I’ve never been so disappointed that I’m caught up on my laundry in my whole life, because my grocery store had the ENTIRE DOWNY FAMILY half off in some sort of fabric softener fire sale, and I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but … well two things. First, I love laundry. So much. I love doing laundry, smelling laundry, folding laundry, putting away laundry. I am the sole laundry-doer in my house and won’t let Adam NEAR the laundry. I would, in all seriousness, be a professional laundress with absolutely no complaints whatsoever. I know all the tricks. I am a master folder/hanger. I can get out any stain under the sun. And yes, I will absolutely do your laundry if you want me to, provided you let me bring my own supplies.
This brings me to my second point, which is that the only thing I love more than laundry is laundry PRODUCTS. I love and use it all: detergent, fabric softener AND dryer sheets, except on products that would be more absorbent in their absence (dish towels and dish cloths, basically. Bath towels totally get the softener, I don’t care). Tide and Downy Clean Breeze are my favorites, although I use mostly eco-friendly stuff now (I don’t know why except it makes me feel virtuous. It probably does nothing), except in case of SALE SALE SALE, like now. Half off! Half off everything! Expensive fancy Downy softener! Dryer sheets! Lavender and vanilla! Cashmere something! Pear and gardenia! I bought out the store!
Bottom line: I have an entirely new arsenal of products and no laundry to do. It’s like TORTURE.
Also, fun tip: You know that Downy Wrinkle Releaser that they sell for a bahollion dollars? Well, maybe not a bahollion, but more than it’s worth, anyway. First of all, it works to de-wrinkle stuff, yes, but what it REALLY works for is relaxing fabrics like, say, if you’ve accidentally shrunk something (who me?), or if that one seam isn’t quite laying right and an iron would just make it confusing (I’m thinking of smocked shirts and ruching, really. Things that are a bitch to iron). It’s brilliant stuff and will de-shrink almost anything except for wool sweaters and it freshens clothes too! But you shouldn’t buy it. Ever. What you SHOULD do is buy a cheap spray bottle and even cheaper fabric softer (I have a container of Nice N’ Fluffy for this purpose) and mix one part softener to five parts water. Voila! Downy Wrinkle Releaser! For pennies. You’re welcome.
Anyway, to answer a few very kind questions, no, I didn’t get the tubal flushing/Oompa Loompa treatment on Friday — that’s coming later, with some kind of crazy tube lube (um, ew?) but I DID adore my new gynecologist. ADORE. She spent an UNGODLY amount of time with me, and there was no leaning or inappropriate fondling and she didn’t talk down to me about charting. I did, however, get some other slightly unpleasant things in addition to an ultrasound, and Allison is totally right. My uterus was SO TINY. I let out an awed, “ooooh!” at what I thought was my uterus until the doctor said, “I know! Your bladder is really full! It’s HUGE!”
Ha HA. Yes, perhaps I should brush up on my anatomy before I go all Florence Nightingale on the world. But when I finally saw it, it was so tiny, like a baby T-bone steak! And the tubes are wee little shoelaces!
The only things that remotely matched my expectations were my ovaries, which resembled lychee nuts almost exactly. And though she got all excited and pointed to a follicle, I couldn’t see it and was craning my neck all, “Where’s the follicle? WHERE IS THE FOLLICLE?” like I was trying to see my unborn child in there, or perhaps the visage of the Virgin Mary, when it was just a FOLLICLE. Hence, my strange desire to become a part of the medical community. I’m still pissed I couldn’t find the follicle and would be even if it weren’t my own. Ultrasounds are way cool. Feel free to invite me to your next one so I can ogle your follicles.
Incidentally, I was wrong about the boob saga: it seems it rages on. My doctor got the report and wants to follow up with a boob specialist to be 100 percent sure, which even she admits is superfluous. I kind of love her for that, as she’s being overly cautious and that makes me feel very safe, but what I love even more is that her office makes the appointments like they’re my own personal secretary — this is true of any referral they make. I sit back and accept or reject appointment times based on my ever-changing whims while relaxing on a tuffet and eating Ben & Jerry’s. This is beyond awesome.
Anyway, the week ahead promises many, um, treasures, including a new freelance project, a new hairdresser (Tomorrow! Hold me) and Tuesday, I’m planting the first tier of my garden, which will include carrots, radishes, lettuce and beets. (Avid gardeners may think I’m late for this, but ha HA! We’re zone one. Which also includes Canada. It’s, um, COLD HERE.) Other tiers will include herbs, tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers. I’m genuinely frightened, for I have false hopes of lush, fruitful gardens of rich vegetables that will nourish our family for months to come and I have fantasies of … well, of canning. I know. This whole fantasy is ridiculous and bound for nothing but disappointment.
Also, random heads up that we’re moving servers this week, so there will be some downtime at some point, I don’t know when. Not that you’re waiting with bated breath or anything, but I know that I usually panic and think I’ve broken the Internet when I get an error, but if it’s here, I assure you, your Internets are fine. We’re just moving servers, that’s all. (Bluehost here we come! So, ah, if you hate them, speak now or forever hold your peace!)
Have a great Monday!
*Bruce Springsteen. I don’t normally like him, but I have a few albums. It’s sort of required, isn’t it, if you’re a music person? Along with Bob Dylan and The Beatles, among others. I don’t love them, either, but I appreciate them. It’s much the same with good ole Bruce.
May 11th, 2008
Harvey Weinstein might win the award of Most Disgusting Human Being 2008. Oh don’t mind him! He’s just trying to BULLY Nancy Pelosi into doing what he wants. He is, after all, very rich, didn’t you know? He can buy and sell the Democrats! If he pulls his money WE WILL ALL VOTE FOR JOHN MCCAIIIIINNNNN. (There are worse things, Harvey. Like your nose. There, I said it.) My point, however, is this: where are the cries for Hillary to denounce Harvey Weinstein because he’s a flaccid douchebag?
