seriously kiss the ass of rich people, but if someone was a dick, I could just fuck their house up.

No, really, though. I think I could do well with both of those pursuits, in addition to freelance writing. What says you, viewing public?

Dude, the guys at my office are totally fawning over this new girl contractor. She has an accent in a nice smile. You’d think she was made of jerky. Gnaw!

My Girl Scout cookies came in. I am chomping like a motherfucker. Hoe down? Hoe up!

In order to save money and eat not-so-rich food, we’ve made a Lenten committment to not eat out. I’m going to work through a lot of Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything. Last night, I made Bittman’s Basic Tomato Sauce. Tomatoes, garlic, oil. It cost like $2.

Will this day go slower? Jesus.

You want to piss off a dude tout de suit? Imply that he’s flirting with the new girl contractor. Meow!

Is it possible to be all g’d out in plaid? I think not. On another note, give me money to buy actual work clothes. I have a wish list at Nordstrom.

Mimi Smartypants name-checked all these bloggers. Is nothing sacred?

“Whatever, they won’t let me quit,” he said, reaching for another grilled shrimp.

“They have to let you quit,” she responded. Shrimp juice bubbled at the corners of his mouth, threatening to spill over.

He tossed his napkin and shrimp tail on a nearby table. Within seconds, it was whisked away by a blank-faced waiter.

“Well, yeah, they’ll let me quit but they’re just making it hard,” he shrugged.

“You’re being lazy then?” she countered.

The city twinkled before them, unmarred by this tireless conversation. “Not lazy. I’m not lazy, I’m….”

“Unmotivated?” she offered.

“No, I’m motivated. It’s $50 a month. That’s motivation. I’m….”

Until he found the word, she couldn’t leave. And although this whole exchange bored her, it would bother her more to walk away. The perfect word was there somewhere.

“Recalcitrant? Resigned?”

The light went off in his eyes. “Yes, I guess that’s it — resigned. It’s the closest thing.” In a window across from him, a woman gestured wildly while on the phone.

She turned and rested her back against the cold pane. The table skirts didn’t match, she noticed. And the chardonnay tasted gamey.

Jeri’s Grill is located at Montrose and Western. Its facade is aqua and black with a large sign reading “Ham On The Bone.” Good on them, I say, for advertising their wares in so succint a way, but damn them to hell nonetheless! For each time I pass this establishment, I sing “Ham On the Bone” to the tune of one of two songs.

They are:

1) “Band on the Run” by Wings
2) “Head Like a Hole” by NIN

I hate both of these songs. Hate them. And you probably do as wel. But see if you can resist singing them with my new lyrics.

Another Friday in Lincoln Square. After 30 years, I just can’t take this anymore. The neighborhood has changed. It used to be Germans in for pie and coffee. Now it’s these young kids in their twenties with weird hair and notebooks, drinking coffee for hours while listening to these small white boxes. Sometimes I catch them looking at me, trying to look inside me.

I think it’s funny that I’d have any idea what a career waitress would be thinking. While I’ve had my share of crummy jobs (that stint in the bread factory comes to mind) I have a college education and a decent resume. So, unless I have to work a blue-collar job as a condition of my parole or capital-R-Recovery, I’m probably going to remain out-of-touch with the workingman.

These types have been in the diner as long as I’ve been here. They watch me and write little paragraphs in their sticker-covered journals about my life. They theorize about my disappointments, my supposed ignorance. “How did she get here?” they wonder. And the truth is I don’t know myself. How did they get there, drinking weak coffee at two in the morning? I guess someday one of these kids will write some book and I might end up in it.

HAM ON THE BONE!
HAM ON THE BONE!

Ham on the BONE
Ham on the BONE

It is a smoky place where a sundae is just cheap ice cream and dream whip.

Want a refresher, hon’? Oh, got some on your notebook there. Coffee’s on the house.

I went to my doctor last week. She took one look at my sad, carpal-y hands with their nerve damage and muscle atrophy and put me on 24-hour brace use for the next three weeks. “And no more scraping,” she said, referring to the joy of my heart, scraping old mastic off Brian’s kitchen wall with a heat gun and putty knife.

What do I do now that the sheer joy of scraping the stinky, bubbling mastic off, to reveal cracked drywall, has been taken from me? Why, scrape something else! My attentions have turned to the spare bedroom. Brian refers to it as “Kitty’s Den ,” for someday, it will be my special room when I move in, slash, of course, spare bedroom. The walls are covered in layers of wallpaper and paint so think they’re pulling away from the wall. And this is an 80 year old house. I expected the worst.

In previous googling, This Old House et al. suggested a Paper Tiger. This bad-ass fucking tool is a disk with these multi-toothed gears. You glide this across the wall and it scores the paper. I got my putty knife under a good 1/8 inch of layers and layers of shit. Like a knife through butter, the old wallpaper came off in sheets. A wrist-friendly action, btw. It required level 2 of 10 pressure.

The patterns and colors of all the house’s previous residents were on display, layer by layer. On the bottom, the original owners had papered with a faded salmon deco print. Actual paper! Then several layers of paint. Sometime around the ’40s or ’50s though, someone got a little zany with the paper. One wall featured a bright pattern of red flowers with green foliage and the other a complementary blue and white striped number. It’s sort of gorgeous in the way things are when you don’t have to live with them. And then several more layers of paint. And a layer of plain wallpaper. With paint on it. I’ve done half a wall and uncovered most of the blue and white striped paper. The deco paper peeps out here and there.

I keep thinking about the people who put up the paper and paint. We don’t know who all the owners of the house were, but we plan on researching. But I feel so much excitement and energy in the paper. People decorating or redecorating their home, investing effort to make something their own. Or, looking for a fresh start that wouldn’t come with coat after coat of white paint.

We’re pulling all of it off, the hopes of others, down to the original drywall. It’s been nice to see what came before and I’m worried that getting rid of all of the memories this house holds will divest it of some character. That it will make our touches hollow. But that’s probably too deep, and it’s just old paper and paint. We’re ripping down mistakes and the actions of years of lazy homeowners. It should have been done years ago, I keep telling myself.

I’m happy today. This is a thing both good and bad.

Both generally and historically, I have not been either a happy or a content person on the whole. For moments, sometimes a day, I’ve felt ok. Now, I feel good for days at a time. Parts of my life are not pleasing, but some are so good, I worry constantly that they will go away.

And, also, if I’m happy for a few days, I can get unhappy pretty quickly. So that should be coming up, too.

There’s been a flurry of activity. Writings for this, for that. Doing, doing, doing. A lot of laughing. Lots of -ing in general.

Craig’s List Tidbit:

Man looking for about a dozen women - m4ww - 35

I am looking for about 12 woman to wine and dine me in one night. Everyone must be incredibly hot. Every must pick up the tab, and I get to see everyone’s underwear by end of the night.

Oh, forgot to say. I love black lace.

Only women who send photos of themselves smiling may go out with me. I particularly am attracted to women who have one or two teeth missing, and who have a tiny bit of facial hair.

Only women who have hair on the tops of their toes need reply.

Series replies only! PLEASE!

I only date women between the ages of 20 and 23.

Must be in college, and capable of earning up to 80/yr. upon graduation.

Editor’s Note: Obviously, this is a joke. But I like to think that we live in a world where there actually are men like this.

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