Archive for April, 2007
If anyone sees a big red wagon with the words “Weight Watchers” emblazoned on the side of it, will you kindly point me to it? Because it’s bogglingly apparent after this weekend’s debauchery that I am no longer on it, and in fact, have strayed so far in a few short days that I’ll be shocked if I can even FIND it again, but I will, oh, I will! I will also cut myself some slack, because if there’s ever a time where fried chicken on a stick is appropriate, it’s when it’s medically necessary to soak up the gallons and gallons of gin consumed. (1,354,678 Flex PointsTM)
I’m hungover, is what I’m saying, and given that I rarely drink to excess, it was quite a momentous occasion. But: wedding! I went to a wedding this weekend – and not just any wedding, but the wedding of one of my very best friends. It’s kind of a big deal to see people you love get married, and while I was teetering in my very high heels at the altar, it occurred to me again that this was why Adam insisted that we have a wedding for our friends and family. Seeing someone you love go through that kind of (gag, but there is no other term) rite of passage is really exciting, and of course, Eve’s wedding didn’t disappoint.
I was the witness, and really, all that means is that I was the person designated to sign the marriage license to prove that two people actually got married that day. The concept seems sort of silly to me, given that there were also 150 other people there, and the only thing that made me any different from them was a sparkly green dress and gold mules, but I was more than happy to oblige. What this also meant, however, was that during the rehearsal, we failed to ask the priest (who was in his early 80s and married half of the groom’s family including his parents), when we were to sign it – before, during, or after the ceremony?
Ergo, through a series of strange circumstances, I ended up walking down the aisle with the unsigned marriage license tucked lumpily into my bra. However, this was not before I hauled ass down the aisle first – solo, in gold high heels – ahead of the everyone to scope out the crowd situation for the bride, and also to talk to Father Bob about the marriage license and its role in the ceremony or lack thereof. Considering I had three glasses of champagne in the limo in approximately six minutes, this went something like this:
J (breathless, tripping in high gold mules): FATHER BOB. I HAVE PAPERS IN MY BRA.
FB (a Catholic priest, mind you. Who is seated at the altar that I did not bow before running up the stairs and also wearing lots of fancy and complicated robes): Dear…what? I’m sorry dear.
J: I have the marriage license in my….uh, my dress. Do you want it? What do we do?
*gesticulates wildly towards boobs*
FB: Oh, um, I’ll ah, take them later. When you don’t have to, ah, pull them out of there.
J: [brightly] Okay!
Immediately following the ceremony, I did, however, have to do just that, which is to pull them out of my bosom and hand them over to him, suitably chagrined, because God, I reached into my boobs and pulled a suspicious-looking envelope from my breasts and handed them over to a priest.
I also proceeded to get slightly happy-drunk and love, rather annoyingly, on everyone at the wedding, which is what I do. I’ve never been an angry drinker – God, what would the point be? – and instead, morph into a much more loving version of myself, and unfortunately, this turns into inappropriate use of the words “I love you” to people I may or may not have just met, often shortly after introducing myself.
However, it was a truly stellar weekend, and as of this moment, I’m more than a little embittered that I am no longer drinking gin outside of a swanky historic hotel surrounded by 100 of my closest friends.
Hope your weekend was fantastic.
April 29th, 2007
Closing your eyes on the treadmill is never a good idea. I don’t know why I did it – I was really into the song I was listening to (Peter Gabriel’s “Here Comes the Flood” if you care.), and I just closed my eyes like I was in some kind of trance. God. This also meant that I almost fell asleep, considering that it was 6 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, and I was running on the treadmill like some kind of fool, given that I was barely awake and also listening to hypnotizing music. Moments later, I was falling off the treadmill and trying to regain some kind of balance and pride. I failed with a resounding “thud,” along with some earbud tangling, sputtering and blushing. I do this a lot.