I’m going to start that battle cry. Because it would be FUN to scream “FLACCID DOUCHEBAG” in the streets, wouldn’t it? Douchebag is remarkably satisfying as a standalone curse word anyway. Terribly offensive and horribly disgusting — honestly, visualize it for a moment, if you will — but one of my favorites nonetheless.
This reminds me of a conversation I had with my sister over the weekend, wherein we discussed our secret lifelong desires to be nurses and she told me that while she’s considering nursing school, she doesn’t want to do anything gross, ever. Like vaginal ultrasounds. Or drawing blood. Or changing bedpans. At which point we agreed that perhaps a secret yearning to wear scrubs is not the best reason to be a nurse? (I am not grossed out by anything, ever. Which is why I do think someday I will be an excellent nurse, among other reasons.)
Well! Shall we take the debate on to safer topics? Because I have a confession: I don’t like homemade whipped cream. I like it from a can, as in Reddi-Wip. Or even … well, I like Cool Whip, transfats be damned. Yesterday I dropped by the local co-op — natural food store, to you and me — and was completely taken with a pint of organic heavy cream. It called to me, truly it did. It was that luscious, creamy yellow — the color of butter, not cream — that screams “For the love of Jesus, put me on ice cream!” I’ve never seen cream like it before. Rich, creamy smears of butterfat lined the curves of the jar, and it was so thick that it hung for a moment when shaken. Just gazing at it was transcendent. I simply had to have it, despite the fact that my ass has had plenty, thank you, and cream isn’t something I ever buy.
In its raw form, it is everything I thought it would be and more. Rich and creamy and simply divine. I poured a dollop into my coffee this morning and moaned in ecstasy. So good.
And then I had to go and whip it. To its credit, it whipped to soft, creamy peaks in approximately 11 seconds. It whipped so fast, in fact, that I was about three whisk turns from sugared butter, which isn’t something I intended and is not necessarily something one wants to eat atop ice cream. But still: it looked delicious.
It wasn’t. I don’t like it. I wanted Reddi-Wip. I’m making butter with the rest of it tomorrow night. The Ben & Jerry’s Cheesecake Brownie ice cream, however, was heavenly, though I don’t recommend it to anyone who isn’t in the throes of some sort of hormonal twist, because it lists cream cheese as the fourth ingredient. CREAM CHEESE. IN ICE CREAM.
(YUM)
This reminds me, too, that there’s something irreparably broken in our society that Extra — Extra GUM, that is — is suddenly being billed as a “five-calorie snack that lasts.”
Gum as a SNACK. A SNACK. It’s NOT A SNACK. That kind of talk just smacks of unhealthy eating and binging, and I’m sorry: shame on you, Extra. A healthy snack is a BANANA. Not a PIECE OF GUM. And to talk about it in the context of DIETING makes me so angry I can hardly see straight. “Go from nice gut to nice butt!”
WITH GUM. Oh, and try not to eat more than twelve grapes a day, fatso. Chew gum instead, say the Extra gum people. And stick your head in the oven while you’re at it!
Tomorrow, by the way, is Gynecologist Day. I’m a little excited. What I am not excited about, however, is that the nurse I spoke with said there might be … tubal flushing? With dye? That, according to my friend Erica’s friends, involves … UTERINE CLAMPING. I don’t know why, I just imagine a giant vise wrapped around my exposed uterus while some dude wearing a woodworking apron cranks it into place. “You’re all set!” he’ll say. “Send in the dye!” And then the Oompa Loompas will show up with tubes of orange dye ready to be pumped into my fallopian tubes.
Then again, this might not happen. Either way, I’m uh, ready? I guess?
Oh, the weekend is here! Almost! Happy happy!
*Keane
May 8th, 2008
So there are a few things going on, but can we just start for a moment with the fact that I got an e-mail from Suzanne Finnamore thanking me for loving her books and for writing about them? And then she said some very nice things which were totally only to be polite, but I do not care, because I was still all googly because dude, SUZANNE FINNAMORE, and then I died. The end. And then I sent a lot of ALL CAPS E-MAILS to Swistle, who loves her as I do, and who responded appropriately and in ALL CAPS as well.
Totally beats the pants off of the time I wrote about Ben Folds in a less-than-complimentary way and one of my longtime readers announced that her husband was his bassist. Yes, this is much better.
In other, SIGNIFICANTLY less exciting news, my dish towels have all disappeared and I imagine they’re having a party somewhere together, celebrating their freedom from a life of dishpan fibers that no amount of fabric softener can cure. I’ve devoted an inordinate amount of time to thinking about their disappearance, and wondering why the left me. Was I that bad? Did I mistreat them? Are their feelings hurt? WHERE ART THOU, DISHTOWELS?
Still feeling faint, by the way, which means that all I can do is write about DRIVEL.
In pop culture land, I have, once again, picked up the People’s “Most Beautiful” issue — it is like crack to me — and have, once again, become increasingly irritated by the whole thing as the pages wear on. For example, I nearly shot myself in the face when I saw Raquel Welch held up as some sort of paragon for older women, and can I just tell you how frustrating this is? Because don’t TELL me that Raquel Welch hasn’t been scalpeled and Restylane’d within an INCH of her (very long) life and it’s just … well. It’s also interesting to me that Jennifer Lopez said that a young woman has the face she was born with, while an older woman gets the face she deserves, and can I be honest in that my first thought after reading that was that she deserved a face that had been hit by a SHOVEL after the whole “I just knew I could” thing re: her “totally natural” pregnancy that Julie articulates better than me? Honestly, that infuriated me. Infuriated.
