Today's the 15th, so Beware the Ides of 'Tember.
I have been saying that to the dogs all day. I don't think they care.
Recently, Toole wrote a post in his blog about seeing a clown while driving. It is a very similar story to our family's all-time favorite vacation moment. Whenever we talk about this moment, we start the story by just saying this: 'Remember 'Let's Pass This Clown'?"
So it goes like this: the four of us in my family (Mom, Dad and the two daughters that sit in the back of the station wagon with their Walkmans, listening to Erasure and Monty Python tapes for an entire car trip without speaking) were driving to Martha's Vineyard. We had the pop-up Starcraft camper hitched to the Chevy Caprice station wagon and everything. As we were going over some bridge somewhere, the traffic was slowing down considerably, causing my Dad to look for a way to get around the slower cars.
Since it was a bridge with at least two lanes of traffic, one by one the cars began to scoot over to the passing lane and fly down the road. Finally, we came up behind a white van. Just a non-descript, white van in that popular style we often think of as "Kidnapper Van." But Dad couldn't get over into the passing lane, at least not right away. We had to crawl behind this white van all the way over the bridge. And this white van was moving really slow. Dad was starting to sigh loudly and get that "losing my patience" look on his brow.
There came at last a break in the traffic. Dad went for it! As he put on his blinker and hit the gas, he said, "All right, let me pass this clown."
As we passed the clown, we looked over to see who could be driving that goddamn slow the entire way over a major bridge like that. To our collective surprise and extreme amusement, it was a real clown. Rainbow wig, white face paint, the whole thing. We could see some balloons over near the roof on the passenger's side.
The reason we thought it was so awesome was because I really don't think my Dad could have seen that it was a clown driving because of the highly-opaque nature of the white van, and "clown" was one of his standard father-friendly phrases that he used back in those days-- when he didn't want to say asshole or fuckhead or something like that.
What sucks is I always thought this was a cool story, so a few years ago I wrote it up and sent it in to Reader's Digest. Because they often publish shit like that-- sweet, heartwarming Americana stories. What could be sweeter than passing a real clown while saying "let me pass this clown"? I thought I had publishing gold on my hands.
Fuckers. Apparently not. They did not publish my story. Stupid Reader's Digest.
Anyway, that is the Let Me Pass This Clown story. If you ever see my Dad, or any of us for that matter, mention anything clown-related and we will invariably tell this story.
We just don't have that many clown stories.
(Unless you count that time when I was 5 and I heard a lot of loud thumping noises, and went outside just in time to see a pair of big red shoes being dragged through a path of blood. I turned the corner of our house to see my Mom dragging a clown she'd just killed down to the basement. She raised a finger to her lips and went, "Shhhhh... hush now... go back in the house, baby, I got it.")
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Before I go on to talk about meaningless crap, I want to list a couple of things I am really hatin' on right now:
* High car insurance * Having an expensive car insurance company that fails to mail you the bill so you can pay it on-time and not get cancelled because of no fault of your own (not to mention has a crappy website so I can't seem to set up the e-pay option at the moment) * Not having my car back from the repair shop yet * Wearing high heels to work (yuck, I look like a total girl and I am not liking the look, although the compliments just keep on coming-- weird! So let me get this straight: I look better when I am not happy; when I am uncomfortable? I thought confidence was the essence of beauty. Whoever said THAT has shit between their ears.) * Trying not to eat so much when you are really hungry-- those first few days of a 'diet' (lifestyle change is the phrase I prefer) are so hard.
Thanks!
BALLROOM DANCING:
Here's my story about dancing, ballroom style. In college we had to have 1 credit of phys ed to graduate. My school has since dropped this policy, but when I went there it was a requirement. So, I took two half-credit courses: Yoga 050, and Ballroom Dancing 050. I basically sucked at both of these. I did score A's in both, though, so I am obviously not that much of a tard. Are you surprised?!
When I took yoga, I was still recovering from the heinous back injury of '93, so I was limited in my mobility. The class was taught by an old man in a track suit... my guess was he was a member of the old Phys Ed guard leftover from the halcyon days of perhaps the 1970s; perhaps he was once a coach of something or other-- maybe he even led his team of rinky-dink misfits to a victory over the favored team. But that was long ago. Now, he was stuck teaching a 7:30am yoga class to hungover kids who really couldn't give a damn.
I don't recall much about yoga, except two things:
1) There are several moves in yoga that can be beneficial to someone with a bad back. However, there are a whole mess of them that can make you shit yourself in pain if you do them incorrectly and under the not-very-watchful eyes of an old man who doesn't seem to want to be there anyway. I spent a lot of time just sitting and laying still.
2) Yoga class at 7:30am is a fantastic place to catch up on your sleep. I fell asleep on two occasions during a "breathing time" or whatever they're called.
Ballroom Dancing was a LOT different!
I took that about a year later. By this time, I was starting to form an unbalanced alliance with several of the more off-kilter students on campus. I went to a private college attended by mass quantities of rich dummies. I was in the honors classes-- which weren't really that hard, but did require that you write something like three times the number of thesis papers than the other classes, for no real reason it seemed other than to make the smart kids work harder, not necessarily learn more, per se-- just work more. I dropped out of the honors program when I figured this out, and happily enjoyed the remainder of my college years in the average classes. In the average classes, I met people like Straight-Edge Skater Chad, Curly-Haired Jewish Rachel, Joe "Great at quoting 'Silence of the Lambs' during class" Schmidt, Fast-Talking Theater Chick Vivian, and Ska Punk James. It seemed like we were all misfits in our own way (I was "Is She a Hippie or Not Lisa the Commuter") so we began to band together. Not all at once, mind you. That might have been awkward.
One day around Class Pickin' Time outside the registrar's office, I was sitting at a table with Ska Punk James, quoting "Better Off Dead" and waiting our turns to go in and register for classes. He said, "So what are you taking for your gym requirement?" I told him Ballroom Dancing. He got all excited. "Hell yeah! We are so gonna ROCK ballroom dancing class!" And so began the excitement over ballroom dancing.
It was excitement, to be sure. The class was not am easily-amused bunch, so naturally James and I had to hang out the whole time together. We had some old lady (they must have had a run on seniors in the human resources department on the day they were hiring for the strange Phys Ed department) teaching the class.
We learned the basics: the polka, Foxtrot, Rumba, how to Cha-Cha or something, and probably some other dances I no longer remember. James and I did pretty well at all the dances, because we put a little FUNK into things. We smiled a lot, we added dashes of flair where we could. If a dance move called for a swing of the hips, DAMN we would swing 'em. I have a mental image in my head of the instructor putting on a record of polka music (yes, a record... she used an old LP player on an extension cord to provide the musical element), and seeing James wearing an Operation Ivy T-shirt and a wool hat, saying "POLKA!" and doing the Metal Horns with his fingers and waggling his tongue at the teacher... she giggled in response. I guess she was still hip.
On a nice day, she moved the class outdoors. So we were dancing on the track behind the gym. It was a great time watching her set up the record player and send all of us dancing down the track, two by two. Some students and local residents were on the track, doing laps, and they had to go around the fox-trotting college students.
Thanks to ballroom dancing, I now know that runners can puke if they overdo it. One day as we danced on the track, a girl was doing sprints by herself, going really fast and getting really red in the face, and she had to cut past our class to puke into the garbage can by the fence. I was curiously repulsed. I probably said to James, "Who can dance at a time like this?" That sounds like something I would have said.
Well, that's it. No exciting conclusion. We didn't go on to win a competition; we didn't outdance the rich kids, or somehow overcome the heartbreak of diabetes. Nope. The class just ended, and I got an A.
That's my story. I just remembered today that there was a time where I did ballroom dancing, and I danced with a guy known as Ska Punk James. It's true. Just another fact about the Lisa. I hope you can somehow utilize this fact, if for no other purpose that entertainment. Thank you.
* High car insurance * Having an expensive car insurance company that fails to mail you the bill so you can pay it on-time and not get cancelled because of no fault of your own (not to mention has a crappy website so I can't seem to set up the e-pay option at the moment) * Not having my car back from the repair shop yet * Wearing high heels to work (yuck, I look like a total girl and I am not liking the look, although the compliments just keep on coming-- weird! So let me get this straight: I look better when I am not happy; when I am uncomfortable? I thought confidence was the essence of beauty. Whoever said THAT has shit between their ears.) * Trying not to eat so much when you are really hungry-- those first few days of a 'diet' (lifestyle change is the phrase I prefer) are so hard.
Thanks!
BALLROOM DANCING:
Here's my story about dancing, ballroom style. In college we had to have 1 credit of phys ed to graduate. My school has since dropped this policy, but when I went there it was a requirement. So, I took two half-credit courses: Yoga 050, and Ballroom Dancing 050. I basically sucked at both of these. I did score A's in both, though, so I am obviously not that much of a tard. Are you surprised?!
When I took yoga, I was still recovering from the heinous back injury of '93, so I was limited in my mobility. The class was taught by an old man in a track suit... my guess was he was a member of the old Phys Ed guard leftover from the halcyon days of perhaps the 1970s; perhaps he was once a coach of something or other-- maybe he even led his team of rinky-dink misfits to a victory over the favored team. But that was long ago. Now, he was stuck teaching a 7:30am yoga class to hungover kids who really couldn't give a damn.
I don't recall much about yoga, except two things:
1) There are several moves in yoga that can be beneficial to someone with a bad back. However, there are a whole mess of them that can make you shit yourself in pain if you do them incorrectly and under the not-very-watchful eyes of an old man who doesn't seem to want to be there anyway. I spent a lot of time just sitting and laying still.
2) Yoga class at 7:30am is a fantastic place to catch up on your sleep. I fell asleep on two occasions during a "breathing time" or whatever they're called.
Ballroom Dancing was a LOT different!
I took that about a year later. By this time, I was starting to form an unbalanced alliance with several of the more off-kilter students on campus. I went to a private college attended by mass quantities of rich dummies. I was in the honors classes-- which weren't really that hard, but did require that you write something like three times the number of thesis papers than the other classes, for no real reason it seemed other than to make the smart kids work harder, not necessarily learn more, per se-- just work more. I dropped out of the honors program when I figured this out, and happily enjoyed the remainder of my college years in the average classes. In the average classes, I met people like Straight-Edge Skater Chad, Curly-Haired Jewish Rachel, Joe "Great at quoting 'Silence of the Lambs' during class" Schmidt, Fast-Talking Theater Chick Vivian, and Ska Punk James. It seemed like we were all misfits in our own way (I was "Is She a Hippie or Not Lisa the Commuter") so we began to band together. Not all at once, mind you. That might have been awkward.
One day around Class Pickin' Time outside the registrar's office, I was sitting at a table with Ska Punk James, quoting "Better Off Dead" and waiting our turns to go in and register for classes. He said, "So what are you taking for your gym requirement?" I told him Ballroom Dancing. He got all excited. "Hell yeah! We are so gonna ROCK ballroom dancing class!" And so began the excitement over ballroom dancing.
It was excitement, to be sure. The class was not am easily-amused bunch, so naturally James and I had to hang out the whole time together. We had some old lady (they must have had a run on seniors in the human resources department on the day they were hiring for the strange Phys Ed department) teaching the class.
We learned the basics: the polka, Foxtrot, Rumba, how to Cha-Cha or something, and probably some other dances I no longer remember. James and I did pretty well at all the dances, because we put a little FUNK into things. We smiled a lot, we added dashes of flair where we could. If a dance move called for a swing of the hips, DAMN we would swing 'em. I have a mental image in my head of the instructor putting on a record of polka music (yes, a record... she used an old LP player on an extension cord to provide the musical element), and seeing James wearing an Operation Ivy T-shirt and a wool hat, saying "POLKA!" and doing the Metal Horns with his fingers and waggling his tongue at the teacher... she giggled in response. I guess she was still hip.
On a nice day, she moved the class outdoors. So we were dancing on the track behind the gym. It was a great time watching her set up the record player and send all of us dancing down the track, two by two. Some students and local residents were on the track, doing laps, and they had to go around the fox-trotting college students.
Thanks to ballroom dancing, I now know that runners can puke if they overdo it. One day as we danced on the track, a girl was doing sprints by herself, going really fast and getting really red in the face, and she had to cut past our class to puke into the garbage can by the fence. I was curiously repulsed. I probably said to James, "Who can dance at a time like this?" That sounds like something I would have said.
Well, that's it. No exciting conclusion. We didn't go on to win a competition; we didn't outdance the rich kids, or somehow overcome the heartbreak of diabetes. Nope. The class just ended, and I got an A.
That's my story. I just remembered today that there was a time where I did ballroom dancing, and I danced with a guy known as Ska Punk James. It's true. Just another fact about the Lisa. I hope you can somehow utilize this fact, if for no other purpose that entertainment. Thank you.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Yesterday was September 11, and to celebrate our freedom, Trish and I took a drive "a-ways" out of town to go to... you guessed it... the Crappy Outlet Stores! It was our way of saying FUCK YOU to the terrorists. For, if we stayed home and didn't shop at the C.O.S, they would win.
However, we had a slight adventure when my car overheated in a terribly dramatic manner and we were stranded in a Del Webb Community (TM) called Anthem for several hours. My car is still up in Anthem right now in fact, getting a new timing belt, engine thermostat, water pump and radiator cap. This is the first time my car has broken down since I got it 5 years ago, and it's very strange indeed that it happened about 50 miles away from home, and on PATRIOT'S DAY, nonetheless. If I didn't know better I'd go ahead and say that a terrorist must have been messing with my car, making it extra hot and shit. They love to make saucy American girls sweat; and they really love to wreak havoc with Toyotas, especially. I don't know why.
Anyway, the above picture is quite possibly the best ever taken of my sister. I chose to photograph her (not with any real talent, mind you) in front of a gigantic Nike swoosh because it captured the mood of September 11, 2005: Just Do It, America. Just Effin' DO IT. (I don't care to know what "it" is, just make sure you are doing your own "it", otherwise we are losing the battle for freedom.)
Trish made this face because she was either: mad at the people who didn't seem to notice that there was a large, open sidewalk all around us and yet continued to walk right next to us in an uncomfortably close way; the fact that it was hot outside and we'd just eaten some very bad Outlet Stores food-court-food; so resolved to not let the terrorists win, EVER, that her face was screwed up into a weathered, brow-beaten expression that says, "I work hard, I play hard, and damn it, you are not gonna take it from me, you fucking terrorist bitches. Bring it. We are Americans; our resolve is strong and we believe in the idiom of 'Let's Roll!' You cannot crush us, and we will always prevail, like the corn-fed big brother of the entire world, ready to run out of the house and shoo the bullies away who torment you. I, Trish, am one of the many faces of America. I am an American and I am damn fucking proud of it."
"PS: We Will Not Forget."
No. Seriously now.
She was pissed at the people on the sidewalks. Dudes kept walking right at us! You would have been pissed too if you were there. We also made up a song called "Broken Condom" after seeing a mass of little children running about unattended. We truly despise most people we see when we go out. That's the truth right there.
FREEDOM ISN'T FREE.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Before I go to bed, here are today's random thoughts:
* Four years later, it is still incredibly unreal to see those video images of the towers falling. In fact, it came on the Discovery Channel a few minutes ago, and I had to turn it off and come in to my computer and see what's shaking here... too much devastation these days. No more, not for today.
* Depression sucks. You know what you are doing wrong and want to bitch-slap yourself, but somehow can't unstick yourself from the bad place. Unless, of course, you have awesome people around you who love you and prod you back up and out of it all. Help is good. I'm grateful.
* ENOUGH WITH THE DOWNERS, LISA! On to...
* Last night I saw Batman Begins again. At the $2 theater. And two girls seated behind us were laughing at everything. They also talked all through the first two scenes (young Bruce Wayne falls down a hole; older Bruce Wayne is in some sort of chinese prison) and finally one of them said, "This is like, the longest trailer ever!" and the other goes, "Oh, no wait, I think this is the movie!" To which the first goes, "NO WAY!"
Plus, even stranger, there was a guy with a laugh that was reminiscent of Dave Letterman's "HEHE!" laugh... and he set that fucker off at anything even remotely funny. And sometimes parts that were nowhere close to being in the neighborhood of funny. There's a scene down "at the docks" where Falcone is having the guys unload a shipment. Bruce Wayne is there in disguise, waiting for the right time to disappear and become Batman. He makes it so it looks like he gets sucked into a dark area in the storage area, and he disappears really quickly. Well, the guy with the HEHE laugh lets one laugh loose right there! It was pretty odd. And of course, upon hearing him laugh, the bitches behind us started laughing. Which somehow set ME off. So Greg and I were sitting there laughing, too. I know we were laughing at the audience itself, but it still felt weird to be laughing at Batman Begins. These people in the audience laughed so much that, as the credits rolled, I said, "I had no idea that the Farrelly brothers directed this. Huh."
