Date Archives December 2008

Bond, James Bo–WTF?!


Yesterday   marks the first time I ever felt underdressed at a movie theater. Jez picked me up and we went to see Quantum of Solace at the ‘Gold Class Cinema’ in Redmond, which is stupidly opulent in a really fantastic way. There are all of twenty-four seats in each theater, with each seat a plush recliner. Before the show, the black-tie clad servers bring out soft blankets in case you get chilly, you can pre-order food and drink to be brought to your seat at specific points during the movie, and should you not have anticipated all of your needs ahead of time, you can summon a server via a button on the center console. It’s a bit like what I imagine my life would be like if I won the lottery, only with less whining and fewer diamonds in my champagne.

Of course, it’s important to bring immediate balance to the scales lest the fates exact a greater toll at a later date, which must be the explanation for how we ended up at The Rosalie Whyel Museum of Doll Art later that afternoon.


When was the last time YOU felt darn right giddy? Personally, I didn’t feel anything close to giddy while we were there, but rather, I felt a pervasive sense of creepiness. We ended up wisely visiting the gift shop instead of taking the museum tour itself, as there are limits on how many dead eyes staring out of disembodied heads you can have staring at you before you go hair-pulling insane.

Look! You could own this gem with a ‘lovely, serene expression’* for only $4,500! Wooden

You, too, could experience The Rosalie Whyel Museum of Doll Art as part of your next special occasion, be it a wedding, birthday party, or even a business meeting–can you do any less?

*aka Horrorina from HorrorTown


On the 20th, my coworker came to pick me up in the middle of SNOWPOCALYPSE’08 to make the trek up to Marysville for the company winter party. Our budget for next year’s party got slashed by corporate, so we decided to go out with a bang this year and live it up at the new Tulalip Resort & Spa. Most of us also elected to get rooms so we could not only stay out later, but not have to drive after inevitably drinking too much.

When I checked in, the front desk staffer apologized and said that the highest floor she could get me was the 9th floor. OH NO. Nine out of twelve was the best she could do? Remember: This is Marysville, not downtown Seattle. You’re not overlooking anything but the highway…but I suppose not being on a higher floor, we were denied the opportunity to look out over the nearby Wal-Mart.

Which is not to detract from the hotel at all, because the rooms were really very nice. The beds in particular were a whole new world of comfortable, and I fully intend to move out of my apartment and into one of their showers. You wouldn’t understand.

And look: There’s the highway!


Shortly after I checked in and quit gawping around the room like a hillbilly, Carrie arrived and we began primping for the dinner portion of the evening.

Here is yet another photograph of me, but this time, in a whole new bathroom mirror. You must be thrilled.


Dinner was delicious, and a sure step up from last year at Bucca Di Beppo’s (which was served ‘family style’–for 2.5k, we had to split each piece of cheesecake six ways. WHAT.). A good number of my coworkers braved the SNOWPOCALYPSE, one even driving from as far away as Portland, but enough skipped that instead of two drinks with dinner, we each had four or five. We also ended up grabbing boxes of leftovers from the buffet, and after four or five drinks, I thought it was a good idea to get one completely loaded with nothing but mashed potatoes and a couple of rolls. I think my general idea was to stay in the potato/starch family, and at one point, Carrie and I got so giggly about potatoes, everyone else in the room surely thought we were six sheets to the wind.

After dinner, we met downstairs, and headed toward the club with live entertainment. An elderly woman was sitting at the door, carding people, and when Carrie handed her her ID, the woman stared. And stared. And stared. Just when I was about to make a joke about having to sneak her underage ass into another bar, the woman handed it back and bluntly stated “I can’t allow you inside. This ID is expired.”

Sure enough, it had expired on her birthday a couple of weeks prior, but that didn’t stop us. We just went over to the OTHER lounge, the one with the guy working the door who was too busy looking at boobs to bother to check expiration dates. My boss’ boss pulled out his credit card, started a tab, and we all began drinking furiously, sprawled on comfy chairs.