You’d think that honestly, after getting a few e-mails from people I’ve written about (why, TODAY, in fact!) after something I wrote here, that I would LEARN, because I now know that it’s totally possible for Raquel Welch to send me a nastygram denying all Botox and insisting she is just naturally wrinkle-free, despite having one foot in the grave. And yet I press on! Because look! I am about to talk about …
Scarlett Johansson. Have you, um, heard the single? Because is she serious? Is she actually seriously SINGING, or is that … well. I don’t even know what else to say, but I just don’t know what sycophant told her yes, YES, Scarlett! CUT AN ALBUM. YOU ROCK, sister. (She doesn’t. At all. What IS that?)
All of this is put into remarkable context after talking with an acquaintance of ours who used to do celebrity publicity. She affirmed that yes, celebrities ARE that insane and self-absorbed and …well, everything awful you read about them is true. Stars, it seems, are not like us. Unless we are the type to throw hissy fits because we don’t have the alternating orange and white candle scheme we SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED. (True! Contract riders! ALL TRUE and DEMANDED by the celebrities! I KNOW!)
I meant to write more. I did. And then I got tired and also goofily authory starstruck.
Happy Wednesday! Is it me, or is this week flying?
*Kate Nash
May 6th, 2008
Honest to Pete, I don’t MEAN to be a negative nelly about everything I read, and I don’t want to turn this into a book blog or anything, it’s just that I am on a horribly bad streak lately. I’m desperate for the new Jen Lancaster (coming out tomorrow or, you know, today, if you’re reading this Tuesday, like most people will be) if only so I can read a FAMILIAR voice of someone I know I’ll like. “Split” was divine, but I followed it with a comfortable, if disappointing, Marian Keyes and then … and then Chris Bohjalian’s “The Double Bind” which was SO HILARIOUSLY BAD that I am actually ANGRY about it. Who edited this? Who thought that “dowager” should be used OVER AND OVER again, like it’s a word people use in everyday conversation? Who allowed “epoxied” to be used in place of “glued” three times on three consecutive pages?
Save yourselves. Run. Run away.
My boob is fine, thank you all for your concern. I wasn’t too stressed about it, I just didn’t want to have a NEEDLE in it and hey ho! I didn’t have to. Two doctors, thirty minutes of ultrasound and three people hovering over my boob and everyone declared and agreed that there was nothing to aspirate, and that it was merely an “island of [boob] tissue” and not a cyst. Just lots o’ boob in one place. Which explains, PS, why my left boob is uh, significantly larger than the right. And you know, I’m not a particularly modest person, but there’s something very disconcerting about having three people hovering over your boob, and three — THREE — sets of hands digging around in there at once. That’s six hands and three faces dangling perilously close to my sisters. Someone could have lost an eyeball.
Incidentally, I’m currently working on a proposal for a new freelance client and the process has gotten a little … well, a little ridiculous. I feel like I’m one request away from being asked to submit my design ideas for how greeting cards can be improved with the resurgence of Kajagoogoo and the creative use of faux fur. And it reminds me of the time I was sent by a headhunter friend of mine on a ruse interview to discover precisely why no one wanted to work at one of the companies in his roster. Within minutes, it was painfully obvious, after the director of marketing lamented that my portfolio — like every other writer’s he’d received — was sadly devoid of creative pieces to SELL the person. Like self-portraits festooned with glitter and puffy paint and videos of them kayaking or something. (”When I was interviewing, I put together an entire PowerPoint presentation about myself, including my favorite books, pictures and extra-curricular activities! I even put together a movie with my favorite marketing vehicles and how I would market MYSELF with a direct mail piece! I haven’t gotten ANYTHING like that!”) Yeah, that’s why uh, no one wanted to work there. Dude’s NUTS.
Honestly, this week seems pretty pointless, as I finally have an appointment with a new gynecologist on Friday and it’s possible — just maybe — that I have my hopes up just a little too high, like I’m going to walk out of there nine months’ pregnant. I have a host of feelings on the topic of the situation — good thoughts, bad thoughts, confusing thoughts and at times, destructive thoughts that lead me to do things like Google Things That Should Not Be Googled (Hello, have I not TOLD EVERYONE I KNOW to stay off of Google at times like these? And yet no no, there I am in full-throttle foolish Googling and getting myself worked up that not only are things really broken down there, but I may also be hosting a tumor the size of San Francisco in my abdominal cavity, along with a small herd of sheep. And dying. Did I mention the dying?).
In the meantime, I’m really okay — truly, I’m just ANNOYED with myself, like WHAT THE HELL, BODY. HOP TO. What is not okay, however, is the fact that I just got my, er, special lady time (Surprise! For me? How LOVELY!) and have just devoured a four-pack of chocolate peanut butter Twix and am seriously considering what else might be in the house that I can shove into my gaping maw. I have some pickled asparagus down there (Edited: I MEAN DOWNSTAIRS, NOT DOWN IN THE SPECIAL LADY AREA OMG SADIE), and some oil-cured olives. AND I AM SO GOING TO GET THEM RIGHT NOW.
Happy Tuesday!
*Glen Hansard
May 5th, 2008
Woodstock is one of the most beautiful towns in the entire state of Vermont. It’s quaint, it’s perfect for antiquing and it’s … well, it’s idyllic. It is. You should go there.