* I tried really hard today to get into college football, and DAMN did I fail miserably. Fuck, I just don't understand how football is played, even after asking questions. I wanted the game to GO and for them to stop doing things like throwing flags and getting hurt and crap. Just play already! Kick, catch, run, DONE. That's the sort of game I need to watch. Plus certain fans look so idiotic sometimes. For instance, I hate guys who WOOOOO at ear-piercing levels when there's a touchdown. I wish I didn't hate 'em. But I do. I tried to rise above my biases and I failed. However, there is some late-breaking good news here: I have decided to stop beating myself up for this failure, and instead eat some BlueBell ice cream. Damn, that's good ice cream, though! (It's really good to eat while watching "Angel" re-runs, especially. Which was also what I did. Hey, so we can't all be sports fans. Some of us are always going to be "in the marching band" and that's all there is to it.)
* If a certain friend I haven't been able to talk to for over 3 months now doesn't call me soon she is getting a foot up her ass, and this foot is wearing DEATH SHOES. Grrr, call me, bitch, I'm serious!
* One more thing--and I blame all this aggression on trying to watch football today, so bear with me till the memory passes-- say you get an e-mail from someone. At least reply at some point. Maybe you're busy and can't reply right away, but at least write in two weeks' time or something. Don't just make a big, stupid habit of NEVER replying, because the feeling you get as the original sender is that people just don't give a shit about you or your friendship. I'm just sayin'.
* Speaking of which-- have I done that to any of you? If so, I am sorry and this is a pubic declaration of me changing my ways.
* And yes, I realize I typed "pubic" up there.
* It was not intentional when I typed it, but I've since decided that a pubic declaration is, in fact, the way I want to go on this. I mean it from the bottom of my short-n'curly funland. Amen, and holy shit.
* Four years later, it is still incredibly unreal to see those video images of the towers falling. In fact, it came on the Discovery Channel a few minutes ago, and I had to turn it off and come in to my computer and see what's shaking here... too much devastation these days. No more, not for today.
* Depression sucks. You know what you are doing wrong and want to bitch-slap yourself, but somehow can't unstick yourself from the bad place. Unless, of course, you have awesome people around you who love you and prod you back up and out of it all. Help is good. I'm grateful.
* ENOUGH WITH THE DOWNERS, LISA! On to...
* Last night I saw Batman Begins again. At the $2 theater. And two girls seated behind us were laughing at everything. They also talked all through the first two scenes (young Bruce Wayne falls down a hole; older Bruce Wayne is in some sort of chinese prison) and finally one of them said, "This is like, the longest trailer ever!" and the other goes, "Oh, no wait, I think this is the movie!" To which the first goes, "NO WAY!"
Plus, even stranger, there was a guy with a laugh that was reminiscent of Dave Letterman's "HEHE!" laugh... and he set that fucker off at anything even remotely funny. And sometimes parts that were nowhere close to being in the neighborhood of funny. There's a scene down "at the docks" where Falcone is having the guys unload a shipment. Bruce Wayne is there in disguise, waiting for the right time to disappear and become Batman. He makes it so it looks like he gets sucked into a dark area in the storage area, and he disappears really quickly. Well, the guy with the HEHE laugh lets one laugh loose right there! It was pretty odd. And of course, upon hearing him laugh, the bitches behind us started laughing. Which somehow set ME off. So Greg and I were sitting there laughing, too. I know we were laughing at the audience itself, but it still felt weird to be laughing at Batman Begins. These people in the audience laughed so much that, as the credits rolled, I said, "I had no idea that the Farrelly brothers directed this. Huh."
* I tried really hard today to get into college football, and DAMN did I fail miserably. Fuck, I just don't understand how football is played, even after asking questions. I wanted the game to GO and for them to stop doing things like throwing flags and getting hurt and crap. Just play already! Kick, catch, run, DONE. That's the sort of game I need to watch. Plus certain fans look so idiotic sometimes. For instance, I hate guys who WOOOOO at ear-piercing levels when there's a touchdown. I wish I didn't hate 'em. But I do. I tried to rise above my biases and I failed. However, there is some late-breaking good news here: I have decided to stop beating myself up for this failure, and instead eat some BlueBell ice cream. Damn, that's good ice cream, though! (It's really good to eat while watching "Angel" re-runs, especially. Which was also what I did. Hey, so we can't all be sports fans. Some of us are always going to be "in the marching band" and that's all there is to it.)
* If a certain friend I haven't been able to talk to for over 3 months now doesn't call me soon she is getting a foot up her ass, and this foot is wearing DEATH SHOES. Grrr, call me, bitch, I'm serious!
* One more thing--and I blame all this aggression on trying to watch football today, so bear with me till the memory passes-- say you get an e-mail from someone. At least reply at some point. Maybe you're busy and can't reply right away, but at least write in two weeks' time or something. Don't just make a big, stupid habit of NEVER replying, because the feeling you get as the original sender is that people just don't give a shit about you or your friendship. I'm just sayin'.
* Speaking of which-- have I done that to any of you? If so, I am sorry and this is a pubic declaration of me changing my ways.
* And yes, I realize I typed "pubic" up there.
* It was not intentional when I typed it, but I've since decided that a pubic declaration is, in fact, the way I want to go on this. I mean it from the bottom of my short-n'curly funland. Amen, and holy shit.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Yesterday I was baking some brownies, listening to Danny Elfman at a loud volume. It's been awhile since I listened to his old-school compositions, but they still "get me" every time. Beetlejuice is still one of my favorites; "the Breakfast Machine" from Pee Wee's Big Adventure just makes me bouncy-crazy; and the original Batman movie theme is so damn good it made me search around for a possible copy of Batman in my house today (no dice there; guess I just don't own Batman, not even a 'taped off of HBO' VHS version!) and then look up the cheap-y movie theater showtimes to see if Batman Begins is still playing anywhere. It is; and I hope to go tonight if I can, in order to get my Batman fix.
This morning it was raining and thundering at about 7:15am when I went out to walk the dogs. I am so pleased to report than neither of my dogs is skittish about thunder. Malcolm has a good excuse: he's deaf. But Katie can hear quite well, and when a loud burst of thunder shook the ground as we walked "the pee walk" on the way back to the condo, she didn't even flinch. It was really nice to just walk in the rain, seeing sunshine off to the East --when it rains here, the entire sky is never cloudy all at once-- listening to the thunder grumbling all around us and smelling the wet dirt and pavement.
Today's random thought happened when I looked at Robert's blog. (I can't hotlink his blog because of Blogger being a total douche-ass flitty faggot today, just so you know.) He and his fiancee are taking a cake-decorating class at Michael's right now, and he has been posting some of his cakes. I asked him in the comments about what happens to all the cakes in these classes. Surely the students can't eat ALL those cakes! ("Oh yes, they can; and don't call me Shirley.")
My sister's erstwhile godmother, this woman named Aunt Nancy, used to be an expert cake decorator. She once made a cake that was decorated like my Pop-Pop's Social Security Card, to celebrate his retirement. We have pictures of this cake somewhere in the family photo albums. I am normally quite amused by the act of keeping photos of meals in albums, but in this case the work and attention to detail on this cake really made it an exception to the "no food pictures" convention.
Does your family take photos of food at holidays? We sure did. We have a lot of pictures of our Granny holding a ham fresh from the oven, or a roast beef she was particularly fond of, at family gatherings. There are also photos of bakery cakes. Bakery cakes...! What? Why? They always look the same and no one cares. Are we going to be flipping through the albums one day in the future, see the bakery cake from the "Graduation Party" and say, "Oh... yes, I remember that cake. It was a delightful chocolate, with light whipped buttercream icing. It was so delicious. It also brings me back to a simpler time, and a great family party"? No. I really doubt it. Instead, we will flip to that photo and someone will sarcastically say, "Oh, here's a great shot! Remember that cake? Oh, I remember it fondly! (Pause) Now what the hell is this picture even in here for? Here, take it out and throw it away."
The cakes of the Aunt Nancy era were different: a Christmas scene with detailed tree ornaments made of icing; a clown cake with a handful of little scary clowns flippin' and hamming it up all over one of my birthday cakes; some cake that had a frosting-painting of an old LP album on it; and she probably could even pull off a cake that featured a likeness of a woman going to the bathroom. Yes, she was THAT good.
But, alas: Aunt Nancy is not our aunt anymore. She and my uncle divorced when me and Moe were younguns; she left, and she took her fancy cakes with her. Sad, really. I recall really liking her, her red hair, her many dogs (some that had to be kept away from the children because they would bite), and of course... the bitchin' cakes.
This morning it was raining and thundering at about 7:15am when I went out to walk the dogs. I am so pleased to report than neither of my dogs is skittish about thunder. Malcolm has a good excuse: he's deaf. But Katie can hear quite well, and when a loud burst of thunder shook the ground as we walked "the pee walk" on the way back to the condo, she didn't even flinch. It was really nice to just walk in the rain, seeing sunshine off to the East --when it rains here, the entire sky is never cloudy all at once-- listening to the thunder grumbling all around us and smelling the wet dirt and pavement.
Today's random thought happened when I looked at Robert's blog. (I can't hotlink his blog because of Blogger being a total douche-ass flitty faggot today, just so you know.) He and his fiancee are taking a cake-decorating class at Michael's right now, and he has been posting some of his cakes. I asked him in the comments about what happens to all the cakes in these classes. Surely the students can't eat ALL those cakes! ("Oh yes, they can; and don't call me Shirley.")
My sister's erstwhile godmother, this woman named Aunt Nancy, used to be an expert cake decorator. She once made a cake that was decorated like my Pop-Pop's Social Security Card, to celebrate his retirement. We have pictures of this cake somewhere in the family photo albums. I am normally quite amused by the act of keeping photos of meals in albums, but in this case the work and attention to detail on this cake really made it an exception to the "no food pictures" convention.
Does your family take photos of food at holidays? We sure did. We have a lot of pictures of our Granny holding a ham fresh from the oven, or a roast beef she was particularly fond of, at family gatherings. There are also photos of bakery cakes. Bakery cakes...! What? Why? They always look the same and no one cares. Are we going to be flipping through the albums one day in the future, see the bakery cake from the "Graduation Party" and say, "Oh... yes, I remember that cake. It was a delightful chocolate, with light whipped buttercream icing. It was so delicious. It also brings me back to a simpler time, and a great family party"? No. I really doubt it. Instead, we will flip to that photo and someone will sarcastically say, "Oh, here's a great shot! Remember that cake? Oh, I remember it fondly! (Pause) Now what the hell is this picture even in here for? Here, take it out and throw it away."
The cakes of the Aunt Nancy era were different: a Christmas scene with detailed tree ornaments made of icing; a clown cake with a handful of little scary clowns flippin' and hamming it up all over one of my birthday cakes; some cake that had a frosting-painting of an old LP album on it; and she probably could even pull off a cake that featured a likeness of a woman going to the bathroom. Yes, she was THAT good.
But, alas: Aunt Nancy is not our aunt anymore. She and my uncle divorced when me and Moe were younguns; she left, and she took her fancy cakes with her. Sad, really. I recall really liking her, her red hair, her many dogs (some that had to be kept away from the children because they would bite), and of course... the bitchin' cakes.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
I found this photo tonight as I sorted through old photos I took with my "good camera" (Canon Rebel-- that's the name of the camera; I don't mean to insinuate that I, in any way, am a Canon Rebel myself).
This is a metal horse sculpture in Sedona. Everytime I go there, I have to slow down a little to gaze adoringly at this lovely, rusting metal horse. I have no concrete facts to back up my hypothesis, but I do believe that this horse would make a fine Trojan Horse, if you will, to deliver something such as poisoned cheese to a city. I can see this horse stuffed with enticing packages of cheese-products. Can't you? Mmm. Cheese.
But this sculpture makes me think about much more than the potential undoing of a city by way of tainted dairy products. I also tend to turn philosophical. I think about the sculptor who did it: How talented he/she must be; how creative, how visionary an artist. It must have taken many long hours to gather the raw materials; to weld, to shape, to create and give birth to an equine of this power and sheer fluidity of form.
And then I just want to yell out the car window, "GET A REAL JOB, HIPPIE."
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Random things:
• I woke up this past Saturday morning with the details of a very long and complicated dream in my head. By today, I am sad to say I can’t recall the whole story anymore. But it had a title; my dream had an actual title that I learned in the dream: Harry Potter and the Stolen Identity. Apparently, in the dream, Harry and his pals at Hogwarts had to thwart an evil entity that could shape-shift and make it appear that beloved characters—like Ron Weasley for instance—had died. So this evil entity did more than just steal Harry’s social security number—this evil presence apparently could trick you into thinking people were dead, and that it was OK to take their clothes and give them away to the poor who lived outside the Hogwart’s grounds. (Harry did take Ron’s clothes and give them away, only to find out Ron was hanging out with Hagrid the whole time and um, he still needed those clothes! Zoinks!)
Later in the day, I told Greg about my dream and he said, “You better not share that anywhere. I think that dream was copyrighted.”
But the dream did inspire me to get out of bed and go to my computer very early that morning and write a brand-new scene for my book… in which my main character gets a fake ID. Splendid! Thanks, Harry and the Stealers of Identity!
• I also injured my lumbar spine in a heinous manner. I was painting and I guess I ignored my body’s little warning signs that I was in pain, and just kept going like some flaming moron; and now I am still stuck in a relatively hunched-over position as pain knots up my hips and lower back, making it hard to walk. The last time this happened was in freshman year of college, when I ruptured the L5 merely by standing up from the kitchen table to put breakfast dishes in the sink. That time, I didn’t feel better until a full 10 MONTHS later. (I had sciatica on top of it, so that made my healing take much longer) I am pissed at myself because I really knew I should keep exercising and doing my required back stretches and refraining from doing things like lifting heavy objects, bending at the waist (not the knees) and throwing cars, fighting in those cage fights and performing as a stuntwoman in various high-action burlesque shows around town. As Chevy Chase said in Dirty Work: “Hindsight is 20-20, my friend.” And now I look like an old lady awaiting her artificial hips as I wobble down the hallway at work, trying so hard to move at a normal 30-year old pace. My bad.
• I did half of a good deed yesterday. I purchased new shoes, clothes, hygiene items and toys for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina that are staying here in Phoenix. But then I drove over to the Salvation Army headquarters to drop off my donations, and there was a line of traffic stretching a few blocks… so I had to get in the line of cars and hope the line moved fast enough so I could get my stuff dropped off by 5pm. That was the cut-off time to get your good-Samaritan shit delivered. I waited for about 20 minutes, and it got to be 5:10. When I was just 5 cars or so from being admitted into the parking lot, police officers came out and put up a barricade with a sign that said “please come back tomorrow between 9:00 and 5:00 pm to make a donation.” I was so disappointed I started to cry a little. The tears came from a few places: 1) I was really adamant about wanting to help, since I have been all but obsessed with the tragedy since it happened, even dreaming about it almost every night (when I wasn’t dreaming of Harry Potter and Maybe-Dead Ron’s clothes); 2) My back was incredibly sore from all that shopping, driving and sitting, and the pain made me cranky; 3) All that precious gas, wasted as I idled in line! That’s $3.09 a gallon, bitches. Gone; 4) Basically, I just wanted to whine, and the interior of my car made a great, impromptu whining platform.
• So yes, I still need to do the second half of my good deed—I need to find a time to get back to the donation site to drop it all off. It’s all in the back of my car at the moment. (I’m surprised that my company, which professes to be all about “helping other people” has not yet made any announcements whatsoever to help with this. No collective donation drive, no asking of monetary donations that would be matched by the company, NOTHING.)
• I hope no one breaks in and/or loots my car to take this stuff.
• My car is filthy, and I need to go to the carwash.
• Which reminds me of how me and my mother were verbally accosted last night in front of a Fazoli’s restaurant...
• So this car was parked next to hers as we had a quick dinner together at the local Fazoli’s. I couldn’t help but glance into the interior of the car in question as we passed it—garbage and debris was piled so high inside this car that it reached the windows in the front and back seat. It was a mix of clothing, crushed fast-food bags and wrappers, balled-up papers and empty soda cans, as well as a broken baby bassinet and a random smattering of 3 beat-up Bibles in the back window. Even the driver’s seat itself was several inches thick with plastic bags, food wrappers and trash—it had also been clearly flattened down by the driver’s ass, so they were actually sitting on trash to drive. The kicker for me was the bird droppings. Apparently, the owner of this car had left the sunroof open for some time, which allowed some birds to visit the car’s interior and leave shit on the headrest and all over the dashboard. It was pretty disgusting and hard to ignore.