The day was basically doomed from there. On my way home, the pharmacist tried to ask me out at the grocery store, and I did the unthinkable: I laughed at him. God, it was horrible. I mean, it’s my fault! My fault! He was in front of me in line, wearing his requisite button down and trademark pocket protector (look, I never said he was hot, and also, I am not making that part up. A POCKET PROTECTOR) buying an impressive array of organic items, and I recognized him from my all-too-frequent pharmacy visits and announced: “You’re Johnny Pesky***, the pharmacist! Hi!”
It goes without saying that I only remembered his name because it is the same as a famous Red Sox figure, but seeing as he is not from Boston, how would he know that? I remembered his name, and I think I touched his arm in a friendly gesture and said I really missed seeing him at the store. I might as well have taken my pants off and handed him my underpants.
(I really did miss him, by the way. The new pharmacist is very surly and hateful, and also has a wart on the end of her nose that I can’t stop staring at, but it’s PURPLE, and I can’t help but wonder if she should have it looked at, because seriously? It’s purple, pointy and very angry-looking.)
And then there was talk of how he’s been transferred to another store, blah blah, but he totally remembered me too, and would it be okay if he called me sometime?
And then I just stared at him for a moment, clutching my lone purchase: a Lean Cuisine frozen pizza, which may as well scream “single, dieting and desperate.” And then I panicked, got a burst of nervous energy…and I just laughed at the poor guy. Could I be a bigger jerk? Seriously? But I wasn’t laughing at him, not at ALL, it’s that the whole thing was so…ridiculous, and my fault and also surprising, because again, no one asks me out ever, and why should they, given that I am married and not prone to that sort of thing.
Ugh. And then I panicked again, and desperately tried to explain why I was laughing, which was due to nervous, self-deprecating reasons, nothing to do with him, it’s just that I’m socially inept and also married, and God, the last time someone propositioned me in any way, they were sipping moonshine from a plastic flask and wearing head to toe camouflage while riding the back of a citrus truck, yelling “Hey baby, wanna give me head?” shortly followed by “BITCH!” when I refused to glance in his direction.
It was too late. He was already running out of the store to his Audi A4 (Why am I not a pharmacist?), and I just feel so bad. Also, the pre-pubescent clerk was not helpful, as he gaped at me and said “Wow. Um, that was awkward.” And oh, it was.
Finally, on a far less embarrassing note, I realize that there are only four of us over the age of 21 watching this season’s Real World: Denver, but if you’re not? You’re missing out in a major way, because Brooke is one of the greatest characters in the history of the series. The girl is deliciously insane, and watching her stumble is one of the cruelest, most amusing vicarious experiences I’ve ever had. It’s like she came out of central casting after someone demanded, “Give me crazy! Give me sheltered! Give me irrationally spoiled and weepy!” And I mean that she is so far beyond expectations in these categories even when compared with every other disturbed Real World contestant. She’s wickedly, horribly nuts. It’s fantastic. I’m just saying. Catch the next marathon. You won’t be sorry.
*The Brother Kite, which I can’t stop listening to, thanks to the usual suspect’s suggestion. And now I shall pay it forward.
**edited to say thanks for your comments on the last post. I was a little scared to write that one, because of all the things I outlined. Thus far, I remain flame-free, and instead, feeling a little less irritated by the whole thing, because we’re not alone. Thank you again for being so nice.
***Also not his his actual name. But it was that of a well-known Boston sports figure.
April 25th, 2007
It wasn’t a killer morning, by any stretch. I woke up late, disoriented because I’m sleeping in the guest room while Adam suffers through a ferocious bout with bronchitis and hacks his face off, and discovered that we had no water due to the construction on our street. Yes, yes, they TOLD us about it a while back, but who remembers these things? I had to brush my teeth at the office, dry shave my underarms (hott) and stumble around to find something to wear that didn’t require a shower steam to de-wrinkle.
Anyway. While Adam hacked his way through a Z-pack all weekend, I went shopping, and honestly, I don’t know what I expected, but I’m pretty sure it was along the lines of salesperson after salesperson sizing up my newly-sveltish form and announcing with shock and glee, “Oh dear… I think you’re just too tiny for everything we have in this store! We are OUT of size zeros!”