But OMG, YOU GUYS. It is also home to a Mobil gas station where I witnessed an employee named Tanya exit the restroom after a lengthy stay (I was waiting desperately. Thanks, Tanya!) with an US Weekly in her hand, all wrinkly and pored over and dog eared. And then … and then she PUT IT BACK ON THE SHELF. Leah warned us of this behavior in bookstores a while back, where it’s bad enough, but at a GAS STATION ON ROUTE 4. NO. NO, TANYA. EW.
Also, why is Tanya wanting to take that much time in the gas station bathroom? I know she works there, but OMG, TANYA. SO GROSS. POOP AND RUN, TANYA.
Anyway, High School Musical was as advertised: Confusing, hilarious, a little bad and all around wonderful. I’m pulling an auntie and swearing that my nephews were the best actors in the whole bunch (THEY TOTALLY WERE) (AM NOT BIASED). Granted, it was a bit uncomfortable even for the brief hour we sat there, because we were crammed into seats designed for elementary schoolers. I guess I should be grateful that I didn’t have my dad’s seat, however, for apparently he was stuck next to a kindergartener with a flatulence problem.
“Her legs were up on the seat for maximum dispersion,” he shook his head sadly. “It got worse every time she sang along and I think the guy in front of us thought it was me.”
Nothing is worse than being accused of a fart you didn’t commit, I agree.
My dad also, by the way, in a futile effort to prove that he is still hip, defended against our assaults and announced Sunday morning that he knows PRECISELY who Angelina Jolie is, he just “can’t think of any of her songs right now, but I’ve heard her on the radio!”
For a few brief hours Saturday, my ATM card was AWOL, and I had absolutely no idea where I’d left it. Despite retracing my steps, I could NOT figure out where it could be (Trader Joe’s? The play?), and every second that I paused to think about it to say, tear apart my purse and/or car, my mother stood in the background piping up, “Ka-CHING! That’s someone using your card for illegal porn! CANCEL IT NOW! KA-CHING!” which resulted in my sister and me whining “Mo-OM! Sto-OP!” in tandem for the first time since we all lived under the same roof.
(”Ka-CHING!”)
(ARGH! Mo-OM!)
Incidentally, I’d left it at the Taco Bell drive-thru, a trip for post-baseball tacos for the kids that I’d forgotten I’d even MADE. Also, the manager almost didn’t give me the card back when I insisted that my name was Jonna R-, and he had a card for JOANNA R-, which of course he didn’t, he was simply reading it wrong. And what are the chances, Mr. Taco Bell Manager, that TWO Jonna/Joannas with the same not-totally-common last name left their Citizen’s Gold Mastercard CheckCard at the Taco Bell Drive-Thru that day? SERIOUSLY.
And with that, I’m exhausted and it’s almost time for bed. I like road-tripping by myself, if only so that I can stop to pee without any argument (”But you JUST WENT!”) and have the entire bag of Combos (Pizzeria Pretzel is my flavor) to myself. I can also blast whatever music I want, and play a little game with myself, wherein I refuse to skip any tracks unless they are TRULY abysmal, which meant I listened to the entire Pet Shop Boys’ album, Please, along with some ancient New Order and yes … John Cougar Mellencamp. I also wished more than once for a bullhorn so that I could announce “Yes, I have Florida plates, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to drive in Massachusetts! SO BACK OFF, ASSHOLE!”
(I still totally have Florida plates. And license. I have to fix it, I know.)
I hope you had a great weekend. Happy new week to you! Who’s excited for a week of boob-stabbing and (new!) gynecologists (who might have drugs and tests and help!)? WHOOO?
*PSB. From Please!
May 4th, 2008
Well! We have a sort-of winner, for now, in that I went to the drugstore tonight and picked up Night of Olay (Swistle’s rec) because she has great skin and how do I know this? I AM TOTALLY WINNING her contest because dude, I knew her face within seconds and she DOES have great skin! YES. I AM SAYING IT RIGHT HERE AND NOW FOR THE FRILLIONTH TIME. Swistle = Photo H. Take that to the bank, Swistlers! (If I’m wrong, I will make and eat pad thai again. Okay?)
(Late-day edit: VICTORY IS MINE, Y’ALL.)
I’m sorry what was I saying? Oh yes. I bought Night of Olay because iI am painfully impatient and it was the only recommended one I could find at my local drugstore other than Cetaphil, which was my original first choice, but then I read the ingredients and saw that petrolatum was the second ingredient and it sort of grossed me out. Plus, it was six bucks, yo. But I ALSO plan to fill out the survey on Mario Badescu and am going to try their seaweed night cream, too. Because Holly was very convincing and I TOO would like porcelain skin.
So um, hey! What are your thoughts on sharing toothbrushes and/or razors? I mean among loved ones, that is. Not with fellow subway riders or anything. Because I accidentally used Adam’s toothbrush last night and ZOMG THE AWFUL AWFULNESS. He always acts as though I had just spit directly in his mouth, which I suppose I sort of did. And while it’s not the most PLEASANT thing in the world, to think that I just swept away my plaque with something that probably still contained the remnants of his the moment prior, I maintain that by the very fact that we are married people who like each other, we DO on occasion swap bodily fluid-type things. And plaque, really, is is THAT bad? I mean, I wouldn’t do it by CHOICE, but in a pinch, I’d use his like if, say, it was midnight in a new destination and I forgot to bring mine. But I realize this is not true for everyone, and it’s most definitely not true of my husband.
He compares it to sharing a razor, which I disagree with, because a razor involves BLOOD and for some reason that bothers me more. This is paradoxical, yes, plus if you have, say, gingivitis, your toothbrush will be bloody and … oh forget it. But it’s my fluid policy and I’m sticking to it. And I am NOT OKAY with sharing a razor with anyone, ever. I won’t even use Adam’s OR my sister’s. Ever.