Anyway, we went in and enjoyed what we could of our meal. I looked around the restaurant and spotted a crazy-looking blonde lady and pegged her for the owner of the gross car. She was probably around 50 years old, with longish, thin and greasy hair, uncombed and sticking out around her unwashed-looking, pudgy face. She wore one of those cheap flower-patterned cotton dresses and socks under her clogs.
As we left, the car was still parked there so me and my Mom did one last look at the filth, gaping in horror at the magnitude of it all. I got into the passenger’s eat of my Mom’s car, when we noticed the lady in the crazy dress come out of the restaurant and walk quickly over towards her car. My Mom was still getting into the car, and I heard her say, “Can I help you?”
The crazy lady was apparently standing right outside my window. I could feel her awkward presence there, but chose not to look up at her for fear I might grin and start laughing. My Mom said she was staring into our car with wide, crazed eyes.
She said, “I just wanted you to know what it feels like to have someone staring into your car!”
My Mom said nothing, and got into the driver’s seat. The lady stormed away back into the restaurant.
We started laughing. As we drove away, my Mom said my current favorite sentence uttered by anyone this week: “I bet she lives in that shithole of car, feasting on bird excrement!”
God love ya, Mom!
• I woke up this past Saturday morning with the details of a very long and complicated dream in my head. By today, I am sad to say I can’t recall the whole story anymore. But it had a title; my dream had an actual title that I learned in the dream: Harry Potter and the Stolen Identity. Apparently, in the dream, Harry and his pals at Hogwarts had to thwart an evil entity that could shape-shift and make it appear that beloved characters—like Ron Weasley for instance—had died. So this evil entity did more than just steal Harry’s social security number—this evil presence apparently could trick you into thinking people were dead, and that it was OK to take their clothes and give them away to the poor who lived outside the Hogwart’s grounds. (Harry did take Ron’s clothes and give them away, only to find out Ron was hanging out with Hagrid the whole time and um, he still needed those clothes! Zoinks!)
Later in the day, I told Greg about my dream and he said, “You better not share that anywhere. I think that dream was copyrighted.”
But the dream did inspire me to get out of bed and go to my computer very early that morning and write a brand-new scene for my book… in which my main character gets a fake ID. Splendid! Thanks, Harry and the Stealers of Identity!
• I also injured my lumbar spine in a heinous manner. I was painting and I guess I ignored my body’s little warning signs that I was in pain, and just kept going like some flaming moron; and now I am still stuck in a relatively hunched-over position as pain knots up my hips and lower back, making it hard to walk. The last time this happened was in freshman year of college, when I ruptured the L5 merely by standing up from the kitchen table to put breakfast dishes in the sink. That time, I didn’t feel better until a full 10 MONTHS later. (I had sciatica on top of it, so that made my healing take much longer) I am pissed at myself because I really knew I should keep exercising and doing my required back stretches and refraining from doing things like lifting heavy objects, bending at the waist (not the knees) and throwing cars, fighting in those cage fights and performing as a stuntwoman in various high-action burlesque shows around town. As Chevy Chase said in Dirty Work: “Hindsight is 20-20, my friend.” And now I look like an old lady awaiting her artificial hips as I wobble down the hallway at work, trying so hard to move at a normal 30-year old pace. My bad.
• I did half of a good deed yesterday. I purchased new shoes, clothes, hygiene items and toys for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina that are staying here in Phoenix. But then I drove over to the Salvation Army headquarters to drop off my donations, and there was a line of traffic stretching a few blocks… so I had to get in the line of cars and hope the line moved fast enough so I could get my stuff dropped off by 5pm. That was the cut-off time to get your good-Samaritan shit delivered. I waited for about 20 minutes, and it got to be 5:10. When I was just 5 cars or so from being admitted into the parking lot, police officers came out and put up a barricade with a sign that said “please come back tomorrow between 9:00 and 5:00 pm to make a donation.” I was so disappointed I started to cry a little. The tears came from a few places: 1) I was really adamant about wanting to help, since I have been all but obsessed with the tragedy since it happened, even dreaming about it almost every night (when I wasn’t dreaming of Harry Potter and Maybe-Dead Ron’s clothes); 2) My back was incredibly sore from all that shopping, driving and sitting, and the pain made me cranky; 3) All that precious gas, wasted as I idled in line! That’s $3.09 a gallon, bitches. Gone; 4) Basically, I just wanted to whine, and the interior of my car made a great, impromptu whining platform.
• So yes, I still need to do the second half of my good deed—I need to find a time to get back to the donation site to drop it all off. It’s all in the back of my car at the moment. (I’m surprised that my company, which professes to be all about “helping other people” has not yet made any announcements whatsoever to help with this. No collective donation drive, no asking of monetary donations that would be matched by the company, NOTHING.)
• I hope no one breaks in and/or loots my car to take this stuff.
• My car is filthy, and I need to go to the carwash.
• Which reminds me of how me and my mother were verbally accosted last night in front of a Fazoli’s restaurant...
• So this car was parked next to hers as we had a quick dinner together at the local Fazoli’s. I couldn’t help but glance into the interior of the car in question as we passed it—garbage and debris was piled so high inside this car that it reached the windows in the front and back seat. It was a mix of clothing, crushed fast-food bags and wrappers, balled-up papers and empty soda cans, as well as a broken baby bassinet and a random smattering of 3 beat-up Bibles in the back window. Even the driver’s seat itself was several inches thick with plastic bags, food wrappers and trash—it had also been clearly flattened down by the driver’s ass, so they were actually sitting on trash to drive. The kicker for me was the bird droppings. Apparently, the owner of this car had left the sunroof open for some time, which allowed some birds to visit the car’s interior and leave shit on the headrest and all over the dashboard. It was pretty disgusting and hard to ignore.
Anyway, we went in and enjoyed what we could of our meal. I looked around the restaurant and spotted a crazy-looking blonde lady and pegged her for the owner of the gross car. She was probably around 50 years old, with longish, thin and greasy hair, uncombed and sticking out around her unwashed-looking, pudgy face. She wore one of those cheap flower-patterned cotton dresses and socks under her clogs.
As we left, the car was still parked there so me and my Mom did one last look at the filth, gaping in horror at the magnitude of it all. I got into the passenger’s eat of my Mom’s car, when we noticed the lady in the crazy dress come out of the restaurant and walk quickly over towards her car. My Mom was still getting into the car, and I heard her say, “Can I help you?”
The crazy lady was apparently standing right outside my window. I could feel her awkward presence there, but chose not to look up at her for fear I might grin and start laughing. My Mom said she was staring into our car with wide, crazed eyes.
She said, “I just wanted you to know what it feels like to have someone staring into your car!”
My Mom said nothing, and got into the driver’s seat. The lady stormed away back into the restaurant.
We started laughing. As we drove away, my Mom said my current favorite sentence uttered by anyone this week: “I bet she lives in that shithole of car, feasting on bird excrement!”
God love ya, Mom!
Monday, September 05, 2005
"If the ride's more fly, you must buy!"
Based on my enduring love for Snoop*, I finally decided it was time to share my favorite site for Snoop Dogg news and information with all y'all: SNOOP DOGG HEAVEN.
I don't know, after repeatedly being subjected to the glory that IS Snoop and Lee I. in a golf cart, I think I want to buy a Chrysler. I have the car munchies. Kind of like how I suddenly really wanted to eat some Hostess cupcakes and drink a whole lot of Dr. Pepper after I walked into that smoky basement that one time. OK, it was more like that 4 or 5 times...or 20 times... but still. It's weird how that creeps up on you. I blame the madras.
Do they still make LeBarons? I want one in lime. With hydraulics.
(*I saw "The Wash", in the theater, and at full evening ticket prices. So you can see I am not playing around.)
Based on my enduring love for Snoop*, I finally decided it was time to share my favorite site for Snoop Dogg news and information with all y'all: SNOOP DOGG HEAVEN.
I don't know, after repeatedly being subjected to the glory that IS Snoop and Lee I. in a golf cart, I think I want to buy a Chrysler. I have the car munchies. Kind of like how I suddenly really wanted to eat some Hostess cupcakes and drink a whole lot of Dr. Pepper after I walked into that smoky basement that one time. OK, it was more like that 4 or 5 times...or 20 times... but still. It's weird how that creeps up on you. I blame the madras.
Do they still make LeBarons? I want one in lime. With hydraulics.
(*I saw "The Wash", in the theater, and at full evening ticket prices. So you can see I am not playing around.)
Sunday, September 04, 2005
I have been waiting to find something from Anne Rice regarding the tragedy in New Orleans, so I was really pleased when Trish found this opinion piece she wrote for the NY Times.
I'm not the first person to write about this; in fact, I thought I wouldn't since we all know what's going on without me and my silly little blog rehashing it. But then this Anne Rice article appears and I really had to share it.
I had a dream about the New Orleans looting the other night and woke up sweating. I sincerely pray for everyone there and for the city itself. And for the government to perhaps take this as a very harsh and real sign that resources--monetary and manpower-- need to be reserved to take care of our own in times of need. This is not going to be the last natural disaster; but God willing, we can bring home resources currently fixed overseas and help bring things a little more into balance on the side of "the human right." Such a tragedy.
I'm not the first person to write about this; in fact, I thought I wouldn't since we all know what's going on without me and my silly little blog rehashing it. But then this Anne Rice article appears and I really had to share it.
I had a dream about the New Orleans looting the other night and woke up sweating. I sincerely pray for everyone there and for the city itself. And for the government to perhaps take this as a very harsh and real sign that resources--monetary and manpower-- need to be reserved to take care of our own in times of need. This is not going to be the last natural disaster; but God willing, we can bring home resources currently fixed overseas and help bring things a little more into balance on the side of "the human right." Such a tragedy.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Here's a cautionary list. Please be aware I have never personally used this list out loud, but I have thought most of these things. There's a reason we were given the gift of keeping our thoughts to ourselves when old people talk.
Things you should never tell an old lady:
1) "You're probably going to die soon."
2) "You're probably going to die of a feeding-tube infection when it does happen."
3) "If it's not that, it might be an age-related fall. I heard a lot of old people die that way. You just fall, no one hears you. No one misses you for days. You either bleed to death or starve to death. Point is, you are alone and you can't get up for the life of you."
4) "Hey, can I have some of your halfway-decent stuff after you do die? I don't want any of the crap. Give that shit to the Goodwill losers, not me."
5) "Do you think anyone will remember you after you die?"
6) "Oh yeah? Well, then how long do you think it will take THEM to forget you? Maybe, what... 15 years? 20, tops? My bet stops at 22 years."
7) "It's funny. I am willing to bet you really didn't make much of a difference at all while you were here. Sure, you popped out a couple of kids, but really, who can't do that nowadays? I mean, in the grand scheme of things, you probably were kind of, well... insignificant."
8) "Crying doesn't solve anything."
9) "Neither does the act of continuing to live."
10) "Hey, where you going? Everyone knows that roof is nowhere near high enough to jump off of and do the job right--"
11) "Oh. How about that! I guess it is. Shit. Well, guess it's time to call the relatives. Damn."
Things you should never tell an old lady:
1) "You're probably going to die soon."
2) "You're probably going to die of a feeding-tube infection when it does happen."
3) "If it's not that, it might be an age-related fall. I heard a lot of old people die that way. You just fall, no one hears you. No one misses you for days. You either bleed to death or starve to death. Point is, you are alone and you can't get up for the life of you."
4) "Hey, can I have some of your halfway-decent stuff after you do die? I don't want any of the crap. Give that shit to the Goodwill losers, not me."
5) "Do you think anyone will remember you after you die?"
6) "Oh yeah? Well, then how long do you think it will take THEM to forget you? Maybe, what... 15 years? 20, tops? My bet stops at 22 years."
7) "It's funny. I am willing to bet you really didn't make much of a difference at all while you were here. Sure, you popped out a couple of kids, but really, who can't do that nowadays? I mean, in the grand scheme of things, you probably were kind of, well... insignificant."
8) "Crying doesn't solve anything."
9) "Neither does the act of continuing to live."
10) "Hey, where you going? Everyone knows that roof is nowhere near high enough to jump off of and do the job right--"
11) "Oh. How about that! I guess it is. Shit. Well, guess it's time to call the relatives. Damn."
I have a lot of work to do, but just so I keep this bitch of a blog active, I decided to share the song that is currently REALLY STUCK in my head.
Don't worry, this one isn't "From a Distance" from Bette Midler or anything like that. This happens to be a good, decent, hardworking song from the trailer park! You know you like it. Come on. Admit it:
Stuart by the DEAD MILKMEN
You know what Stuart? I like you. You're not like the other people here
in the trailer park. Oh no, don't get me wrong, they're fine people, good
Americans. But they're content to sit back, maybe watch a little Mork and
Mindy on channel 57. Maybe kick back a cool Coors 16-ouncer. They're
good fine people, Stuart. But they don't know what the queers are doing
to the soil.
You know that Johnny Werzner kid - the kid who delivers papers in the
neighborhood? He's a fine kid. Some of the neighbors say he smokes
crack, but I don't believe it. Anyway, for his 10th birthday, all he
wanted was a burrow owl, just like his old man. "Dad, get me a burrow
owl. I'll never ask for anything else as long as I live". So the guy
breaks down and buys him a burrow owl. Anyway at 10:30 the other night I
go out into my yard and there's the Werzner kid looking up in the tree. I
said, "What are you looking for?" He said, "I'm looking for my burrow
owl." I say, "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! Everybody knows that a
burrow owl lives in a hole in the ground! Why the hell do you think they
call it a burrow owl, anyway?!" Now Stuart, do you think a kid like that
is gonna know what the queers are doing to the soil?
I first became aware of this, about 10 years ago, the summer my oldest boy
Bill Jr. died. You know that carnival that comes to town every year?
Well this year it came with a ride called the Mixer. The man said "Keep
your head and arms inside the mixer at all times." But Bill Jr., he was a
daredevil, just like his old man. He was leaning out saying, "Hey
everybody! Look at me, look at me!" POW! He was decapitated. They found
his head over by the snowcone concession. A few days after that, I open
up the mail and there's a pamphlet in there, from Pueblo, Colorado. And
it's addressed to Bill Jr. And it's entitled, "Do you know what the
queers are doing to our soil?"
Now Stuart, if you look at the soil around any large U.S. city with a big
underground homosexual population - Des Moines, Iowa, perfect example.
Look at the soil around Des Moines, Stuart. You can't build on it, you
can't grow anything in it. The government says it's due to poor farming.
But I know what's really going on, Stuart. I know it's the queers.
They're in it with the aliens. They're building landing strips for gay
Martians. I swear to God.
You know what Stuart, I like you. You're not like the other people, here
in the trailer park.
Don't worry, this one isn't "From a Distance" from Bette Midler or anything like that. This happens to be a good, decent, hardworking song from the trailer park! You know you like it. Come on. Admit it:
Stuart by the DEAD MILKMEN
You know what Stuart? I like you. You're not like the other people here
in the trailer park. Oh no, don't get me wrong, they're fine people, good
Americans. But they're content to sit back, maybe watch a little Mork and
Mindy on channel 57. Maybe kick back a cool Coors 16-ouncer. They're
good fine people, Stuart. But they don't know what the queers are doing
to the soil.
You know that Johnny Werzner kid - the kid who delivers papers in the
neighborhood? He's a fine kid. Some of the neighbors say he smokes
crack, but I don't believe it. Anyway, for his 10th birthday, all he
wanted was a burrow owl, just like his old man. "Dad, get me a burrow
owl. I'll never ask for anything else as long as I live". So the guy
breaks down and buys him a burrow owl. Anyway at 10:30 the other night I
go out into my yard and there's the Werzner kid looking up in the tree. I
said, "What are you looking for?" He said, "I'm looking for my burrow
owl." I say, "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! Everybody knows that a
burrow owl lives in a hole in the ground! Why the hell do you think they
call it a burrow owl, anyway?!" Now Stuart, do you think a kid like that
is gonna know what the queers are doing to the soil?
I first became aware of this, about 10 years ago, the summer my oldest boy
Bill Jr. died. You know that carnival that comes to town every year?
Well this year it came with a ride called the Mixer. The man said "Keep
your head and arms inside the mixer at all times." But Bill Jr., he was a
daredevil, just like his old man. He was leaning out saying, "Hey
everybody! Look at me, look at me!" POW! He was decapitated. They found
his head over by the snowcone concession. A few days after that, I open
up the mail and there's a pamphlet in there, from Pueblo, Colorado. And
it's addressed to Bill Jr. And it's entitled, "Do you know what the
queers are doing to our soil?"
Now Stuart, if you look at the soil around any large U.S. city with a big
underground homosexual population - Des Moines, Iowa, perfect example.
Look at the soil around Des Moines, Stuart. You can't build on it, you
can't grow anything in it. The government says it's due to poor farming.