The odd thing was, we all kept drinking, but no one really got drunk. Sure, I would never have gotten behind the wheel of a car by the time I got to drink number nine, but at no point did I feel that I’d lost motor control. However, after a certain point, we all decided to head back to the other lounge and just waltz past whatever old lady happened to be checking IDs so we could engage in something far more entertaining than watching music videos. That something? Watching white people dance.


This guy made me laugh SO HARD. It was clear from his attitude that he’d worn his GOOD tank top to the club, the one with the guns crossed on the back, which also showed off HIS guns. It’s important to show off your guns when you’re flapping your arms about like a chicken, which is a tip this next guy should keep in mind:


After a while, even President Wonka got down on the dance floor and danced like a woman, but I’m saving that video for when it’s time to negotiate my raise. After dancing, he then snuck into the VIP section, which really had no discernable additional awesomeness besides the handwritten sign that announced the VIP status of the person within the velvet ropes.

We stuck around until last call, and then headed back toward the room–we ended up getting into the elevator with a couple of guys who noticed either (take your pick)(A)how amazingly attractive we were or (B)how amazingly drunk we were, and they started to brag about how they were alllllll the way up on the 12th floor, in the player’s room–how they had a pool table right in the room, and a golden tee, and would we like to check it out?


We followed these guys up to the player’s room, and one hell of a party was going on inside. These guys said it was a company party for ‘financial advisors’, and after a few seconds, Carrie leaned over and whispered that she really wouldn’t trust ANY of these people with her money. We drank our beer, giggled over the fact that you could see the Wal-Mart from the window, and stood in a corner and mocked most everyone in passing. A girl with an unfortunate hairdo wearing a leopard-print dress bellowed “I WANT CHAMPAGNE”. Another girl, with skin like a handbag, the world’s most jacked teeth, and whom I’m pretty sure was wearing nothing under her red velvet dress (to the dismay of all), loudly disclosed to us that the guy who invited us upstairs “didn’t think I could kick, didn’t think I could kick him (hic)IN HIS PENIS” and then ran over behind the bar and licked out the dregs of the ketel one jug. People either walked by and made a ‘who the fuck are you’ face or they bared their drunken souls to us. Either way, after a while we’d had enough of watching complete strangers make asses of themselves, went back to our room, and scooped up cold potatoes with rolls. Our new Marco Polo call is “I WANT CHAMPAGNE!” “I’M GOING TO KICK HIM IN THE PENIS!”

The next morning, we awoke, hangover-free, ate far too much bacon, ran into some people who were at the party the night before, who snorted when we inquired about what sort of financial advising they do and informed us it was a BILL COLLECTOR’S PARTY (which makes SO MUCH MORE SENSE) and won some money on the only remaining ‘Alien’ slot machines in the state (perhaps in the country!)



And then, I went home and got trapped in my apartment for a solid week in the snow. Had I known I was going to be stuck at home so long, I would not have stopped drinking, and attempted a full-scale bender.

Festival of the Freshwater Squid

Tonight, I made myself a hat, using a pattern that goosezilla made, and embellishing it a little.

I got a little carried away, and now it’s nearly four am and I’m out of steam and very nearly out of words. Amy burst out laughing when she saw me wearing it, and because she is overtired as well, we’ve committed to having some sort of wheelchair jousting match while wearing special hats. More on this development as it proceeds.


Magic Boobies

I don’t know if this is an inappropriate blog topic or not, so, apologies if this is TMI: I just bought some new bras that do such amazing things I sort of want to motorboat myself. I finally have the coveted, patented Carrie Carter CleavageTM.

Also, when I asked the salesperson a question, she looked at my rack and said “Oh, we don’t stock those in double Ds.”

Bless her heart, that’s not even close.

Wisconsin Day Five: What’s that coming over the hill? Is it a monster? Is it a monster?

It has only taken me two months to post about my trip to Fright Fest–I’m fairly certain that history books will refer to me as “Mellzah Dildarian The Timely”*.

So, yes, on October 19th, I went to Fright Fest with starladear13. Every year, during the month of October, Six Flags theme parks go spooky, with giant inflatable spiders hanging off of roller coasters, haunted houses, and rivers of ‘blood’**.

