Search for the Samoa, Part I

So after reading the post by my favorite mother in the world (besides Carol Brady and my own mother, of course) I decided I might be interested in tasting the new flavor of Edy's Ice Cream inspired by the Girl Scout cookie Samoas (or as I remember them from my days as a green-uniformed, patch-wielding cookie peddler, Caramel DeLights. No doubt the powers that be in the Girl Scout Universe felt that changing the name of a wafer cookie covered in coconut drenched in caramel and then drizzled with chocolate that only come in packs of ten or so so you end up eating the whole package in one sitting and then feeling horribly guilty about it would be a fitting way to pay tribute to our tiny little Pacific island territory and another culture that is slowly being driven to extinction by development and tourism--politics aside, it is still a damn fine cookie). After reading the post, I felt that this is something that I might like to try some day, like flamenco dancing or online banking or eggs benedict.

This past weekend, however, the mild attraction turned into a full-on, large-scale, salivating craving of epic proportions. Before I could even worry about whether this sudden craving onset was pregnancy-induced I was in the car driving toward the super market to get me a quart of the frozen dairy goodness.
But my Topps didn't have the ice cream.
And my Giant Eagle didn't have the ice cream.
And my parent's Giant Eagle didn't have the ice cream...!

My dear friend Carly said she saw it at the more up-scale Giant Eagle near the mall. The pursuit of the ice cream was no longer an errand; it was now a sacred quest. So after class, with almost no gas in my car, I raced to the third Giant Eagle on the wings of ....well, you get the idea. The sign out front "Open 24 Hours" was like a beacon of hope, like the image of the holy grail or the Bat Signal. The doors opened with a soft "sssshhhh" and my pulse quickened. I forced myself not to break into a run toward the frozen food section. After frantically looking up and down aisles, I found it: the ice cream section. Not able to contain my excitement any longer, I practically leaped over a stock boy to peruse the labels to find what I was seeking: Edy's Slow Churned Special Edition Girl Scout Samoa Blended Ice Cream. I found the Edy's section! Throwing cartons of ice cream aside while the stock boy shielded his face with his arms from the onslaught of quarts, I spotted the Girl Scout Symbol! A weird green hand holding a girl in the shape of a bug with wings amongst a sea of beige cartons. With a jubilant shout I claimed my prize: Edy's Slow Churned Special Edition Girl Scout THIN MINT Ice Cream.

Bullocks.

I bought the damn thing anyway. But it's not the same.

And the search will continue.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore

So the National Weather Service has unleashed some amazing radar imaging systems for us armchair chasers. The new radar actually allows you to see warning boxes on top of the storm cells so you can see which particular cell is producing the warning. It also has county lines and major roads so you can pinpoint exactly where the storm is located. You can also loop the imaging so you can see the supercells form right before your eyes. The best feature: wind velocity relative to the storms. There are two different colors: one designates wind blowing away from the radar center and one for wind blowing toward the radar. Where the two winds converge, you often have circulation (which could be an indication of a forming tornado). Although on a smaller scale, this type of imaging is what they use at the Storm Prediction Center in Norman Oklahoma to issue a warning for a Doppler indicated tornado. Today was a great day to see this stuff in action: a surface low near the Great Lakes region was drawing all sorts of warm air ahead of an approaching cold front, resulting in a highly unstable air mass in the south. Awesome.

It is going to be a fantastic tornado season.

I'm going to have start taking my laptop to class more often.

I get knocked down, but I get up again; OR One tequila two tequlia three tequila FLOOR

So I went to my adorable friends' engagement party. And there just happened to be a Guy there that I have a Crush On. So of course I was dressed up. And of course I drank way too much. The evening went quite smoothly for awhile. And then: it happened.

The bar we were at has these little cylindrical stools that I call "tuffets". I went to talk to this Guy and I don't know if slipped on my slippery skirt or if my giant ass just has so much momentum going into the chair or what, but as I went to sit down my entire body continued on to the floor. I also somehow took out a table on the way down. Like Bridget Jones and the fireman's pole, I keep replaying the image of me flying through the air and onto the ground. And it all happened in front of Him. The worst part: when I got up, I looked around and there was a sea of faces just staring back at me NOT LAUGHING, including Him. They all had this look on their faces of pity and disdain. Words cannot express how humiliated I was and am. I had been doing so well with Him, too. I was chatting and flirting and blah blah blah, and then I took a tumble off a tuffet.

Damn it.

Editors note: This was the original post, which Oola created as soon as she got my drunk ass home from the bar. It's too entertaining not to keep up.
So I really, really like this friend of my dear friend Andy (I am so fuckig wasted as I tyape this, so if therea are any misprints, I appoligize to all two fo my fathful fuviewers.)

sO ANYWHAY, this man....I realy,r alyye like thim. howeve, thifs evening. I managedto fall off of my seat while I was in his presense. I brokke three glasses.

I am a FUCKING MORON. Who wants a ungracrful hippo? ::sigh::

Try not to think where it came from

So I just received in the mail from Delia's (a.k.a. clothes for 12-year-old stick insects) a pair of mittens with gloves hidden underneath the mitten flap! They are creamy white with gold flecks and are much more convenient than my Muppet gloves for dialing cell phones and operating door keys and car keys. I feel like such a Bohemian, homeless-because-I'm-an-artist type person with them on (although they make my already child-like hands look like little cocktail wienies (minus the red sauce)). However, my joy at receiving something in the mail (I really do feel like they are presents because usually I have forgotten that I ordered something) was quickly stiffled when I ripped open the package. There, on top of my virgin white gloves, was a little black curly hair.

I'm going to pretend that some sort of shaggy little black puppy named Buttons was Inspector #24 and that's where the hair came from.