But I know what's really going on, Stuart. I know it's the queers.
They're in it with the aliens. They're building landing strips for gay
Martians. I swear to God.
You know what Stuart, I like you. You're not like the other people, here
in the trailer park.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Back when I was captured by the Iranian goverment that one time, they tied me up and tossed me into the back of a van and sped away over uneven pavement. They said if I shared the secrets of our nation's nuclear weapons program, they would give me anything at all I wanted in addition to just letting me go. It seemed like a good deal. After all, it was only 1985 and I didn't have a lot of allegiances to very many things yet, other than perhaps Swatch and their delightful little thin plastic watches.
So I told them what I knew (which was, through a weird series of inplausible events, much more than you'd ever expect from a growth-spurty 10 year old from the Jersey suburbs), and they tossed me back out of the van-- with a gift certifcate for-- you guessed it!-- chocolate chip cookies from McDonald's!
Man, those were the days. When I wasn't betraying my government, or hallucinating after watching "Back to the Future," I was begging for those little white boxes of "chocolatey chip cookies" from the house of Ronald. I don't know what it was, but I used to really love those things. They were smallish and crumbly, and the "chocolatey" part was sufficiently fake-tasting to please my unsophisticated palate.
Several years back, they stopped selling these cookies. Now they sell normal-sized cookies with real chocolate chips. I'm bored. I don't buy those cookies. I lament the passing of the cookies of yore.
I've found a replacement mass-produced cookie. This cookie is sold only in Target. The proper name of the cookie is: "Market Pantry chocolate chip cookies with belgian chocolate chips." I couldn't find a picture of it on Target's website so I couldn't link you up. But I know that, if you are as intrigued by this cookie as I am, you will go to your local Target and look for it. It's in a red and white bag. You'll find it.
These cookies SUCK PERFECTLY. They do taste really good, but in order for me to really like a mass-produced cookie brand, there really must be something wrong with the cookie-- and I will find this something terribly charming. The Market Pantry cookie has tasty chips, a nice buttery cookie component, and it goes very well with cold milk. However, they could possibly be the crumbliest cookie I have ever enjoyed. I have purchased two bags of these cookies in the past month or so, and both bags have contained just pieces of broken cookies. I think I had about 5 unbroken cookies in all. The rest are fragments and dust in the protective plastic holder. Ahh, hell. I ate 'em anyway! It was definitely one of those moments where I hoped no one would ever see me like this-- hunched over a paper towel filled with cookie crumbs and fragments, dipping my finger into the crumbs and sucking down chip-dust as I sat in front of my computer, clicking on Yahoo News out of extreme sluggishness and boredom. I was the picture of Sloth. (Not Goonies-Sloth; the Deadly Sin one)
My point is: I bought more of these deliciously bad cookies today. In fact, I made a Special Trip(TM) to get them on my lunch hour. The funny part of this story is:
In the cookie aisle, an upscale Scottsdale Wife (very blond, thin, with expensive clothes and high trendy espadrilles) was methodically sampling the cookies. Yes, sampling. As in, opening up bags and boxes and trying them. I don't think you are supposed to do that. I ran away. I didn't want her to drop the boxes when the fuzz showed up, and I would get blamed for her crimes against trans fat-filled items. Either way, it was a totally strange scene. I wonder if she has to steal cookies in the store like this because her controlling Scottsdale Husband (he drives either a black custom Mercedes or a Hummer) would give her passive-aggressive guilt for "eating too much" if she just bought them and ate them at home. Sad, really, anyway you look at it.
And best of all, it made me feel superior at a time when I was at a sugar-caused low. At least I was PURCHASING my intact bag of crumbly cookies. Ha!
So I told them what I knew (which was, through a weird series of inplausible events, much more than you'd ever expect from a growth-spurty 10 year old from the Jersey suburbs), and they tossed me back out of the van-- with a gift certifcate for-- you guessed it!-- chocolate chip cookies from McDonald's!
Man, those were the days. When I wasn't betraying my government, or hallucinating after watching "Back to the Future," I was begging for those little white boxes of "chocolatey chip cookies" from the house of Ronald. I don't know what it was, but I used to really love those things. They were smallish and crumbly, and the "chocolatey" part was sufficiently fake-tasting to please my unsophisticated palate.
Several years back, they stopped selling these cookies. Now they sell normal-sized cookies with real chocolate chips. I'm bored. I don't buy those cookies. I lament the passing of the cookies of yore.
I've found a replacement mass-produced cookie. This cookie is sold only in Target. The proper name of the cookie is: "Market Pantry chocolate chip cookies with belgian chocolate chips." I couldn't find a picture of it on Target's website so I couldn't link you up. But I know that, if you are as intrigued by this cookie as I am, you will go to your local Target and look for it. It's in a red and white bag. You'll find it.
These cookies SUCK PERFECTLY. They do taste really good, but in order for me to really like a mass-produced cookie brand, there really must be something wrong with the cookie-- and I will find this something terribly charming. The Market Pantry cookie has tasty chips, a nice buttery cookie component, and it goes very well with cold milk. However, they could possibly be the crumbliest cookie I have ever enjoyed. I have purchased two bags of these cookies in the past month or so, and both bags have contained just pieces of broken cookies. I think I had about 5 unbroken cookies in all. The rest are fragments and dust in the protective plastic holder. Ahh, hell. I ate 'em anyway! It was definitely one of those moments where I hoped no one would ever see me like this-- hunched over a paper towel filled with cookie crumbs and fragments, dipping my finger into the crumbs and sucking down chip-dust as I sat in front of my computer, clicking on Yahoo News out of extreme sluggishness and boredom. I was the picture of Sloth. (Not Goonies-Sloth; the Deadly Sin one)
My point is: I bought more of these deliciously bad cookies today. In fact, I made a Special Trip(TM) to get them on my lunch hour. The funny part of this story is:
In the cookie aisle, an upscale Scottsdale Wife (very blond, thin, with expensive clothes and high trendy espadrilles) was methodically sampling the cookies. Yes, sampling. As in, opening up bags and boxes and trying them. I don't think you are supposed to do that. I ran away. I didn't want her to drop the boxes when the fuzz showed up, and I would get blamed for her crimes against trans fat-filled items. Either way, it was a totally strange scene. I wonder if she has to steal cookies in the store like this because her controlling Scottsdale Husband (he drives either a black custom Mercedes or a Hummer) would give her passive-aggressive guilt for "eating too much" if she just bought them and ate them at home. Sad, really, anyway you look at it.
And best of all, it made me feel superior at a time when I was at a sugar-caused low. At least I was PURCHASING my intact bag of crumbly cookies. Ha!
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Today is weird. I am hungry as hell right now, but don't feel like making anything. Why do we get like that? Is it a lazy-human thing, or just a lazy-Lisa thing?
I will also not lie to you-- I am prone to depression, you see, and I was taking Lexapro for a year. I have been weaning off of this for over 2 months now, and this past weekend was the final pill. I am currently going through the worst withdrawal symptoms I have ever felt. Dizziness, headaches, a red, flushed face for some reason, and something that feels like "brain freeze" every hour or so...it's really gross. Please don't take this prescription-- I know there are other prescriptions that can help depression without this shit.
Withdrawal from anything must suck. I never had to deal with this before. The worst I'd felt before this was when I would not have caffeine for a day or so and I would get that caffeine-withdrawal headache. Nothing like this. I don't have an addictive personality so I've been lucky enough to not have to deal with quitting smoking, drinking or anything like that. Seriously, if you have had to deal with going off any of those substances, I have a lot of respect and best-wishes to send out to you, my friends. Wow.
Maybe we can all go off and live in the woods somewhere, away from all these substances. We can drink from a pure mountain stream, and grow our own food in clean soil and frolic in the sunshine with the children. Sound good to you? Right, then! Let's leave at sunrise tomorrow! I will bring the toothpaste.
...
Oh, damn it anyway! We are doomed already--toothpaste is a gateway substance to the evils of society! EVERYONE knows that. Crap!
I guess we shouldn't go. Or, we go and let our teeth rot.
What's the consensus? Vote now.
I will also not lie to you-- I am prone to depression, you see, and I was taking Lexapro for a year. I have been weaning off of this for over 2 months now, and this past weekend was the final pill. I am currently going through the worst withdrawal symptoms I have ever felt. Dizziness, headaches, a red, flushed face for some reason, and something that feels like "brain freeze" every hour or so...it's really gross. Please don't take this prescription-- I know there are other prescriptions that can help depression without this shit.
Withdrawal from anything must suck. I never had to deal with this before. The worst I'd felt before this was when I would not have caffeine for a day or so and I would get that caffeine-withdrawal headache. Nothing like this. I don't have an addictive personality so I've been lucky enough to not have to deal with quitting smoking, drinking or anything like that. Seriously, if you have had to deal with going off any of those substances, I have a lot of respect and best-wishes to send out to you, my friends. Wow.
Maybe we can all go off and live in the woods somewhere, away from all these substances. We can drink from a pure mountain stream, and grow our own food in clean soil and frolic in the sunshine with the children. Sound good to you? Right, then! Let's leave at sunrise tomorrow! I will bring the toothpaste.
...
Oh, damn it anyway! We are doomed already--toothpaste is a gateway substance to the evils of society! EVERYONE knows that. Crap!
I guess we shouldn't go. Or, we go and let our teeth rot.
What's the consensus? Vote now.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Not much going on today! So, at random:
• I love the word DRIZZLE. I like to say it in a drunk-voice; in other words, I slur it and drag out the z’s. I say, “Just drizzzzzzle it.” I say this out loud, often. To no one.
• Yes, the rumors you heard are true. I did, in fact, fashion a Black Twizzler swastika on the plate of Oreo’s at Allison’s 29th birthday party this past weekend, following two cups of frozen strawberry slush-liquor drink stuff. We keenly averted trouble when Allison wiped away the design as her parents entered the room. (I didn’t act alone—Greg helped. That’s love.)
• Along our walk yesterday, Greg and I saw a shrine to someone who must have died in Iraq. The shrine was on someone’s driveway, with candles and Virgin Marys and other religious items. It made me stop and think for a minute. But then, we saw the Lawn Ornament House (a house with very randomly-placed plaster and ceramic animals in the grass, all shielded from the perils of the road by an attractive chain-link fence). And next, Malcolm attempted suicide. He wandered aimlessly off the sidewalk and into the path of an oncoming car, his retractable leash allowing the craziness to occur without me noticing until I heard a car slowing down behind us. I look, and Malcolm is walking towards death. Honestly, he was just lucky that we were on a sidestreet with a speed limit of about 15mph, and the car was also slowing down as it approached a speed hump*. Death, lawn ornaments… just another exciting walk with the dogs. (*Speed hump? Didn’t we used to do those after school before our parents came home? I think we all did.)
• We saw “The Brothers Grimm” yesterday. So… they were in Germany? Really? Where were the fun German accents? And why were the French so brutal? I did appreciate the Walking Trees, though. I used to scare my sister and a friend of the family, a little girl named Lori, by telling them about Walking Trees. They would scream and scream. When they finished screaming, they would cry a little. It was all fun and games until Lori chased me and Trish around with dog poop on a stick. Yes, nothing better typifies my childhood than me telling scary stories, and then being chased with poop on a stick.
• Today, on my lunch hour, I was on a search for: 1) black clogs. 2) a storage shed. Obviously I need the shed for reasons I cannot disclose here. And the clogs? Oh, they are just fun. Clog, clog, clogging along, singing a happy song, all the day long. Clogs on a frog, and the frog’s on a log, and the log’s in a bog, the bog down in the valley, oh!
• Eat spinach, it has carotenids and folate. Which are things you apparently need in order to not die. Don’t ask me what those words mean, though. Because I don’t know.
• I love the word DRIZZLE. I like to say it in a drunk-voice; in other words, I slur it and drag out the z’s. I say, “Just drizzzzzzle it.” I say this out loud, often. To no one.
• Yes, the rumors you heard are true. I did, in fact, fashion a Black Twizzler swastika on the plate of Oreo’s at Allison’s 29th birthday party this past weekend, following two cups of frozen strawberry slush-liquor drink stuff. We keenly averted trouble when Allison wiped away the design as her parents entered the room. (I didn’t act alone—Greg helped. That’s love.)
• Along our walk yesterday, Greg and I saw a shrine to someone who must have died in Iraq. The shrine was on someone’s driveway, with candles and Virgin Marys and other religious items. It made me stop and think for a minute. But then, we saw the Lawn Ornament House (a house with very randomly-placed plaster and ceramic animals in the grass, all shielded from the perils of the road by an attractive chain-link fence). And next, Malcolm attempted suicide. He wandered aimlessly off the sidewalk and into the path of an oncoming car, his retractable leash allowing the craziness to occur without me noticing until I heard a car slowing down behind us. I look, and Malcolm is walking towards death. Honestly, he was just lucky that we were on a sidestreet with a speed limit of about 15mph, and the car was also slowing down as it approached a speed hump*. Death, lawn ornaments… just another exciting walk with the dogs. (*Speed hump? Didn’t we used to do those after school before our parents came home? I think we all did.)
• We saw “The Brothers Grimm” yesterday. So… they were in Germany? Really? Where were the fun German accents? And why were the French so brutal? I did appreciate the Walking Trees, though. I used to scare my sister and a friend of the family, a little girl named Lori, by telling them about Walking Trees. They would scream and scream. When they finished screaming, they would cry a little. It was all fun and games until Lori chased me and Trish around with dog poop on a stick. Yes, nothing better typifies my childhood than me telling scary stories, and then being chased with poop on a stick.
• Today, on my lunch hour, I was on a search for: 1) black clogs. 2) a storage shed. Obviously I need the shed for reasons I cannot disclose here. And the clogs? Oh, they are just fun. Clog, clog, clogging along, singing a happy song, all the day long. Clogs on a frog, and the frog’s on a log, and the log’s in a bog, the bog down in the valley, oh!
• Eat spinach, it has carotenids and folate. Which are things you apparently need in order to not die. Don’t ask me what those words mean, though. Because I don’t know.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Hey...! What's this? Why, this is a shot titled "Strays" from the Santa Speedo Run website. Honestly, I don't even recall anymore how I ended up on this website. All's I know is, it was late, it was dark, I had a few speedballs while I was doing a search for "leopard print Speedo" (another blog entry for another day) and whammo, I am thinking about jolly old elves and their bouncing packages. Things happen.
The Santa Speedo Run is a charity race in Boston to raise money for, of all things, charity. Guys wear Santa beards, hats and other accessories with a Speedo, and they run around a lot. Anyway, the thing I love about this shot is how blurry it is. I feel dirty just looking at it. Like the photographer was a filthy guy who just had to hop out from between two cars and snap a picture. Not an official photographer for the race or anything. Just a garden-variety perv. Plus, look at the glowy guy on the left-- he's fuckin' airborne as God shines his rays of sun down on this, His most wonderous creation! And he has the popular splayed-finger action going on. Trust me, I am a broad who likes the splayed-finger action on dudes when they are running.
(I do think however, that Mr. Scarf and Suspenders was taking it too far. And Hairy Stomach bringing up the rear is just elated to be there. Good for you, Hairy Stomach! You go, you charity-running motherfucker!)
I'd like to go to this event sometime. I want to be a person that stands on the sidelines and screams "WOOOO" for hours on end. I'd even bring a huge "jingle bell" to add to the festive environment; I might even wear a bow on my forehead and my HOPPED UP ON THE NOG shirt. So anyway. Who wants to drive me there? Any takers?
Thursday, August 25, 2005
I was tagged by TinaHeinie recently to do this list of things. So, without any further foot-dragging, slow-poking, ado or wool-gathering, I present:
7 Things I Would Never Do
1) Manually stimulate a fish (either for breeding purposes, or for smutty purposes)
2) Buy, steal and/or prepare and eat chutney of any kind
3) Set myself on fire. I hate the feeling of burning; and for the record, I hate it more than I hate vagina cancer.
4) Say “Ooh, we have to hurry home! That reality show is coming on that I totally love to watch!” I don’t love—or even remotely like-- any reality shows, and I don’t hurry home for anything other than letting my dogs out so they don’t crap on my carpet.
5) Drink urine, even if it is distilled and it’s for survival purposes. It's still pee, no matter how fancy you dress it up.
6) Go clubbin’.
7) Bury any of my loved ones alive. I promise to check for vital signs and to deliver a “finishing whollop to the head” just to be sure, before I bury any of you. I will also tie a string to your finger, which is attached to a bell just alongside your grave. Wiggle your finger if it turns out I didn’t do the job right.
I tag: Trish, Lengli, Georgia, Toole, Karla and Paul. Go ahead, you frequent-updaters, you. See where your frequent updates get you? That's right, my little bitches. You get tagged.