I’m off to Boston tomorrow afternoon again, by the way, for my nephews’ High School Musical fest and time with my parents and then MONDAY I get to have my boob ultrasounded and stabbed and I gotta tell you, I’m dreading it like nothing I’ve ever dreaded before. I have a cyst the size of a quail egg in my left boob (too much info?) and I’ve had it for … well, about a year, I guess, and I’ve had tons of doctors look at it, and mammograms so no, I am not particularly worried about it.
In fact, at this point, I feel like I should just offer it up to anyone I meet, like hi, have you seen my boob cyst? It hurts! Which it does. A lot. Pretty often, in fact, as I have hormonal fluctuations like you read about (hence likely future of fertility drugs!) and it’s not my favorite thing in the world, this boob cyst, because it hurts all the time, like right now, when I think it’s trying to move out of my boob and into its own apartment, such is the URGENT NATURE OF ITS COMPLAINT. It would like better plumbing, I think. I would, too. You’re not alone, boob.
And it’s becoming my LEAST FAVORITE THING EVER knowing that people are going to STAB IT and drain stuff from it, because my thyroid biopsy was one of the worst experiences of my whole life. Like, it was EPIC in its awfulness, with giant (GIANT) needles ripping through my neck like a hurricane. Pain I was totally unprepared for, by the way, as I was all, this is going to be so easy! Easy! Like, it totally won’t hurt at all!
It did. A lot.
So there’s that. I will be thinking of THAT while I suffer through High School Musical. Suffering upon suffering. I might as well imagine the side effects of Clomid and eat a carton of prunes while I’m in there to really make the experience TRULY EXCITING IN ITS OVERWHELMING PAIN. (I kid! I love those little boys and I’m sure it will be … loving in its pain.)
And finally, I went to the post office to mail something at lunch today — it was an envelope being sent to a PO box WITHIN THE VERY POST OFFICE THAT I WAS STANDING. And yet, I had to pay postage. For them to WALK IT over to the box. Fair? I THINK NOT.
Have a great weekend.
*House of Pain. HA. Am killing myself here. Before my boob does, that is.
May 1st, 2008
My skin doesn’t like Vermont very much. Since we moved here, it’s been … well, a mess, really, and not a day hasn’t gone by when I haven’t been rocking what can only be described as pizza face. It did the same thing when we first moved to Florida, and eventually I got into a good groove by finally acquiescing to a decent moisturizing regimen, including a night moisturizer that I really loved (Boscia, if you’re wondering) and the clouds parted, and I had great skin until we got here and it all went to hell in a handbasket. I changed it up last night in an effort to reclaim great skin, and truly, I didn’t think it could get any worse, but hey, um, WOW. IT DID.
I used Burt’s Bee’s Radiance Night Cream with royal jelly, which sounds so absolutely gross, does it not? Like, it sounds like sexytime lube for bees, which I just don’t want to smear on my face. I know that’s not what it is, but dude, it’s called ROYAL JELLY. And it’s a SECRETION. BAHRGH.
No matter. I woke up this morning with FIVE BRAND-NEW ZITS of the extra-ooky variety, if you know what I’m saying. So no jelly for me. And perhaps none for you, for if you have oily skin, dude, RUN. RUN AWAY FROM THE BEE LUBE. Which brings me to the fact that I am now in the market for a new night cream, and because I don’t even live near a department store, I’d like something I can get at Rite-Aid. Call me cheap, but it’s mostly laziness and a hatred for mail-order. Do you have any recommendations?
Speaking of cheap, I got a library card at lunch today, when I realized that I’ve been spending an ungodly amount of money on books for an ungodly amount of time. I don’t even think I THOUGHT about the amount of trips I took to the bookstore, because I told myself, “It’s for books! Books are good for you!” I had a backlog of reading material that carried me through since we moved here, but in the last three weeks, I’ve spent upwards of $50 PER WEEK OR MORE on books. I’m sorry to say as well, that it’s because we only have a locally-owned bookstore here and NOTHING is discounted, ever — I mean, I’m all for buying local, but there’s something to be said for Barnes & Noble’s prices, I’m shamed to admit. Especially when my lifelong voracious reading habits suddenly mean I won’t buy any books at all. (I’m sorry authors! I’m sorry! Local is EXPENSIVE! Like, uh, more than $200-per-month expensive! Reading is supposed to be a cheap, at-home entertainment-type activity!)
Anyway, for some reason, the library card makes me feel virtuous, like the Elizabeth Berg novel I nabbed today helps me to contribute to society. It doesn’t. But I still feel SPECIAL. I have a LIBRARY CARD and am saving MONEY. Someone give me a cookie.
(Also, can I tell you again how much I love Goodreads, as it totally appeals to the listmaker in me and I’m embarrassed at the amount of procrastination I do there by browsing reviews and books and MAKING MORE LISTS.)
And finally, in the land of biting off more than you can chew, I — who have until this point only attempted culinary challenges to the level of SHAKE ‘N BAKE — thought that since we have no Thai restaurants near us, that I would attempt homemade pad thai. And folks, there is a reason that kids don’t grow up eating pad thai as a familiar comfort food, along with meatloaf and mashed potatoes. This is because it’s HARD. AND AWFUL. AND VERY, VERY DISGUSTING. AND NOT LIKE IT IS IN RESTAURANTS. I finished working at 5:30 and started dinner, thinking that it would be easy! The Web site said it was easy! We’d be eating by 6:15!
HA. We ate at 7:30, if by “ate” you mean took one bite each and nearly threw up in our mouths, because again, oh my sweet God.
“It tastes like soap! But it’s … it’s sort of okay.” Adam was horrified, but trying to be a good sport.