And giant frigging animatronic pumpkin men.

I wish I could have brought something other than my crappy phone camera, but in a brand-new moneygrubbing move, Six Flags has instituted a rule that nothing can be carried on to the popular rides, and that everything must be placed in a pay locker before getting in line–and this pay locker expires in two hours. After two hours is up, the park claims your property. Too bad, so sad for you if the line you’re in is longer than two hours!

Lesley and I didn’t have to worry about that, however, as when we arrived, we shelled out the extra cash for a ‘flash pass’, which is one of the greatest inventions in the history of man. Yes, you’re paying to ride more rides over the course of your day (which is great by itself–we more than quadrupled what we would’ve been able to ride before), but more importantly, you’re paying for the thrill of cutting the line legally, the joy in watching other people scowl as you skip to the front of the line they’ve been waiting in for two hours. That’s the kind of glee that money can’t typically buy!

After we’d ridden rides for a while, we noticed a carnival game that offered superhero capes as prizes and ‘everybody wins’, rendering the playing of the game merely incidental. There comes a time in your life when you have to ask yourself, “Am I too old to be prancing around in public in a superhero cape?”

Thankfully for everyone, that answer for me yet remains a resounding “HELL NO,” and we flitted shortly thereafter to the beer garden, Batman and Wonder Woman capes floating gracefully in the breeze behind us. I had to have at least one moment of grace to balance out our next activity, which was to ride V2, a ‘suspended spiraling impulse coaster that utilizes an advanced design electromagnetic propulsion system to launch riders at speeds of up to 70 mph in less than four seconds.’

The key word there is ‘suspended’, as the seats are just high enough that I had to do a running backwards hop to get into one, which is even more awkward than it sounds. Worse was the dismount process–the seats are scalloped up inbetween one’s legs, and in the process of pushing myself up and over the hump, while dropping to the ground, I managed to smack my face HARD into the seat in front of me, inciting a chorus of laughter from the people waiting in line. Because this happened while I was wearing a superhero cape, I’m fairly certain they’ll be laughing about it for years to come.

Brand-new this year was the ‘Dark Knight’ tie-in ride, which the park rates as a ‘max thrill ride’ but I, sadly, have to disagree. It was like Space Mountain and a shitty carnival ride had an abomination of a baby and then spent millions of dollars tying it in to a highly-anticipated movie. It’s a shame, because with all the additional footage they bought with the original actors, it could have been SO COOL.

Hands-down, my favorite ride is ‘Superman’. After everyone is strapped into their seat with torso and leg restraints, the seats pull up and back, so you are facing downward.


The experience is akin to flying, or at least as close to flight as I’m likely to experience without throwing myself out of a fully functional plane (which I intend to do sometime next year).

All in all, Fright Fest was a total win, and it was great spending time with Lesley. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go twirl in my cape some more.

*Please, do not buy me a watch for Cthulhumas. You would not be the first person to do so in a ‘ha ha, I’m so clever’ sort of way, and I’m *still* not going to wear it.

**This year, they closed Roaring Rapids–in a previous Fright Fest trip, Lesley and I had ridden it because we were certain they’d shut off the water blasts because it was freezing outside. Yeah, not so much.

I was walking with a ghost

It’s no secret around these parts that I have a thing for roadside attractions. Yet for some reason, up until recently, I had neglected to check the Roadside America website for the strange and unusual in my own backyard. This is how I ended up at the Seattle Museum of the Mysteries on Saturday night. Also, how have I not been to see the troll under the Fremont bridge yet? Or to the Spite House?

It’s really a museum in the the very loosest sense. They have a few bookshelf displays–a couple on the history of the location, one on ‘Mel’s Hole’ and one on DB Cooper. The rest appears to be the results of a lifetime of collecting books on the paranormal and occult, with one lonesome plasma ball hanging out on a table.