7 Things I Would Never Do
1) Manually stimulate a fish (either for breeding purposes, or for smutty purposes)
2) Buy, steal and/or prepare and eat chutney of any kind
3) Set myself on fire. I hate the feeling of burning; and for the record, I hate it more than I hate vagina cancer.
4) Say “Ooh, we have to hurry home! That reality show is coming on that I totally love to watch!” I don’t love—or even remotely like-- any reality shows, and I don’t hurry home for anything other than letting my dogs out so they don’t crap on my carpet.
5) Drink urine, even if it is distilled and it’s for survival purposes. It's still pee, no matter how fancy you dress it up.
6) Go clubbin’.
7) Bury any of my loved ones alive. I promise to check for vital signs and to deliver a “finishing whollop to the head” just to be sure, before I bury any of you. I will also tie a string to your finger, which is attached to a bell just alongside your grave. Wiggle your finger if it turns out I didn’t do the job right.
I tag: Trish, Lengli, Georgia, Toole, Karla and Paul. Go ahead, you frequent-updaters, you. See where your frequent updates get you? That's right, my little bitches. You get tagged.
Here's a story from my childhood:
This one time, I beat up a kid in 6th grade. It was the last day of school and this particular fucker tormented me all year long. Called me a geek and a "flat chested dork" and all this other stuff. On the last day of shop class, we were all sitting around just signing yearbooks and screwing around, and this kid came over and took a photo out of my hand that I was looking at. It was a picture of my Granny. He waved it around and then, as he hurled unncessary insults at me, he tore the photo up. That's just WRONG.
I went into a rage. The thing is, this was my first rage. I'm talking that can't see straight, want to hurt you and hurt you bad and hurt you NOW rage. Since it was my first rage, it was a pure and unrestrained rage. I grabbed the kid, who was just a skinny little prick anyway, and pulled him into the hallway by the stairs. I preceded to beat the shit out of this kid. I spent a lot of time kicking and punching, and made a mushy stew of his genital area. I gave him a bloody nose. I shoved him and called him a dick.
When I was finished beating on him, I shoved him away and cursed him out and told him NEVER to come near me again, and I meant it. He turned, ran into the classroom and grabbed a screwdriver. He then chased me up the stairs and down the hallway, where I bolted into a girl's bathroom and hid for awhile, where I started to cry a little like Ralphie does in Christmas Story after he beats on Scott Farkus. Finally, I came out of the bathroom, and Kristen saw me. She walked with me down to the nurse's office, where we told her I got overheated from running around. Kinda true. Kristen signed my yearbook: "It was great having you in class." And immediately afterwards, she said, "I didn't mean to write that! That's what teachers write!" and we laughed and skipped away... one girl with her head full of teacher-wanna-be-isms, the other feeling a sense of satisfaction that comes with beating the shit out of an asshole kid who totally had it coming.
By the way, no teachers saw anything, in case you were wondering. I got away with it. The kid, a guy Kristen and I refer to as Kenneth Lenneth (he had a very comical name to start with, and this was our special nickname for him), never told anyone for fear of being considered a pussy who was beat up by the nerdy chick. He also never did say another word to me for the rest of middle school. Nor did he pick on my friends. It was so cool.
I get joy out of other's pain sometimes, but the secret is: the other people HAVE TO DESERVE THE PAIN. If you are an asshole, or ever did an asshole thing to someone else, you hereby revoke your rights to my sensitivity. I will rage on your ass, or at least sit back and smile as others call you out.
Ahhhh, sweet pain. Enjoy it, fuckers.
This one time, I beat up a kid in 6th grade. It was the last day of school and this particular fucker tormented me all year long. Called me a geek and a "flat chested dork" and all this other stuff. On the last day of shop class, we were all sitting around just signing yearbooks and screwing around, and this kid came over and took a photo out of my hand that I was looking at. It was a picture of my Granny. He waved it around and then, as he hurled unncessary insults at me, he tore the photo up. That's just WRONG.
I went into a rage. The thing is, this was my first rage. I'm talking that can't see straight, want to hurt you and hurt you bad and hurt you NOW rage. Since it was my first rage, it was a pure and unrestrained rage. I grabbed the kid, who was just a skinny little prick anyway, and pulled him into the hallway by the stairs. I preceded to beat the shit out of this kid. I spent a lot of time kicking and punching, and made a mushy stew of his genital area. I gave him a bloody nose. I shoved him and called him a dick.
When I was finished beating on him, I shoved him away and cursed him out and told him NEVER to come near me again, and I meant it. He turned, ran into the classroom and grabbed a screwdriver. He then chased me up the stairs and down the hallway, where I bolted into a girl's bathroom and hid for awhile, where I started to cry a little like Ralphie does in Christmas Story after he beats on Scott Farkus. Finally, I came out of the bathroom, and Kristen saw me. She walked with me down to the nurse's office, where we told her I got overheated from running around. Kinda true. Kristen signed my yearbook: "It was great having you in class." And immediately afterwards, she said, "I didn't mean to write that! That's what teachers write!" and we laughed and skipped away... one girl with her head full of teacher-wanna-be-isms, the other feeling a sense of satisfaction that comes with beating the shit out of an asshole kid who totally had it coming.
By the way, no teachers saw anything, in case you were wondering. I got away with it. The kid, a guy Kristen and I refer to as Kenneth Lenneth (he had a very comical name to start with, and this was our special nickname for him), never told anyone for fear of being considered a pussy who was beat up by the nerdy chick. He also never did say another word to me for the rest of middle school. Nor did he pick on my friends. It was so cool.
I get joy out of other's pain sometimes, but the secret is: the other people HAVE TO DESERVE THE PAIN. If you are an asshole, or ever did an asshole thing to someone else, you hereby revoke your rights to my sensitivity. I will rage on your ass, or at least sit back and smile as others call you out.
Ahhhh, sweet pain. Enjoy it, fuckers.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
OH MY GOD, THAT BABY IS ALL BLACKENED UP AND SHIT! I can hardly belive this shit that I am seeing right here. That baby. Has been. Colored On. Holy crap! Wowee wow wow wow! I wonder if they will ever wash that kid's face off? I wouldn't, because that is a look that makes a baby stand out from the crowd of babies. Blackened eyes, cryptic pagan symbols on the forehead and scalp, a sooty ring around the mouth... yes, this is a sure way to ID your baby in a baby line-up. The thing I hate is the look on ol' Stupid's face there on the left. This is probably the best thing she's ever going to do in her life. She'll be a stockgirl at Wal-mart one day. Before I close this, let me say it again: I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS SHIT WITH THE BABY AND THE BLACK INK ALL OVER ITS FUCKING HEAD! OH MY GOD THAT'S HILARIOUS.
My friend Kristen really wants a Chinese Crested. This morning she sent me an excerpt from an article about them. It was hilarious because it said the dogs are prone to acne, sunburn and difficulty giving birth, of all unpleasant things. Anyway, part of the article mentioned that "winter's chilly wind" could cause frostbite, so based on that, I wrote the following to Kristen after she wrote and said she really, really wants one:
Ahhh, well, perhaps winter's chilly wind will carry one to you! Wouldn't that be the best? You hear some whistling noises with little grunt-growls. "Where's that coming from?" you say, and look up into the sky. There, floating down in a little hot air balloon, is a lovely Chinese Crested, wearing aviator goggles and a scarf and wearing zinc oxide on his snout (for sunburn protection). He is carried down to you by the chilly wind!
OHH GLORIOUS DAY
THAT BRINGS YOU TO MEEEEE!!
That's what you'll sing as he licks you and you smell his breath.
It smells like corn.
Monday, August 22, 2005
I can't concentrate on my work at the moment, because I am thinking about the fact that an editor at HarperCollins is reading my book right now. Today. I got in, I am at least getting it read. That is so huge. I could have been in the crap-pile and not even getting a read. Nope! She's reading it. I imagine it will be turned down, but that's not a problem at all. I know someone will publish my fiction writing, and this is just the first stop for this book. I am just flattered it has gotten this far already. I am incredibly fortunate.
It's like the time I auditioned for "Rent." I wasn't really an experienced singer, so I felt like an idiot at the audition, because my voice broke and I lost a note of the song I was singing, but it was still quite fun to be asked to come in and audition. I liked the feeling. I knew, as I rode home on the train, that the experience of auditioning for a Broadway show was enough, right there. I was honored. I really didn't need the part. Hell, a huge part of me didn't even want it, at all.
Just being in the game, just being called off the bench once in awhile, is well worth it. And I don't need to be the star player, I just want to know I got on the field. That really means a lot to me.
I'm happy.
It's like the time I auditioned for "Rent." I wasn't really an experienced singer, so I felt like an idiot at the audition, because my voice broke and I lost a note of the song I was singing, but it was still quite fun to be asked to come in and audition. I liked the feeling. I knew, as I rode home on the train, that the experience of auditioning for a Broadway show was enough, right there. I was honored. I really didn't need the part. Hell, a huge part of me didn't even want it, at all.
Just being in the game, just being called off the bench once in awhile, is well worth it. And I don't need to be the star player, I just want to know I got on the field. That really means a lot to me.
I'm happy.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Instead of finishing the job of painting my bedroom, I took it easy tonight instead (migraine). I was glad I did, because I ended up getting things done around the house and then, watching the last few episodes of "Firefly" on DVD.
I truly loved it. I can't understand what the problem was, and why this show was cancelled. It was unique and fun and touching and... smart. I only hope that the movie will generate interest to maybe do another take on TV. It needs to be a series. I know Sci-Fi is rerunning it at the moment-- they've produced some shows, I can't see why they wouldn't be a good fit to resurrect this one. I thought good shows never got a second chance, but then Family Guy came back, so this could work.
Anyway, I am quite excited for Serenity. There are 3 movies I care about this fall, and this is probably close to number one. (Mirrormask, though, still takes the lead, and Corpse Bride, of course, is the other one to round out the three) I hope I can create characters someday that are half as good as Joss Whedon's. Love that guy. Grrrr!
By the way, my bedroom is looking awesome. It's slowly transforming into a pale blue color, and the drab brown and mulberry is creeping away, sheepishly. Funny that I will probably just get this place looking absolutely gorgeous, and then I will sell it. And move on to the next place to paint. I'm a mover. I move about once every six months or so, it seems. And I am almost due again. Luckily, the house I am moving to next, a few months but not long from now, comes mostly furnished and includes a high-quality guy. I think a lot about the whole thing, more than I could ever hope to share here (nor would I), and the bottom line is I'm excited for the upgrade.
I truly loved it. I can't understand what the problem was, and why this show was cancelled. It was unique and fun and touching and... smart. I only hope that the movie will generate interest to maybe do another take on TV. It needs to be a series. I know Sci-Fi is rerunning it at the moment-- they've produced some shows, I can't see why they wouldn't be a good fit to resurrect this one. I thought good shows never got a second chance, but then Family Guy came back, so this could work.
Anyway, I am quite excited for Serenity. There are 3 movies I care about this fall, and this is probably close to number one. (Mirrormask, though, still takes the lead, and Corpse Bride, of course, is the other one to round out the three) I hope I can create characters someday that are half as good as Joss Whedon's. Love that guy. Grrrr!
By the way, my bedroom is looking awesome. It's slowly transforming into a pale blue color, and the drab brown and mulberry is creeping away, sheepishly. Funny that I will probably just get this place looking absolutely gorgeous, and then I will sell it. And move on to the next place to paint. I'm a mover. I move about once every six months or so, it seems. And I am almost due again. Luckily, the house I am moving to next, a few months but not long from now, comes mostly furnished and includes a high-quality guy. I think a lot about the whole thing, more than I could ever hope to share here (nor would I), and the bottom line is I'm excited for the upgrade.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
I just looked up the movie "The Invisible Maniac" on IMDB. This was a movie that an Asian kid used to rent constantly when I worked at the video store. He was the only person to ever rent it. And he would rent it so often, too. He'd come in with different groups of friends, and every time, he would include this movie in with whatever else they would happen to rent. Of course, he would rent it by himself pretty frequently. Sad, lonely, cinematically-challenged Asian.
Courtesy of IMDB, here are some Memorable Quotes from The Invisible Maniac:
Memorable Quotes from
The Invisible Maniac (1990)
Kevin Dornwinkle: I'm injecting the serum into the bunny rabbit now.
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Kevin Dornwinkle: I was inexplicably drawn to the girls locker room.
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Vicky: I need an A to graduate, and I'd be willing to do *anything*.
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Mrs. Cello: If you want to go to college, all you have to do is make me feel like a woman.
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Mrs. Dorwinkle: You filthy stinking pervert!
Courtesy of IMDB, here are some Memorable Quotes from The Invisible Maniac:
Memorable Quotes from
The Invisible Maniac (1990)
Kevin Dornwinkle: I'm injecting the serum into the bunny rabbit now.
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Kevin Dornwinkle: I was inexplicably drawn to the girls locker room.
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Vicky: I need an A to graduate, and I'd be willing to do *anything*.
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Mrs. Cello: If you want to go to college, all you have to do is make me feel like a woman.
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Mrs. Dorwinkle: You filthy stinking pervert!
Well. After Paul's great comment about whale penis-bones on yesterday's post, I decided to look into the matter a little more and yes, it's true: whales do have bones in their penises. And apparently, so do skunks. I suspect a lot of other animals have these particular bones. Consider them the rebar in the reproductive concrete.
Here's an article about a penis museum in Iceland. And yes, that sentence was a lot of fun to type!
http://www.time.com/time/europe/
magazine/2000/0918/penismuseum.html
Here's an article about a penis museum in Iceland. And yes, that sentence was a lot of fun to type!
http://www.time.com/time/europe/
magazine/2000/0918/penismuseum.html
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Quick quiz: What is the chief scientist at my company referring to when he says the following quote: “They can really crank out the bone when they are properly stimulated.”
(Answer: not stoners. They never get stimulated enough. The answer is also not “anyone who plays the bones”. This doesn’t refer to music in any way. Another not-answer? Guys soliciting prostitutes. Sure, they can crank out their bone, but why would a scientist at my company be concerned with that? Pshaw.)
The true answer is, of course, osteoblasts, which are cells that help build bone. You see, I learned something today... Random work-quotes, taken out of context, can be oddly humorous in the right situation.
(Answer: not stoners. They never get stimulated enough. The answer is also not “anyone who plays the bones”. This doesn’t refer to music in any way. Another not-answer? Guys soliciting prostitutes. Sure, they can crank out their bone, but why would a scientist at my company be concerned with that? Pshaw.)
The true answer is, of course, osteoblasts, which are cells that help build bone. You see, I learned something today... Random work-quotes, taken out of context, can be oddly humorous in the right situation.
I can't take it when some women talk in a baby-voice. Those really high-pitched, sing-songy voices. I can handle someone scraping their nails on a chalkboard, but not that.
There's a commercial on the air here right now for a place called Cash Time Loans, and the woman in the commercial is this extremely vapid-looking blonde-- not bimbo, necessarily; more like Naive Pastor's Wife or something like that-- and she squeals out "Cash TIME Loans!" in one of these voices. They play it all the time during the morning news, so I hear it almost every day. She makes me sick, for real. Didn't they listen to her before they sent the final tape of the commercial to the stations? I assume they heard her voice first. What was the marketing strategy on this one?
"I've got it. Let's market this to all the women who were molested as children. Yeah! What other segment of the market needs payday loans more, huh? These women are fragile! They have a fractured sense of self-worth and femininity! So they can't be expected to manage their money... they need our loans...that's it. That's the sell. OK, soooo... git 'r done!"
(I decided to throw in a git 'r done, simply because when I think of things that make my brain and soul hurt, that is right up there with the high-pitched baby voice women.)
(Also, I didn't know for a long time that it was a Jeff Foxworthy thing. I really thought it was a W. saying about the war in Iraq. Some people have found this humorous when I share it. But cut me some slack-- I don't watch a lot of TV. And I will refrain from saying something negative about The 'Fox in case some of his crazy hill-people followers decide to track my yuppy ass down and knock me down a peg 'r two. I'm a pussy like that.)
There's a commercial on the air here right now for a place called Cash Time Loans, and the woman in the commercial is this extremely vapid-looking blonde-- not bimbo, necessarily; more like Naive Pastor's Wife or something like that-- and she squeals out "Cash TIME Loans!" in one of these voices. They play it all the time during the morning news, so I hear it almost every day. She makes me sick, for real. Didn't they listen to her before they sent the final tape of the commercial to the stations? I assume they heard her voice first. What was the marketing strategy on this one?
"I've got it. Let's market this to all the women who were molested as children. Yeah! What other segment of the market needs payday loans more, huh? These women are fragile! They have a fractured sense of self-worth and femininity! So they can't be expected to manage their money... they need our loans...that's it. That's the sell. OK, soooo... git 'r done!"