“No! NO! It tastes like PASTE in elementary school — no no, PASTE IS BETTER! THIS TASTES LIKE ROTTING PASTE! WITH SOUR FRUIT.” And it was. It was awful. So awful. So, so awfully awful.
I was almost in angry pad-thai’d tears, because dude, it was HARD. There were MANY INGREDIENTS. They were CHOPPED and for chrissake, I used MISE EN PLACE. WITH RAMEKINS. The kitchen was trashed like it has never been trashed before. Scallions littered the floor like confetti, while the refrigerator door was smeared with a slash of tamarind paste that resembled a bloodstain. Splashes of oily garlic were caked to the walls above the stove, and I used every pot we owned, along with the wok, which lay haphazardly askew in the sink, the sticky noodles permanently etched onto its surface, never to be removed again. I was sweating, despite the fact that it SNOWED TODAY. (Did I not mention it fucking SNOWED TODAY? WELL, IT DID.)
And because by the time this all wrapped up, it was 8 p.m., and because we live in a town where NOTHING IS AVAILABLE AFTER SEVEN WITHOUT A BIG PRODUCTION, and I … I had no back-up plan at all … I had a McDonald’s cheeseburger for dinner, while Adam had a Quarter Pounder. Thai food is awesome.
(Seriously? My last meal was SHAKE ‘N BAKE. What was I THINKING? I AM NOT SMITTEN KITCHEN. Also? Tamarind tastes like absolute shit, as does fish sauce, I’m sorry. And as a sauce, together? Over NOODLES? WITH VERY LITTLE BLUNTING INGREDIENTS? NO NO NO.)
Have a great Thursday!
*Travis
April 30th, 2008
Perhaps I’ve just read “Valley of the Dolls” a few too many times, but I’ll tell you, I found it utterly hilarious that the Store Formerly Known as Lerner New York has giant signs up that say, “The Caftan: The Season’s Must-Have.”
The CAFTAN? Honestly? Can’t we come up with something else to call it, as we did with bell-bottoms, which mysteriously became FLARE PANTS once past their prime? Because man, caftan just evokes images of Anne Welles whipping out a Mother’s Little Helper and sporting a flip-do with a lot of hairspray. Oh how I love that book and everything it represents (fluff fiction, absurd vicarious debauchery and … the caftan? I don’t know).
We’re home, by the way, and really, it’s so NICE to be back in our own beds, for we were like an ad for Hotels.com in my nephew’s room, all snuggled up in separate bunk beds (my nephew was relegated to the basement). Although can I confess that there’s something so delightfully awesome about having your own set of sheets and comforter? Adam and I share a king-size bed — I am decidedly NOT a snuggler, and I NEED MY SPACE. If he touches me, in fact, I freak out, because I need FREEDOM. I am also a hot sleeper, emanating sweat and heat in waves off of my prone, drenched body, so ah, snuggling with me isn’t exactly appealing.
A king works just fine for that, really it does, but where things go wrong is the sharing of the blankets. I like to be wrapped up like a burrito, my feet exposed out the bottom, whereas Adam, too, likes to be wrapped up like a burrito, and two people cannot be burritoed unless they want to be burritoed TOGETHER, which sounds awful and very … close. And sweaty.
At any rate, I’m home, only to leave again on Friday for my nephews’ play, only to sleep in the same bunk bed — this time with my mother on the bottom (uh, ew? That sounds … wrong) as Adam is staying home. And so, on Saturday afternoon, I’ll be in the audience of a (very tiny) production of High School Musical. I know. It’s … it’s bound to be sort of cute, but honestly, it’s guaranteed moments of pain, particularly because both nephews have assured me that it sucks, using those exact words. “It sucks, Auntie. It’s really, really awful.” But honestly, what does one expect of a play cast with 9 to 11-year-olds? Of uh, High School Musical, no less? You expect wonderful, in that awful way, yes?
I neglected to mention, by the way, that I hit Target this weekend, and you know how some things take on a golden glow after you leave them, in a way they never glowed before and never will again? Target SHONE LIKE THE SUN AS IT HAD NEVER SHONE BEFORE. It … it IS that great, and I bought … well, a lot, including an inordinate amount of those swingy shirts that graze the belly area rather than cling to it like Saran Wrap that Target (or, I should say, Mossimo) is so outstanding at producing, despite the fact that they fall apart after three washings (which is why I bought thirteen! Or you know, THIRTY. And yet? My grand total was only $80! THAT IS THE BEAUTY THAT IS TARGET.)
It’s everything I remembered and … and more. And suddenly, I’m wondering if living here isn’t as wonderful as I thought, because Target is love. (That reminds me of the book, “Who Needs Donuts?” wherein they discuss “Who needs donuts when you got love?” Because LOVE replaces DONUTS. BUT NOT TARGET.)
I also walked around an actual mall that featured an actual Apple store and actual STORES THAT PEOPLE SHOP IN TO BUY THINGS MADE THIS DECADE other than … Fashion Bug. Which, again, it appears I am desperate enough to shop in and even appreciate after months of abstinence. Country girls need earrings, too.
And now, if you would, and you have some free time this week, please go to Target. Revel in the aisles, and buy a cheap necklace, buy some Mossimo T-shirts! Isaac Mizrahi! PLASTIC WELLINGTON BOOTS. CHEAP TOTES. WHO CARES? BUY IT ALL. OR AT LEAST A CAFTAN. At a bare minimum, caress it all, every moment you can, because I can’t, and I wish I could.