We had arrived about 20 minutes early for that night’s lock-in, where we would be “participating in our ongoing paranormal investigation of our resident ghost, Peter Alexander Dunnovitch” by playing poker with him. But before that, we had to sit through the remainder of the ‘Ghost Hunter’s Meeting’ which registered at about an eleven out of ten, hilarity-wise. One group fervently espoused the need for psychics on the ghost-hunting team to ‘assist in pseudoscience by peering over the cliff of the known, where scientists dare not see’, while the other group indicated that no, they were scientists, and would do things scientifically. The first group countered that the second can’t rightfuly call themselves scientists if they’re not endorsed by, or members of, an official scientifc organization, to which the second group angrily retorted “Oh, so YOU can do science, but we can’t?” I was struggling between two major urges at that point: the urge to laugh maniacally, and the urge to blurt out “NONE OF YOU ARE DOING SCIENCE. I KNOW THIS BECAUSE I AM A SCIENTIST.” Another woman was also facing an internal struggle, and her struggle became quite clear to us all when she started snoring on the couch. Clearly, scientific debate doesn’t hold everyone in thrall.

After the ghost hunters cleared out, there were just three of us left–a ‘gun-toting republican ghost-hunter’, my date, and me, plus the museum employee.

The museum employee (one of the psychic scientists) sat us down in front of the TV to show us a little bit about the history of the location as a prohibition bar, and afterward, she took us on a tour. As a psychic scientist, she had a lot of theories regarding just about everything. She had a theory that liquor was smuggled into the bar via the women’s club next door. She had a theory that a lot of the areas that were walled off, yet should’ve been accessible via the blueprints, were all secret passageways. She also theorized that these secret passageways have been backfilled at some point during the last 100 years. She showed us the inside of a closet, and theorized about the gap in the wall. She took us into the women’s bathroom, and theorized about a secret passageway. She talked about the exposed brick in the men’s bathroom and theorized further.

So I wasn’t at all surprised when she took us through a cluttered service closet into a back alley and said “I have a theory that this is the most romantic spot in all of Seattle.” I know that when I am standing in a freezing cold, filthy alleyway blocked off by a chainlink fence topped off with razorwire, I think ‘true love’.

Next on the tour was the Harvard Exit Theater, which is supposed to be the most haunted place in Seattle, with employees reporting doors opening and closing by themselves and patrons reporting feeling someone fondling their hair, bathroom doors locking themselves, and ‘balls of leaves’ floating down the stairs. The psychic-using scientist also took a moment to theorize on why there were so many women’s organizations in one block, and what purpose they served in the community.

After we went back to the museum, it was time for some ghost poker. Although I am by no means a spectacular poker player, I can hold my own, and was looking forward to playing for a while, ghost or no ghost. Had I known we were only going to play two hands, I would have bet more aggressively. After our two hands (during which the ghost made no appearance, scientifically or otherwise), the tour guide had each of us draw a card, and said she would return in a moment. When she came back, she had us flip over our cards, and the person with the high card got to be the leader of a ghost hunt. Showing my natural inclination toward dominating others, I had drawn an ace and subsequently got busy ordering the other two around, as is my wont. The tour guide handed me a thermal video camera, I had the other two conduct a game of rock-paper-scissors to see who would use the EMF detector, and the other person became the Keymaster.

This video–I can’t even begin to describe it. It was comedy gold. Our mission was to go into the women’s bathroom in the dark, do a baseline EMF scan around the room (noting that there are electical wires and whatnot around), then implore the ghosts of the women’s club to assist us in finding the secret passageway, and do another EMF scan. Afterward, we were to look in the mirror if we dared. It was clear on the video that we were all pretty uncomfortable, unbelieving, and out of our element, and the sarcasm flew fast and thick. The gun-toting-Republican-Keymaster asked the ghosts to do something to make him shit himself. We stood in front of the mirrors and chanted “bloody mary” and “candyman”, respectively. I wish to Cthulhu we’d gotten in some ‘light as a feather, stiff as a board’ and all of the other sleepover activities from my youth, but alas, we were short on whipped cream, sharpies, and a freezer in which to stuff people’s underwear. I further wish I’d been able to coerce the psychic-using-scientist to give me a copy of our footage.

Since I wasn’t, here’s a picture of me and their Sasquatch.

Who wants to go back on ‘Weird Science’ night?