(I decided to throw in a git 'r done, simply because when I think of things that make my brain and soul hurt, that is right up there with the high-pitched baby voice women.)
(Also, I didn't know for a long time that it was a Jeff Foxworthy thing. I really thought it was a W. saying about the war in Iraq. Some people have found this humorous when I share it. But cut me some slack-- I don't watch a lot of TV. And I will refrain from saying something negative about The 'Fox in case some of his crazy hill-people followers decide to track my yuppy ass down and knock me down a peg 'r two. I'm a pussy like that.)
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
I have a new neighbor. I think she's a college student or something. I am assuming it is only one chick, as there's just one car parked next to mine all the sudden (the unit next to my condo has been vacant since before I moved in, so this is sort of a let-down that someone is finally in there) and when I spied in the window I saw only one lonely chick sitting amongst some cardboard boxes and maps. The plates on her car say she is from Massachusetts.
By the way, I don't mean to make it sound like I was really spying on this chick. I wasn't hiding outside her window, all surreptitious-like or anything. True. But our front doors face one another with just a small three-foot wall between our patios, and there are long windows next to the door. In her case, there are no blinds on her door-window. So she was clearly visible when I went outside last night to walk the dogs.
This new neighbor woke me up at 2am though. Not cool. She was out front on her side of the three-foot wall, talking very loudly with some dude. Then they were hitting the buttons to make her car alarm go on and off. Not a full, loud alarm, thank God; but just that BEEP and BLIPBLIP as the lights flash. Then they would laugh. What's so hilarious about that? I don't get these college-age-looking chicks from Massachusetts. Especially when they decide to rent the unit next to mine.
I was considering going to the store and purchasing some baked goods- brownies?-- and knocking on her door and welcoming her to the neighborhood. I really was thinking of doing that. I mentioned it to Greg and he said that was mighty Donna Reed-ish of me. That may be true, but I think maybe we need more friendly brownie-gifting and excuses to get to know our neighbors. Also, I am aware that store-bought brownies would probably be more welcomed than homemade. After all, I totally could have poisoned the homemade brownies. (Where it would be near impossible to somehow poison store brownies) I wouldn't want to freak anyone out with homemade, possibly-contaminated brownies.
However, the brownie-intro thought was in my head at about 9pm last night; since then, she woke me up with car alarm hysterics. So I don't know if this Massachusetts bitch is gettin' any brownies from me. Maybe that's what I can do: open my door and yell at her closed front door: "You are NOT getting any brownies from ME, young lady!" and slam my door again. She shouldn't be too surprised. I've got a garden gnome riding a frog out front, so she probably already knows I have my quirks.
By the way, I don't mean to make it sound like I was really spying on this chick. I wasn't hiding outside her window, all surreptitious-like or anything. True. But our front doors face one another with just a small three-foot wall between our patios, and there are long windows next to the door. In her case, there are no blinds on her door-window. So she was clearly visible when I went outside last night to walk the dogs.
This new neighbor woke me up at 2am though. Not cool. She was out front on her side of the three-foot wall, talking very loudly with some dude. Then they were hitting the buttons to make her car alarm go on and off. Not a full, loud alarm, thank God; but just that BEEP and BLIPBLIP as the lights flash. Then they would laugh. What's so hilarious about that? I don't get these college-age-looking chicks from Massachusetts. Especially when they decide to rent the unit next to mine.
I was considering going to the store and purchasing some baked goods- brownies?-- and knocking on her door and welcoming her to the neighborhood. I really was thinking of doing that. I mentioned it to Greg and he said that was mighty Donna Reed-ish of me. That may be true, but I think maybe we need more friendly brownie-gifting and excuses to get to know our neighbors. Also, I am aware that store-bought brownies would probably be more welcomed than homemade. After all, I totally could have poisoned the homemade brownies. (Where it would be near impossible to somehow poison store brownies) I wouldn't want to freak anyone out with homemade, possibly-contaminated brownies.
However, the brownie-intro thought was in my head at about 9pm last night; since then, she woke me up with car alarm hysterics. So I don't know if this Massachusetts bitch is gettin' any brownies from me. Maybe that's what I can do: open my door and yell at her closed front door: "You are NOT getting any brownies from ME, young lady!" and slam my door again. She shouldn't be too surprised. I've got a garden gnome riding a frog out front, so she probably already knows I have my quirks.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Pulp Fiction in 30 Seconds, by bunnies. (Thanks for the link, GC, I finally watched it so I know you have to be happy now)
Also, today on my lunchhour I realized I couldn't live another workday without Alphaville on CD. Not for "Forever Young"--balls! No, it's "Big in Japan" that I needed. (Ooo, the Eastern sea's so blue-oooo!) So, I bought it. I'm on an 80s kick for some reason, but it has to be things like Alphaville and When in Rome. Next, I'm going early 90s and replacing my Lightning Seeds Cloudcuckooland tape with a fresh and shiny CD. I love having a mess of CDs. Even though I only need them for about 2 minutes while I download them to my player. (I know I could go and download stuff off for free or whatever, but I don't play that way... besides, what if my player crashes or gets stolen? This way I have the old-fashioned hard copy-- that's right, bitches!)
By the way: You're not really bitches. You're sweet.
Also, today on my lunchhour I realized I couldn't live another workday without Alphaville on CD. Not for "Forever Young"--balls! No, it's "Big in Japan" that I needed. (Ooo, the Eastern sea's so blue-oooo!) So, I bought it. I'm on an 80s kick for some reason, but it has to be things like Alphaville and When in Rome. Next, I'm going early 90s and replacing my Lightning Seeds Cloudcuckooland tape with a fresh and shiny CD. I love having a mess of CDs. Even though I only need them for about 2 minutes while I download them to my player. (I know I could go and download stuff off for free or whatever, but I don't play that way... besides, what if my player crashes or gets stolen? This way I have the old-fashioned hard copy-- that's right, bitches!)
By the way: You're not really bitches. You're sweet.
So my sister got a new job, and it's in a bead shop. It's the perfect job for her, since she is back in retail, which she loves; and it is talking about and working with beads all day long.
I went to visit her there on Saturday, which was a busy day in the little shop. I keep remembering this one moment from my visit:
She showed me the room with the glass beads, which are cheaper than the Swarovski crystals that adorn the whole front room of the store and mesmerize you with their sparkliness. Anway, she was getting down some beads from an area up near the ceiling, using a hook on a long pole. When she got some black sparkly beads down for me (yeah, I bought a bunch of beads, I couldn't help it), some of them fell off the string-loop and scattered and bounced all over the floor of the room. And Trish kept saying, "Oh, that's not good, that's not good..." as she went about tying up the string that someone had mistakenly not-tied-up on the last sale.
I liked the image of my sister getting a little ticked off at beads falling on the floor. This is way better than the image of her slumped at her computer, wishing her gross co-worker would not eat tuna subs all day and let his awful foot-odor stink up the whole office. I am very happy for my little sister, and her management of all beads; neatly strung-up and unruly-on-the-floor alike.
I went to visit her there on Saturday, which was a busy day in the little shop. I keep remembering this one moment from my visit:
She showed me the room with the glass beads, which are cheaper than the Swarovski crystals that adorn the whole front room of the store and mesmerize you with their sparkliness. Anway, she was getting down some beads from an area up near the ceiling, using a hook on a long pole. When she got some black sparkly beads down for me (yeah, I bought a bunch of beads, I couldn't help it), some of them fell off the string-loop and scattered and bounced all over the floor of the room. And Trish kept saying, "Oh, that's not good, that's not good..." as she went about tying up the string that someone had mistakenly not-tied-up on the last sale.
I liked the image of my sister getting a little ticked off at beads falling on the floor. This is way better than the image of her slumped at her computer, wishing her gross co-worker would not eat tuna subs all day and let his awful foot-odor stink up the whole office. I am very happy for my little sister, and her management of all beads; neatly strung-up and unruly-on-the-floor alike.
My bangs have returned to my hairstyle. I had been attempting to grow them out for a few months, because I was thinking that my hair would be easier to style without them, and that I might look better when I let my hair air-dry on the mornings I can't make it out the door to work on time (which is just about every morning). But, the truth was I think I was looking a little skanky. And I hated the idea that I would no longer look different than everyone else... because, of course, I live in Scottsdale and all the girls here have longish-hair with either no bangs or bangs that are all long and pushed off to one side (with highlights and low-lights, of course). So, on Saturday I got them cut again back to their favored across-my-forehead style. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I had them back.
I got my hair cut at Great Clips. Because I don't have a lot of money at the moment, and I can't stand the annoying hair stylists around here with their ultra-hip attitudes and eye makeup. I was the only female getting her hair cut at the shop. The whole time I was there, the only other women to come in were either mothers bringing little boys in for trims, and one very sullen-looking girlfriend, who slumped in a plastic chair next to the door and read a 944 magazine (keeping up on the Scottsdale trendiness, of course) with Taryn Manning on the cover, as her boyfriend in the trucker hat waited for a neck shave, or something like that.
As for me, the Lone Female Customer, I even splurged, and paid the extra $3 to get the shampoo and conditioner treatment! My stylist, however, didn't even offer me the option of a blowdry and style, though, so I was forced to go grocery shopping with wet hair and little hair-snips all over my face. Still, it was $14 total and it really doesn't look bad at all on my head. It's not my all-time favorite haircut, which was a Toni and Guy deal back in 2002 (and also cost me about $110 b/c it included hair color too), but it will suffice. Greg even thought I had colored my hair anew, because the cut shows off the color much better. Sweet. $14 and improved color-show. I wonder if other cool ladies like me are hip to this Great Clips jive.
I also found out this weekend that I can't drink strawberry margaritas and Coronas and then eat nachos and salsa followed by a sugar cookie chaser. I got a headache first and then full-out nausea. I had to take a nap. I just can't drink and eat well.
At least I have cute bangs again, so who cares if I am sickish, right? Yeah.
I got my hair cut at Great Clips. Because I don't have a lot of money at the moment, and I can't stand the annoying hair stylists around here with their ultra-hip attitudes and eye makeup. I was the only female getting her hair cut at the shop. The whole time I was there, the only other women to come in were either mothers bringing little boys in for trims, and one very sullen-looking girlfriend, who slumped in a plastic chair next to the door and read a 944 magazine (keeping up on the Scottsdale trendiness, of course) with Taryn Manning on the cover, as her boyfriend in the trucker hat waited for a neck shave, or something like that.
As for me, the Lone Female Customer, I even splurged, and paid the extra $3 to get the shampoo and conditioner treatment! My stylist, however, didn't even offer me the option of a blowdry and style, though, so I was forced to go grocery shopping with wet hair and little hair-snips all over my face. Still, it was $14 total and it really doesn't look bad at all on my head. It's not my all-time favorite haircut, which was a Toni and Guy deal back in 2002 (and also cost me about $110 b/c it included hair color too), but it will suffice. Greg even thought I had colored my hair anew, because the cut shows off the color much better. Sweet. $14 and improved color-show. I wonder if other cool ladies like me are hip to this Great Clips jive.
I also found out this weekend that I can't drink strawberry margaritas and Coronas and then eat nachos and salsa followed by a sugar cookie chaser. I got a headache first and then full-out nausea. I had to take a nap. I just can't drink and eat well.
At least I have cute bangs again, so who cares if I am sickish, right? Yeah.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
I don't know for sure if the person in the jacket, satin panties and bike helmet is Trish or myself, but I figured maybe if I posted this someone out there might be able to shed some light on the situation.
I'm just not sure who that is! And that's odd. I remember the night-- we were preparing for a yard sale to support the theater last summer, and this was the "pricing party." Some party. It was about four of us and a gigantic mess.
I love how Allison is in the back just having a good old belly-laugh at the antics of the mystery sister. Panties, helmet and men's jacket over clothes obviously equals instant comic gold. Really now, who the hell is this?! (I bet it's you, Trish.)
Friday, August 12, 2005
You know what? I'm glad there exists a product that can remove impacted or infected earwax: Ear wax candles. They sell them at the Sunflower Market, and I have yet to see any hippies picking them up. "Sweetheart, my ears are really filthy? Can you pick up some earwax candles when you go buy this week's supply of granola and hummus?" And here's my theory about why the hippies don't buy them: they can't really come up with a convincing argument against cotton swabs.
(Sure, they probably hate Johnson & Johnson, or any of the horrible big corporation cotton-swab-makers, so they might not buy out of a desire to never support the big corporations and their evil practices; but guaranteed it would be relatively easy to find cotton swabs that are manufactured by a smaller, less-evil company somewhere out of Nebraska or something. Hence, hippies can safely purchase swabs and forgo the candles.)
Part of me really wants to try out these candles. It's kind of a sick fascination I would have about my own earwax. These candles make me curious. I want to know: would I have enough earwax to support a flame? Would it smell like ears as it burned? What would happen if I fell asleep with the earwax candle still going... would my hair catch fire and would I need to be rescued from my burning house?
I wonder if earwax-smell in the air is a nice, palpable aroma. And, if so, if Glade is already working on an earwax candle. Maybe one of those triple-layered candles you see these days. (I just bought one with a name like "Tranquil Night at Home" and it smells like chamomile tea on the top level, something equally warm n' cozy on the second, and "warm hearth" on the third layer. Not exactly what MY house smells like on a tranquil night-- which would be the scent on diet-coke breath, well-chewed rawhide bones and the wrappers of discarded fun-sized Nestle Crunch bars.) The Glade triple-layer candle for "Human Scents" could be "Earwax Surprise" on the top, followed by "Fresh Bandaid Over Fresh Blood" smell, with a nice base of "Honey Smacks Pee". Yeah, that would be a best seller.
Earwax candles also create a lovely ambiance for those candlelit moments we all strive to create out of a sense of desperation, loneliness and fear. Now, with an earwax candle, you can carry the candlelight with you from room to room. Probably, you need to keep your head tilted to keep the candle in and help assure a steady supply of wax to the candle, but still-- it's right there, with you! Lay your head down on the table (candle side up) and let the glow warm everyone's hearts.
Of course, sooner or later, if you use these candles you are going to run out of earwax. This would logically lead to an upswing in the manufacture of earwax enablers. Special goops and unguents we can put into our ear canals to stimulate wax-creation. People would suddenly want (crave) more wax, and the creators of the earwax candle would at first be perplexed-- is their life-work suddenly meaningless?-- and then happy because their bank accounts would be getting bigger. They would have little meetings over coffee in the mornings, and talk about "how funny life is" and some joker would make an amusing little statement like, "when life hands you earwax, you make more earwax candles." Point is: we don't have to worry about those guys, they'll make out just fine.
I don't really have a witty way to wrap this up. I just realized this. I can say this much: my ears are clean. Candles or swabs? ...Wouldn't you like to know.
(Sure, they probably hate Johnson & Johnson, or any of the horrible big corporation cotton-swab-makers, so they might not buy out of a desire to never support the big corporations and their evil practices; but guaranteed it would be relatively easy to find cotton swabs that are manufactured by a smaller, less-evil company somewhere out of Nebraska or something. Hence, hippies can safely purchase swabs and forgo the candles.)
Part of me really wants to try out these candles. It's kind of a sick fascination I would have about my own earwax. These candles make me curious. I want to know: would I have enough earwax to support a flame? Would it smell like ears as it burned? What would happen if I fell asleep with the earwax candle still going... would my hair catch fire and would I need to be rescued from my burning house?
I wonder if earwax-smell in the air is a nice, palpable aroma. And, if so, if Glade is already working on an earwax candle. Maybe one of those triple-layered candles you see these days. (I just bought one with a name like "Tranquil Night at Home" and it smells like chamomile tea on the top level, something equally warm n' cozy on the second, and "warm hearth" on the third layer. Not exactly what MY house smells like on a tranquil night-- which would be the scent on diet-coke breath, well-chewed rawhide bones and the wrappers of discarded fun-sized Nestle Crunch bars.) The Glade triple-layer candle for "Human Scents" could be "Earwax Surprise" on the top, followed by "Fresh Bandaid Over Fresh Blood" smell, with a nice base of "Honey Smacks Pee". Yeah, that would be a best seller.
Earwax candles also create a lovely ambiance for those candlelit moments we all strive to create out of a sense of desperation, loneliness and fear. Now, with an earwax candle, you can carry the candlelight with you from room to room. Probably, you need to keep your head tilted to keep the candle in and help assure a steady supply of wax to the candle, but still-- it's right there, with you! Lay your head down on the table (candle side up) and let the glow warm everyone's hearts.