And finally, a word of caution: even if you LIKE prunes, as I do, they are not nature’s most perfect snack, as Sunsweet promises. They are, in fact, nature’s cruel joke, and are nothing more than the Road to Endless Bloat, which means that if you see a (again, totally fake) stripey redhead floating by your place of residence today — or hell, even THURSDAY, for I will be UP THERE THAT LONG — would you take her out with a rock to put her out of her misery? Please?
Have a great Wednesday.
*Remy Zero
April 29th, 2008
Help! I’ve eaten my way through Massachusetts and I can no longer button my pants. No, ah, seriously. I mean, they fit now because they’ve grown with me, but when I wash them, and they’re all stiff and shrunken? I. Am. Toast. Buttered toast, to be exact, because I’ve had plenty of that, among other things, including coffee with actual cream, and when was the last time you did that?
(So good.)
I’ve taken the lowbrow Boston-area culinary tour, if you will, for I have eaten, in no particular order: the entire contents of a deep-fried pu pu platter, plus fried rice and lo mein (and plenty of that pink pork loin basted with Ah So sauce, which seems horribly racist in a Mickey Rooney/Breakfast at Tiffany’s sort of way, yes?); a caramelized onion cheeseburger at Joe’s on Newbury; nachos; incredibly delicious pizza from some mysterious Newton pizzeria and … I’ll stop there, as I’m getting hungry.
We’ve seen lots of family, but it’s never enough, really. It’s frustrating how that works, isn’t it? When you’re with them, it’s wonderful and you swear to see each other more often, but then you don’t, because you get too busy and because, well, you’re an idiot. Or at least I am, because I need to see everyone a lot more often. I have four delicious nephews growing like weeds and Adam’s grandpa won’t be around forever, which is a fact I steadfastly refuse to accept, for I love him so much I get teary eyed when I see him. I also touch him a lot and always go for two kisses at the end our time together, and I tell him I love him a whole lot, but the thing is, I do. A whole lot.
And hi ho! Speaking of lovely family, so during the pizza portion of our show on Saturday, Adam’s aunt took me aside into one of the back bedrooms of her home saying she “had to tell me something.” I really honest and truly had NO IDEA where she was going with this, and I never would have guessed if you paid me, like honestly, NEVER. She took my hands and blurted out:
“I … I found and read your blog.”
And let me tell you folks, I DIED. I nearly fell over. I turned bright red from my legs to my scalp and clapped my hand over my mouth and just DIED. There is nothing else to say, for once again, I AM DEAD.
And then she said she’s been wondering how to tell me (which is awful, I mean, why would she feel like it’s on HER to feel awkward? I SHOULD BE WEARING THE AWKWARD, NOT HER), and she was so complimentary and kind and said she was very proud of me and it was … it was really touching, I can’t explain it, and I was sort of choking back tears. Especially because I have always genuinely liked her so much (and I’m not just saying that because she’s reading. You’d like her, too), so it … it meant a lot, it really did. And then, because I am weirdly conditioned by what’s happened to so many bloggers who got busted by their families — especially their in-laws — I reflexively announced that I would NEVER write anything bad about anyone because I WOULD NOT DO THAT.
This is patently true, of course, and I have said this before, but what horrified me was that it seemed to imply that I had LOADS of awful things to say about her and her family, but was HOLDING THEM BACK FOR THE SAKE OF BLOGGY RESPECT. When THIS IS NOT TRUE. I love her whole family and I think she knows that, but if you’d heard me, you probably would have wondered what dark feelings I’ve been keeping a secret. Which is to say, none.
I am very smooth, you see.
This, by the way, is the same reaction I have when readers recognize me, something that’s happened all of twice, and once doesn’t count, really (it’s a long story). I go into SUPER-AWKWARD HAND-TALKY MODE, and though there are plenty who wonder, is she telling the truth about her awkwardness? Alert reader Stephanie in particular can vouch that yes, I really am that awkward, especially if caught off-guard. I also hug strangely and announce, “I’m hugging you!” as I hug you, which is terribly obvious and also too late to serve as a warning, because the hug is upon you, you cannot refuse.
Speaking of hugs, I also feel compelled to add that Adam’s cousin (son of aforementioned aunt) was the recipient of one of the most awkward hugs of my life a few years ago — so much that it’s affected how I hug him to this day. He leaned in for the hug, I thought he was going for the cheek kiss, and I ended up planting one right in the crook of his neck and worse, I had to point it out, like I was picking at a scab.
“Oh my God, I just kissed your neck. See, I thought you were going for the cheek, but you were hugging and … Oh.” This would have been less awkward if he wasn’t completely adorable and was instead, goofy and hump-backed, I don’t know why. I suppose because I didn’t want to seem like the lecherous older woman married to his cousin, no less, trying to kiss his neck when no one was looking, like some creepy cougar waiting to pounce. It was an ACCIDENT.
I haven’t outed myself to the whole family, by the way, for no good reason, really. I’m not really ashamed of anything here, and in fact, pretty much blurt these things out in real life to anyone. My mother, I’ve been meaning to tell for years, and I’ll be honest in that the only reason I haven’t, is that I know she’d worry. I come so close, and then I think of the questions and her worry that someone will beat me in my sleep with a frozen zucchini and run off with my dog. My mother won’t buy anything over the Internet, as she’s afraid that someone will steal her identity and take all of her money, so writing on the Internet, oh my sweet Lord, I don’t … I don’t know if she’s up for processing that without staying awake nights, but someday, I intend to find out.
Plus, doesn’t it feel awkward to bust out with, “I have a blog, please pass the potatoes!” at a family dinner? (For Keeps, with Molly Ringwald. Oh, I love that movie.)