Of course, sooner or later, if you use these candles you are going to run out of earwax. This would logically lead to an upswing in the manufacture of earwax enablers. Special goops and unguents we can put into our ear canals to stimulate wax-creation. People would suddenly want (crave) more wax, and the creators of the earwax candle would at first be perplexed-- is their life-work suddenly meaningless?-- and then happy because their bank accounts would be getting bigger. They would have little meetings over coffee in the mornings, and talk about "how funny life is" and some joker would make an amusing little statement like, "when life hands you earwax, you make more earwax candles." Point is: we don't have to worry about those guys, they'll make out just fine.
I don't really have a witty way to wrap this up. I just realized this. I can say this much: my ears are clean. Candles or swabs? ...Wouldn't you like to know.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
This is picture on Hot Topic's site. It's supposedly selling blue "Special Effects" hair dye. 1) Who OK'd this photoshop job? 2) I don't want to buy anything that gives me that creepy "I just had a helium enema" face. Don't worry kids, this lady won't hurt you. But just to be safe, lock your windows tonight.
Are you like me? Do you sometimes sit and ponder: I wonder where the hot dead dudes are at? Well, my likeminded friends, here's a place to take a look at some of the finest dead man-meat available! Click this link: http://www.jonno.com/cdg/index.html and decide which lucky deceased fella is gonna adorn your locker this new school season! (It might be hard to choose, as they are all quite the handsome devils.)
Trish wanted to me to tell anyone who is wondering why she hasn't been updating her blog is because her internet has been disconnected. It's just temporary, and it will probably be back up by tonight. She says hello to everyone.
There. Now that I did that, I can move on to something else. I was cleaning my bathroom today and for some reason, when I clean the bathroom my mind wanders. On my mind today while I was cleaning: my teeth.
I have pretty decent teeth-- not very many cavities. However, for years and years I apparently was grinding my teeth in my sleep. And really grinding them hard, too. I'm still angry at my old NJ dentist for not calling it to my attention sooner. My dentist in AZ took one look at my teeth and said I had a real grinding problem and was going to need a biteguard. I had to go and get the molds made of my teeth and a week or so later, I had a clear plastic biteguard all my own.
Immediately, I felt like a huge tard. Like I can't sleep without 'protection' from my own teeth. But my back bottom molars were shot. I ground my teeth so much that I had worn off all the enamel from my tooth's top surface, as well as any of the normal grooves that are in molars. The dentist told me that eventually, my teeth would probably still wear down so far that the nerve would be exposed and I'd be forced to get crowns.
For the past almost-seven years, I have been faithfully wearing my biteguard. My teeth, even with their nightly protection, are still getting flatter and flatter. I always say I have cow teeth because they look like big, flat teeth of a cow that's been doing nothing but chewing the cud. I know that is so attractive, but these teeth are just not pretty.
My biteguard is starting to give out. There are two little holes that have recently appeared in the biteguard's surface. One is over my bottom tooth-- the one on the left of the front four teeth. It has a point on it, so I think that's why the hole is there. My teeth are damn near punching through anything that goes in my mouth. The other hole is, frighteningly, over one my compromised molars. I just know that soon I am going to need to get crowns now. I am really scared of this. I need to find a new dentist (the old one doesn't accept my new insurance) and one that can do that lovely sedation dentistry. Yeah. I don't care, just don't let me be fully aware when you go into my mouth and start scraping at the exposed dentin on my molars with that metal hook-thing. Just typing it makes me cringe.
So many people are wigged out by needles. Not me! Shoot me up. Gas would be fine, too. I will say to the dentist, "Whatever, just do it man. Mamma said. Knock. Me. Out!" And he'll say, well no, we can't knock you out, but we can numb you. And then they will novacaine my face into oblivion and that will begin my descent into darkness. I will seek out the numbness after that. I'll sell my car, house and CD collection to buy more novacaine. I will be the wandering novacaine addict forevermore. Living in doorways, sleeping under tarps, smelling like shit... and nothing on my face will have any feeling.
The Unfeeling Face. (That will be my superhero name.) You can shoot things at my face, and it won't stop me-- I will just keep on coming at you. For, my face is numb and pain will not slow me down. I could take on a lot of people before I would collapse from blood loss.
Well, that's my story about my teeth!
There. Now that I did that, I can move on to something else. I was cleaning my bathroom today and for some reason, when I clean the bathroom my mind wanders. On my mind today while I was cleaning: my teeth.
I have pretty decent teeth-- not very many cavities. However, for years and years I apparently was grinding my teeth in my sleep. And really grinding them hard, too. I'm still angry at my old NJ dentist for not calling it to my attention sooner. My dentist in AZ took one look at my teeth and said I had a real grinding problem and was going to need a biteguard. I had to go and get the molds made of my teeth and a week or so later, I had a clear plastic biteguard all my own.
Immediately, I felt like a huge tard. Like I can't sleep without 'protection' from my own teeth. But my back bottom molars were shot. I ground my teeth so much that I had worn off all the enamel from my tooth's top surface, as well as any of the normal grooves that are in molars. The dentist told me that eventually, my teeth would probably still wear down so far that the nerve would be exposed and I'd be forced to get crowns.
For the past almost-seven years, I have been faithfully wearing my biteguard. My teeth, even with their nightly protection, are still getting flatter and flatter. I always say I have cow teeth because they look like big, flat teeth of a cow that's been doing nothing but chewing the cud. I know that is so attractive, but these teeth are just not pretty.
My biteguard is starting to give out. There are two little holes that have recently appeared in the biteguard's surface. One is over my bottom tooth-- the one on the left of the front four teeth. It has a point on it, so I think that's why the hole is there. My teeth are damn near punching through anything that goes in my mouth. The other hole is, frighteningly, over one my compromised molars. I just know that soon I am going to need to get crowns now. I am really scared of this. I need to find a new dentist (the old one doesn't accept my new insurance) and one that can do that lovely sedation dentistry. Yeah. I don't care, just don't let me be fully aware when you go into my mouth and start scraping at the exposed dentin on my molars with that metal hook-thing. Just typing it makes me cringe.
So many people are wigged out by needles. Not me! Shoot me up. Gas would be fine, too. I will say to the dentist, "Whatever, just do it man. Mamma said. Knock. Me. Out!" And he'll say, well no, we can't knock you out, but we can numb you. And then they will novacaine my face into oblivion and that will begin my descent into darkness. I will seek out the numbness after that. I'll sell my car, house and CD collection to buy more novacaine. I will be the wandering novacaine addict forevermore. Living in doorways, sleeping under tarps, smelling like shit... and nothing on my face will have any feeling.
The Unfeeling Face. (That will be my superhero name.) You can shoot things at my face, and it won't stop me-- I will just keep on coming at you. For, my face is numb and pain will not slow me down. I could take on a lot of people before I would collapse from blood loss.
Well, that's my story about my teeth!
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
It's an overcast afternoon, and thunder is thumping softly in the distance. I am hoping for a downpour as I sit here typing in my green room, happy to be working from home today.
Greg and I met up for lunch today, and we went to a good Chinese restaurant (not like the one on SF that was gross enough to make me temporarily insane; I won't go into details because it's better if you don't know) called Little Szchewan or something like that. I probably frigged up the spelling. But it was very good, and we had fun just seeing each other in the middle of a workday. Tonight, we are going to see my man, Bill, in "Broken Flowers." I'm excited. It should be a good one. At least, the reviews I have read have been favorable so far. And just seeing him makes me smile.
I've made my share of Christopher Reeve jokes in the past, and admit to being a huge fan of the South Park episode where he is eating fetuses, but I was sad to read the news today that his widow, Dana, has lung cancer. That lady can't get a break. Sure, her husband could get a break, literally. But not her. She just gets cancer. Something is up with that Reeve clan-- they could be a little cursed. I blame HACKMAN!
People keep getting to this site by searching for lyrics to South Park songs: namely, the "I've Got Something in my Front Pocket" tap-dance song for Butters. I also get this one, or variations on it: "She urinated in her pants." I just thought I would share this fact. I wonder if I have helped these people in any way.
Yesterday I decided to not pursue a pretty decent job I was in the running for at a huge corporation. I figured that I didn't want to drive all the way to the other side of town everyday, navigating not one but 3 freeways; and I didn't want to work for a huge corporation with huge corporation rules and politics. I've already got corporate politics to deal with, but at least I am used to these particular politics and they are on a much smaller scale, and for the time I am to remain in Arizona, I might as well stay with the devil I know. So I called and cancelled my second interview. I wonder if I am going to regret it, because like all of us, my job drives me crazy most of the time. Overall though, I think I will be just fine. I have this blog, my two books, the dogs, Greg, and the promise of cooler weather in the future. Still, sometimes when things come up, it can be hard to turn down opportunities, that's my point. But today I really am so relieved and happy that I did. After all, I got to meet my boyfriend for a very yummy lunch, and I washed my dog in the middle of the morning and ate Cinnamon Life cereal today in my pajamas. I know for a fact the huge corporation job wouldn't let me do THAT. Ha.
Still-- no rain. Come on, don't tease me with your thunder foreplay, mother nature. I want a happy ending.
Greg and I met up for lunch today, and we went to a good Chinese restaurant (not like the one on SF that was gross enough to make me temporarily insane; I won't go into details because it's better if you don't know) called Little Szchewan or something like that. I probably frigged up the spelling. But it was very good, and we had fun just seeing each other in the middle of a workday. Tonight, we are going to see my man, Bill, in "Broken Flowers." I'm excited. It should be a good one. At least, the reviews I have read have been favorable so far. And just seeing him makes me smile.
I've made my share of Christopher Reeve jokes in the past, and admit to being a huge fan of the South Park episode where he is eating fetuses, but I was sad to read the news today that his widow, Dana, has lung cancer. That lady can't get a break. Sure, her husband could get a break, literally. But not her. She just gets cancer. Something is up with that Reeve clan-- they could be a little cursed. I blame HACKMAN!
People keep getting to this site by searching for lyrics to South Park songs: namely, the "I've Got Something in my Front Pocket" tap-dance song for Butters. I also get this one, or variations on it: "She urinated in her pants." I just thought I would share this fact. I wonder if I have helped these people in any way.
Yesterday I decided to not pursue a pretty decent job I was in the running for at a huge corporation. I figured that I didn't want to drive all the way to the other side of town everyday, navigating not one but 3 freeways; and I didn't want to work for a huge corporation with huge corporation rules and politics. I've already got corporate politics to deal with, but at least I am used to these particular politics and they are on a much smaller scale, and for the time I am to remain in Arizona, I might as well stay with the devil I know. So I called and cancelled my second interview. I wonder if I am going to regret it, because like all of us, my job drives me crazy most of the time. Overall though, I think I will be just fine. I have this blog, my two books, the dogs, Greg, and the promise of cooler weather in the future. Still, sometimes when things come up, it can be hard to turn down opportunities, that's my point. But today I really am so relieved and happy that I did. After all, I got to meet my boyfriend for a very yummy lunch, and I washed my dog in the middle of the morning and ate Cinnamon Life cereal today in my pajamas. I know for a fact the huge corporation job wouldn't let me do THAT. Ha.
Still-- no rain. Come on, don't tease me with your thunder foreplay, mother nature. I want a happy ending.
Monday, August 08, 2005
In the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge, we stopped our bikes and took some pictures. I was speechless.
By this point, we had already been in the city for about a day and a half, and were already exhausted. We walked from 5th and Mission where our hotel was (the Pickwick, which we chose due to the high rating it was given on the internet, as well as the descriptions of the rooms but for me, it was the name: Pick-Wick! It's fun to say.) up to Fisherman's Wharf on the first day. Up the hills. Wow. I think I was wheezing. I am so out of shape. But we finally made it-- we looked at the sea lions (yes!!) at Pier 39 for a long time; got some ice cream and sat on a bench and looked at the view of the Bay. I loved every single, tiny little second of this trip.
Getting back to the bridge: We rented the bikes, and they sort of sucked because they kept "popping" out of gear. In fact, at one point I was riding up a small hill mere feet from the entranceway to the bridge, and the gears SLAMMED out of whack. It happened so violently that I yelled out. Ever have one of those yells just escape you, and then when other people turn around to see what all the fuss is about, you feel like a massive asshole? That was me!
Bad bikes aside, NOTHING could ruin this trip. Not the gigantic hills, or more wheezing breathing from me...nothing. See, I finally have a boyfriend who is perfectly fucking cool. I can do anything with him. He is never scared, he doesn't bitch or complain or have a lot of hang-ups or phobias, things like that. He's just up for anything and he smiles about 99% of the time, no matter what. He has a lot of practical knowledge, cooks very well and makes me feel safe when we are walking around a strange city at 11:30 at night, surrounded by homeless people and obviously a little more than lost. Even better is the fact that he appreciates things-- everyday things, gorgeous things, dogs running on a beach, the taste of pepper. Or, like the view of the bridge, disappearing into the fog and clouds above us. And-- he appreciates me. The whole me, the me that is a dork and the me that can just lose myself daydreaming and staring at clouds and trees. I lost count of how many times I would catch him watching me as I just took it all in, and how many times he reached out to rub my cheek or push hair out of my face from the wind. And I equally loved just watching his reactions to things we saw and overheard. (My personal favorite was when we were hanging off the trolley, going back towards the wharf the morning we rented the bikes. Two teenage boys were standing on the rail next to Greg, heckling girls on the street as we went past, shit like that. The trolley driver was this black dude--very no-nonsense, ordering people where to sit or stand on the trolley as we picked more people up; working the huge metal gears with a blue-collar fury that I thought was really awesome. I was thinking he would make a great character in a book. Anyway, Greg told me that one of the kids said to the other one, "I think our driver hates life." Greg shared this with me and I was laughing for the rest of the day at random times when I thought of this quote. There was no way that guy hated life, but the humor in that comment was in no way lost on me.)
I have so much to say about what we did, but there's no way I can capture it all here. We really fit so much into just three short days in the city. We walked, biked, trolley-ed(?), rode the bus (for free once-- somehow we didn't get charged as we boarded and there were too many tiny, loud old chinese ladies clogging up the front seats and aisle for us to make our way all the way forward to do the honest thing and pay up), took the BART train, and rode the ferry back from Sausalito (and got completely douched with water as we sat on the deck-- it got in my mouth and the first thing I worried about was how much fish-urine was in that mouthful of water, so we had to go inside and get some drinks-- a hot chocolate for me and a Bud for Greg. A table full of college-age kids were playing quarters with Coronas at a table next to the area where all the bikes were stacked; I thought it was stupid to be drinking that heavily on a ferry boat, but it was also kind of hilarious and sweet at the same time. I love vacation.) I know we would have taken a rickshaw if the opportunity had presented itself. We went to Haight (your old neighborhood, Hanson! :)) and looked for a watch for Greg, sat in the grass on a windy hill and had a serious talk that meant the world to me... and when it was finally time to head back to the airport for our flight home, we were overly tired so we were babbling and stupid-giggly.
The flight attendant who was announcing the seating order had a strange accent that we couldn't stop imitating, loudly. And, we flew TED. It's a division of United, in case you're not in the know. It's funny because in the announcements and stuff, they say things like, "Ted wants you to relax and enjoy your flight." So of course, Greg and I were laughing and making up our own "Ted wants you to do this and that" jokes, pretending Ted was a diety of some sort who required sacrifices. "Ted wants you to offer up your virgin daughters!" I recommend flying Ted. Cheap fares, Ted-Tunes(TM) on the headphones jacked into the armrest, and an omnipotent Big Brother-type presence. You can't beat it.
That's it for this rambling, parentheses-filled post: now, on to a couple more random pictures from our trip!
It was a windy day. No matter what I did, hair was constantly stuck in my mouth. I should have brought a hat. Moving on... This is us. I held the camera out and hoped for the best. We were halfway through our bikeride to the Golden Gate Bridge when Greg spotted the golden dome in the distance. We wondered aloud what it was, and decided to bike over to it. It turned out to be the rotunda of the Palace of Fine Arts. We loved it. We stood there, arching our heads back to gaze up at the columns and carvings, which looked gorgeous against the backdrop of the fast-moving, time-lapse-photography clouds in the sky. We felt small, but our hands held each other and we just took it all in together. This photo is a testament to how I was feeling overall: you will notice I had stars in my eyes. Maybe it was just the eye on the right, really... but either way, look at me-- all rockstar. Just call me Bright Eyes and ask me to turn around, Bonnie Tyler!