There’s more, there’s always more, but I’ve tortured you enough, and I’m afraid this is terribly boring. Except I also want to say that if you happen to see someone rolling around New England in too-small pants — on her side, perhaps, like Violet heading to the juicing room — it’s me. And if I still have a cheese stick in my hand, would you be so kind as to cruelly rip it away from me and tell me to stop eating, to think of the CHILDREN or something? And then I’ll announce, “I’m hugging you!” while my fat sausage arms wind their way around your neck, which I will find a way to kiss, although that was not my intention. It’ll be fun.
Have a great Monday!
(P.S., It wasn’t a random find, to those who are harboring deep-seated panic of familial discovery. Adam’s other cousin (not the daughter of this aunt, but same side) has a family-known blog and has read me for years and linked to me, though I’d never thought about it much, but now that I do, it’s a total no-shitter. Like, um, of course? Do I have two brain cells to piece things together myself? APPARENTLY NOT. In other words, this will not necessarily happen to you. I know I’d be wondering if I were you and would be all, PANIC PANIC ALERT ALERT WOOP WOOP. And if it does happen to you, I hope it’s as pleasant as this was.)
*The Shins
April 27th, 2008
I was without Internet for the entire day today, and if you thought that this meant that I would be more productive, as I did, then oh, you would be so very wrong. I felt creepily paralyzed, like someone had lopped off my fingers at the knuckle, and I suddenly had to learn to type with nubs. (HA. I said NUB.) Possible, yes; easy, not so much. Generally speaking, although I can get sucked into the Internet Vortex of Nowhere, I am not wretchedly addicted or neglecting my normal life — or so I thought — and there I was, all PANICKED. PANICKED. RED ALERT! LASERS! PEW! PEW! PEW!
I meant to add yesterday, before getting ass-juice splayed all over me, that there should be a giant sign in TJ Maxx to politely request customers to please, DO NOT BRING THEIR CART into the narrow aisles. Must you bring the cart into the eighteen inch space of Misses Tops? Can you not CHOOSE a Misses Top without bringing your cart through and blocking the rest of us out of the Michael Kors past seasons and irregulars so that you can pick up your crocheted Tahari poncho? Or worse, you trap us between two carts with nothing to do but peruse blouses that contain far too many strings and idly wondering, where would I tie that? Do I WANT to tie that? WHY ALL THE STRINGS? (No, seriously, why the strings at the waist? Why?). Park the cart, yes, PARK the cart and THEN shop. Yes, see how easy it is! Easy!
We’re off to Boston this weekend for In-Law Fest ‘08, and though I am looking forward to seeing our Newton and Needham relatives, I am most looking forward to the Chinese food. Do you know Boston Chinese food? It is an entirely different BREED of Chinese food, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted. You think you’ve had Chinese food! I know! We’ve ALL had Chinese food! But until you’ve had a pu pu platter from South Pacific in Newton, then you haven’t had delicious, greasy Boston-style Chinese. Well, there are others that will do as well, but South Pacific is my personal favorite. Get a scorpion bowl while you’re there, too, which is something that I’d like to partake in, during I-L Fest (or, you know, TWENTY), but won’t.
(I kid, for they are really lovely people.)
And finally, a friend and I went to yoga this afternoon and in addition to vast amounts of Yoga Brain, wherein I was entirely unable to know my right from left or even that hey, if I put my mat underneath a giant half-wall WINDOW, then I won’t be able to use the wall like the teacher ASKED ME TO. But most importantly, I finally had a witness to the insanity that is my yoga studio, with chanting and overgrown armpits and passive-aggressive yogic-ness (”Everyone, please go deeper into your hip stretch. Especially if your name is say … Jonna!” No kidding. She said that.)
But the real coup de grace in our tenuous yogic sobriety was when the teacher’s six-year-old daughter came launching in during our final .. shivasa? Shibasa? Whatever: CORPSE POSE PLUS CHANTING SHIT, and went to the bathroom, wherein we oh’med our way through a solid three minutes of this poor girl’s resounding pee — seriously, it went on FOREVER — while her mother, clearly distracted, as we all were (BY THE FOREVER PEE, seriously was she a CAMEL?), tried to chant about the light in her bowing to the light in me and then there was the TOILET FLUSH that was honestly the loudest thing I have ever heard, and let’s just say I wasn’t particularly relaxed. Like, at all.
And I. Lost. It. I lost it! The chanting! The peeing! The flushing! The fact that while all this was happening, I was strapped in, yet again, to the most ridiculous pose that involved my knees and elbows intertwined in this purple strap-like thing with blocks and blankets and bears, oh my! I honestly broke out in that kind of nasal horking laughter that comes through your nose like you’ve inhaled too much chlorine — when you’re trying to hold it in but can’t — until I snotted all over myself, which only made me laugh harder, I’m sorry to say. And also slightly slimy and unable to give it a proper swipe due to the strappiness of the whole strappy contraption.
It’s possible I might not be allowed back. I’m not sure. I mean, considering I surreptitiously horked and snickered my way through the yoga teacher’s daughter’s pee, I can’t say I blame her. (Note: the daughter did not see any of this, and I have to say, that naturally, it wasn’t her fault, for who knew it would ECHO so? It was just … well, you try relaxing and oh’ming while someone is basically peeing in your ear. Also, why didn’t the teacher tell her to wait? She had to know its echoey properties!)
And with that, I hope you have a wonderful weekend. If you’re in Newton tomorrow night, and you see a (totally fake) redhead in South Pacific, it’s probably me, unless she’s clearly got a wash ‘n set, in which case it is Adam’s Auntie Izzy.
(Also, dude, Lost: WTF? WTFFFFFFEEEECCCKKK?)
*Frankie Goes to Hollywood, of COURSE
April 24th, 2008
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