This was on the sink in the ladies' room in the crap restaurant we ate dinner in. The concierge at our hotel recommended we try this place in Chinatown called Louie's, so we did. The "Cashew Chicken with Broccoli" came with no broccoli-- and the chicken was gray in color, and slimy. Greg's food wasn't much better. Plus, live fish in a tank right inside the front entryway. And one of the big, whitish-colored fish was down at the bottom of the tank, pressed against the glass and looking quite dead. (True, I did try to NOT look at the fish because no good can come of me looking at fish for longer than 2 seconds-- but it was a little like a car accident. Involving dead fish) Anyway, after we "ate", I visited the restroom and spotted this on the sink. For some reason, the fact that it was called "Nonsense Cleaner and Deodorizer" was killing me. I was giggling away and finally had to cave in and take a picture. (Later in the trip, when I ran out of memory on the camera's card, I was going through the photos and deleting bad shots, and I almost deleted this one, but decided it just might be blog worthy. Sometimes things make more sense on the blog.) Anyway, the folks at Easterday Janitorial Supply Company want you to enjoy their Nonsense!
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Well, send me to the netherworlds and consider me a screamin’ banshee, because I am very excited to go to San Francisco tomorrow with my dude-person. I have never been there, and that is why I am so hyped up. We have no set plans—just fly in, find the hotel, and once we do that we have no clue what could happen next.
Everyone is giving me suggestions of things to do there: the most popular one? “Go to Chinatown.” All the San Francisco veterans are telling me this is something not to be missed. I know we’ll go there, mostly because I think our hotel is nearby, and I know I will see some Chinamen. I think I read a story in middle school about a family of Chinese immigrants who lived in ‘Cisco in the 50s, and had a laundry or dry-cleaning place, something like that. One day they were harassed for being Chinese. I can’t remember the rest of the story, but the moral was: Don’t Make Fun of Chinese People, and Respect Their Laundry.
Also, we will probably rent some bikes and go over “the Bridge.” You know… the Bridge. The big red one. Once over the bridge…? No idea. Maybe we will meet a family of wayward clowns; clowns that broke free from the circus and were now ramblin’ around the land, living off hose water and discarded McDonald’s. I hope the clowns don’t have The Clap.
Maybe we will see some sea lions! Ooooh, I hope so. I really enjoy marine mammals. I like cetaceans best, but I will settle for some cute sea lions. Unless they stink, in which case I will hold my nose in an obnoxious manner.
That reminds me: at the conference, I kept seeing this one woman who looked perpetually annoyed and uncomfortable. She sat hunched in a chair against the wall, her fingers dug into her ears, and making faces that clearly communicated to everyone else that “the sound in this room is too loud” while an announcer spoke on stage. Never mind that this stupid bitch chose to sit underneath the goddamn speaker itself… Later on, she was in the bathroom and she was complaining to another surly-looking housewife-type that “I just can’t seem to get this soap to foam up!” I guess the hotel hand-soap was not up to her high-foaming standards. I saw her walking around a hallway on the last day of the event, rubbing her bare arms and loudly bitching about how cold she was. Seriously, I just kept seeing this same lady and every time—totally bitching about something.
Imagine being her spouse, or her kid? Man… if there was ever a justified case of someone smothering another person with a Safeway bag as they slept, her family would be pictured in the law-books for that one.
Here’s a little something a typical asshole lawyer could say to his paralegal:
“Smith! Consult the law-books!” said Mr. Knowsthelaw. “I don’t pay you to sit out there, picking your nose and wiping it under your desk chair, Smith! Get in the room where we keep the law-books, and find what I need in those leather-bound, gold-gilded law-books!”
There’s a pause, and no sound from Smith. Who, by the way, is a woman named Crystal McGibbon. Not Smith at all.
“Smith! What the devil has gotten into you? You KNOW I need my law-books to answer this particular question, and you KNOW I cannot look it up myself! Smith! Smith…?”
Lawyer-Man has walked out into the lobby.
Smith is dead.
Cerebral hemorrhage.
“Smith,” sighs the lawyer, sitting down on the floor in an anguished heap, “I hardly knew ya.”
Why’d I type this?
I don’t know, other than I am excited about going to San Francisco tomorrow. Why Smith’s death came up, I will never know.
Everyone is giving me suggestions of things to do there: the most popular one? “Go to Chinatown.” All the San Francisco veterans are telling me this is something not to be missed. I know we’ll go there, mostly because I think our hotel is nearby, and I know I will see some Chinamen. I think I read a story in middle school about a family of Chinese immigrants who lived in ‘Cisco in the 50s, and had a laundry or dry-cleaning place, something like that. One day they were harassed for being Chinese. I can’t remember the rest of the story, but the moral was: Don’t Make Fun of Chinese People, and Respect Their Laundry.
Also, we will probably rent some bikes and go over “the Bridge.” You know… the Bridge. The big red one. Once over the bridge…? No idea. Maybe we will meet a family of wayward clowns; clowns that broke free from the circus and were now ramblin’ around the land, living off hose water and discarded McDonald’s. I hope the clowns don’t have The Clap.
Maybe we will see some sea lions! Ooooh, I hope so. I really enjoy marine mammals. I like cetaceans best, but I will settle for some cute sea lions. Unless they stink, in which case I will hold my nose in an obnoxious manner.
That reminds me: at the conference, I kept seeing this one woman who looked perpetually annoyed and uncomfortable. She sat hunched in a chair against the wall, her fingers dug into her ears, and making faces that clearly communicated to everyone else that “the sound in this room is too loud” while an announcer spoke on stage. Never mind that this stupid bitch chose to sit underneath the goddamn speaker itself… Later on, she was in the bathroom and she was complaining to another surly-looking housewife-type that “I just can’t seem to get this soap to foam up!” I guess the hotel hand-soap was not up to her high-foaming standards. I saw her walking around a hallway on the last day of the event, rubbing her bare arms and loudly bitching about how cold she was. Seriously, I just kept seeing this same lady and every time—totally bitching about something.
Imagine being her spouse, or her kid? Man… if there was ever a justified case of someone smothering another person with a Safeway bag as they slept, her family would be pictured in the law-books for that one.
Here’s a little something a typical asshole lawyer could say to his paralegal:
“Smith! Consult the law-books!” said Mr. Knowsthelaw. “I don’t pay you to sit out there, picking your nose and wiping it under your desk chair, Smith! Get in the room where we keep the law-books, and find what I need in those leather-bound, gold-gilded law-books!”
There’s a pause, and no sound from Smith. Who, by the way, is a woman named Crystal McGibbon. Not Smith at all.
“Smith! What the devil has gotten into you? You KNOW I need my law-books to answer this particular question, and you KNOW I cannot look it up myself! Smith! Smith…?”
Lawyer-Man has walked out into the lobby.
Smith is dead.
Cerebral hemorrhage.
“Smith,” sighs the lawyer, sitting down on the floor in an anguished heap, “I hardly knew ya.”
Why’d I type this?
I don’t know, other than I am excited about going to San Francisco tomorrow. Why Smith’s death came up, I will never know.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
In my efforts to cut costs in the past, I have purchased the sliced turkey that's sold in the shrink-wrapped packages. This turkey is never very good. In addition to not having that "Mmm, fresh turkey" taste, it is often wet. They package it in some type of wetness. I always sop it up with a paper towel before I can make a sandwich with it.
Yesterday, it all changed. I thought, "why would I buy that gross turkey that I need to wipe down before I eat it, when I can easily get fresh deli-sliced turkey instead?" It's true. I thought that!
And I followed through. I had them slice me up some of the good stuff. And some fresh provolone too. I bought fresh rolls (not just a loaf of whatever-wheat-bread-is-cheapest) and went home and made an awesome turkey sandwich for dinner. A no-frills turkey concoction, if you so please. I savored the hell out of that sandwich. My enjoyment must have been quite apparent, for a hush fell over even the dogs. I chewed and swallowed the deliciousness and digested with a quiet hum of contentment.
As I ate, I watched the episode of Northern Exposure in which Ed films his movie about Cicely and Rick comes back as a dog. If you know what I am talking about, I am so pleased with you! Brianna and Robert, I am looking in your general directions. And you, Trish. (But you already know I watched this episode last night because we talked about it as I waited for my floor to dry.) Anyway-- the movie that Ed films is so adorable. And so is the dog that Rick was reincarnated as. Malamute! Yes, I will take three or so. What a cute episode. Even the cardboard stand-in of Marilyn (designed to make the ostriches lay more eggs) is lovely in a sweet, unassuming manner.
This blog isn't all that amazing. Right now, I am wondering if I should hit "publish post" or not. All I did was wax philosophic about some sandwich, and try to come up with new ways to say Northern Exposure is cute. What am I really adding to the fabric of our lives today? Other than a shitstorm of slogans and cliched phrases? Not much, I'm thinking! Still, that's why I have a blog. So I can write junk like this.
I didn't know this, but the ghost girl who appears and then throws up in Haley Joel Osmont's tent in the "Sixth Sense" is Mischa Barton. Trish told me and I was stunned. Sixth Sense was on ABC last night and I watched that, too, as I was cleaning my house. I don't like that Mischa Barton. She is bony. Bony chicks are unnerving in that almost-dead way. Especially when said chicks play dead chicks. Christ.
You know who could play a ghost? Mo'Nique. I wouldn't mind that. Ghosts need a little junk in the trunk.
Yesterday, it all changed. I thought, "why would I buy that gross turkey that I need to wipe down before I eat it, when I can easily get fresh deli-sliced turkey instead?" It's true. I thought that!
And I followed through. I had them slice me up some of the good stuff. And some fresh provolone too. I bought fresh rolls (not just a loaf of whatever-wheat-bread-is-cheapest) and went home and made an awesome turkey sandwich for dinner. A no-frills turkey concoction, if you so please. I savored the hell out of that sandwich. My enjoyment must have been quite apparent, for a hush fell over even the dogs. I chewed and swallowed the deliciousness and digested with a quiet hum of contentment.
As I ate, I watched the episode of Northern Exposure in which Ed films his movie about Cicely and Rick comes back as a dog. If you know what I am talking about, I am so pleased with you! Brianna and Robert, I am looking in your general directions. And you, Trish. (But you already know I watched this episode last night because we talked about it as I waited for my floor to dry.) Anyway-- the movie that Ed films is so adorable. And so is the dog that Rick was reincarnated as. Malamute! Yes, I will take three or so. What a cute episode. Even the cardboard stand-in of Marilyn (designed to make the ostriches lay more eggs) is lovely in a sweet, unassuming manner.
This blog isn't all that amazing. Right now, I am wondering if I should hit "publish post" or not. All I did was wax philosophic about some sandwich, and try to come up with new ways to say Northern Exposure is cute. What am I really adding to the fabric of our lives today? Other than a shitstorm of slogans and cliched phrases? Not much, I'm thinking! Still, that's why I have a blog. So I can write junk like this.
I didn't know this, but the ghost girl who appears and then throws up in Haley Joel Osmont's tent in the "Sixth Sense" is Mischa Barton. Trish told me and I was stunned. Sixth Sense was on ABC last night and I watched that, too, as I was cleaning my house. I don't like that Mischa Barton. She is bony. Bony chicks are unnerving in that almost-dead way. Especially when said chicks play dead chicks. Christ.
You know who could play a ghost? Mo'Nique. I wouldn't mind that. Ghosts need a little junk in the trunk.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Yesterday in Sweet Tomatoes, Greg and I overheard the following in conversations around us:
“Well, I’m gonna go and check out the soups!”
”They have The. Best. Soups. Here. The salad is starting to grow on me, though.”
Conclusion: Old guys love talking about soup.
Also: the word “soups” is funny.
I don’t really care for soup. Soup is too hot for my mouth. I also don’t drink hot beverages, like tea or coffee. Sure, I have some hot chocolate, but that’s it… and to be honest, any hot chocolate I put into my mouth has to be “cooled down” first with either milk or a shitload of whipped cream. I burn my mouth easier than anyone I know. This, of course, makes the consumption of soup difficult.
My sister and Mom have a thing for homemade vegetable soup. Trish makes a big deal about it—“oh Mom, you have to make your soup, please make your soup, whinewhinewhine…”—and my Mom sometimes gives in and makes it. Not always, though. Mom’s reached the age where she has figured out that her kids can cook for themselves, damn it, so if they want soup they can probably just make their own damn soup. The thing is: I can appreciate this soup my Mom makes. It really is pretty tasty. However, I won’t seek it out, and many times I just won’t even try it if it is there as part of a meal, and I will never just order the soup over the salad, no matter what. I ALWAYS go for the salad. Always.
When I get sick and I am puking all over the goddamn place, the first food I usually want to eat when I can keep solid food down again is salad. That, or a sandwich with a lot of vegetables and a ton of red wine vinegar. I know they tell you to eat crackers and chicken soup or something, but I want the roughage and the vinegar. I’m almost positive Trish has the same quirk with wanting lettuce after vomiting. We are salad junkies. We used to come home from school and put some iceberg lettuce in a cereal bowl, smother it in Wishbone dressing (Italian for her, French for me) and eat that crap as we watched “Splash” or “Ghostbusters” for the millionth time.
I just love salad. I can eat it any time of the day, except for breakfast, maybe. I can eat it on my lap or at a table! Sometimes, in my car or sitting on a floor, in the dark. And I am somewhat flexible on the toppings. Let’s say I am having chicken on my salad. I can enjoy it equally if the chicken is cold, or if it is warm chicken. I don’t stress out about it. I keep an open mind. I can have cucumbers, or carrots, it doesn’t matter which. Sure, croutons. Throw those hardened bread-nuggets on there. I’ll take ‘em. HOWEVER: Dressing is the thing that can make or break a good salad. I don’t like the “creamies.” Creamies include ranch, blue cheese, thousand island or Russian. I love the vinaigrettes, though. The Italians—especially homemade. The French(es): red, honey French, creamy French (my only exception to the creamy rule). I won’t name names, but I know someone who is so enamored with a certain type of dressing that she will lick the plate/bowl clean after a salad, just to get all the remaining remnants of dressing.
My point is: no on the soup. I wish I could understand the mythology surrounding the American Soup Culture, with the biscuits and the oyster crackers or whatever, and the difference between the chowders, but the day they were handing out the Soup-Wanting-Gene, I must have been frigging around somewhere else… probably puking and eating salad on a continuous loop.
“Well, I’m gonna go and check out the soups!”
”They have The. Best. Soups. Here. The salad is starting to grow on me, though.”
Conclusion: Old guys love talking about soup.
Also: the word “soups” is funny.
I don’t really care for soup. Soup is too hot for my mouth. I also don’t drink hot beverages, like tea or coffee. Sure, I have some hot chocolate, but that’s it… and to be honest, any hot chocolate I put into my mouth has to be “cooled down” first with either milk or a shitload of whipped cream. I burn my mouth easier than anyone I know. This, of course, makes the consumption of soup difficult.
My sister and Mom have a thing for homemade vegetable soup. Trish makes a big deal about it—“oh Mom, you have to make your soup, please make your soup, whinewhinewhine…”—and my Mom sometimes gives in and makes it. Not always, though. Mom’s reached the age where she has figured out that her kids can cook for themselves, damn it, so if they want soup they can probably just make their own damn soup. The thing is: I can appreciate this soup my Mom makes. It really is pretty tasty. However, I won’t seek it out, and many times I just won’t even try it if it is there as part of a meal, and I will never just order the soup over the salad, no matter what. I ALWAYS go for the salad. Always.
When I get sick and I am puking all over the goddamn place, the first food I usually want to eat when I can keep solid food down again is salad. That, or a sandwich with a lot of vegetables and a ton of red wine vinegar. I know they tell you to eat crackers and chicken soup or something, but I want the roughage and the vinegar. I’m almost positive Trish has the same quirk with wanting lettuce after vomiting. We are salad junkies. We used to come home from school and put some iceberg lettuce in a cereal bowl, smother it in Wishbone dressing (Italian for her, French for me) and eat that crap as we watched “Splash” or “Ghostbusters” for the millionth time.
I just love salad. I can eat it any time of the day, except for breakfast, maybe. I can eat it on my lap or at a table! Sometimes, in my car or sitting on a floor, in the dark. And I am somewhat flexible on the toppings. Let’s say I am having chicken on my salad. I can enjoy it equally if the chicken is cold, or if it is warm chicken. I don’t stress out about it. I keep an open mind. I can have cucumbers, or carrots, it doesn’t matter which. Sure, croutons. Throw those hardened bread-nuggets on there. I’ll take ‘em. HOWEVER: Dressing is the thing that can make or break a good salad. I don’t like the “creamies.” Creamies include ranch, blue cheese, thousand island or Russian. I love the vinaigrettes, though. The Italians—especially homemade. The French(es): red, honey French, creamy French (my only exception to the creamy rule). I won’t name names, but I know someone who is so enamored with a certain type of dressing that she will lick the plate/bowl clean after a salad, just to get all the remaining remnants of dressing.
My point is: no on the soup. I wish I could understand the mythology surrounding the American Soup Culture, with the biscuits and the oyster crackers or whatever, and the difference between the chowders, but the day they were handing out the Soup-Wanting-Gene, I must have been frigging around somewhere else… probably puking and eating salad on a continuous loop.
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