Sigh. I kid. What I really missed, however, was the assistance of my husband who, in his infinitely endearing honesty, would not hesitate to answer me honestly when I posed the question, “Does this make me look…hefty?” That might make people blanch, but considering he’s among the kindest, most complimentary of men most of the time, I appreciate his honesty. Also, every time he tells me I look great, I bask in the compliment, because the guy, he doesn’t make shit up, and he sure doesn’t lie.
Anyway, along the lines of size zero-talk, something Emily said the other day really struck a chord with me, and I hate to even bring this up, but it really fries my pork rinds sometimes, the way women are caught between a rock and a hard place when it comes to weight and body issues. Oddly, this is probably not what you’re expecting, so those on Eating Disorder and Media Screaming Alert can put down your chopsticks and relax. Or not.
Let me preface this by saying that I’ve never had an eating disorder, and frankly, I’ve never really had body image issues aside from the typical 10-30 pounds so many of us struggle to lose time and time again. This probably discounts what I’m about to say to a lot of people, but I’m somewhat embarrassed to report that I’ve always liked myself, and I’ve always been very comfortable with the way that I look. Truthfully, whatever issues I’ve ever had, self-esteem and concerns about my appearance really weren’t among them. If nothing else, I’d be largely unaware of how I looked, even when I gained weight – I never understood how or why the washing machine managed to shrink my clothes (ALL OF THEM), never considering the problem might be my ever-expanding ass.
That being said, my issue is this: It’s frustrating to me that our society is so confused about healthy body image and eating that some seem to universally see it as a negative when people want to make healthier changes and drop a few pounds. Frankly, I think this is an area where too many mixed messages have confused the donuts out of half of America, me included, and I’m not sure where it’s written that wanting to be healthier and more in shape means that you’re succumbing to some sort of media-driven ideal. I don’t want to be Nicole Richie. I want to be a healthier me (Gag me) (Also cue Special K music). I don’t have a size in mind, and I realize I’m not ever going to have washboard abs, or even flat abs, and that’s fine with me. There is a difference, and sometimes it feels like wanting to do any sort of self-improvement of any kind in this area is a massive, red-alert feminism failure (My doorbell is ringing. It’s Germaine Greer!), and entails handing over your soul to the gods of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.
It’s not. I liked myself then, and I like myself now. I think a lot of people feel this way, frankly. And while I’m all for embracing your shape at any size, I think that making a change towards healthier habits is a good idea for everyone, no matter what your gender or size, and I hate that it’s considered almost disrespectful to say so. Would I like to be a smaller pants size? Why sure! Who wouldn’t? Does it mean I’m on some sort of slippery slope towards an eating disorder, and does it mean that I’m dealing with uncontrollable bouts of self-loathing because I can’t fit into that Betsey Johnson I fell in love with at the Saks Outlet? Actually, no, but you know it really did piss me off that 90% of the clothes at Saks are designed for a PEANUT, because if that dress was a size 10 or even an eight, I will eat this laptop right here and now. But I digress.
There is no in-between. You’re either too fat, and therefore are unacceptable to society, or you’re careening towards an eating disorder and therefore, also unacceptable to society. You’re only allowed to make healthy changes unless you’re so far out of the realm of the healthy weight range – in either direction – that it’s obvious to everyone, many of whom are horrified and secretly sizing up their own body next to yours, thinking, “Well, at least I don’t look like her.” Oh yes, then you’re allowed to make changes. But the world will gleefully watch as you put yourself there, crowing, “Eat whatever you want! Don’t exercise! EMBRACE your shape!” or, alternatively, “Are you really going to eat that?”
I’m all for embracing your shape. I am. God knows I have to embrace a whole shitload of flaws, both internal and external, every day, and really, I do. I mean, I don’t HUG my thighs every day, but I accept them. And I like them, and they’re fine. But I like them a whole lot more now that I at least feel like I’m taking care of them, even if they haven’t changed all that much since I started exercising and eating more broccoli (my digestive system politely begs to differ, because it feels changes, yes it does).
I don’t really know what I’m trying to say, except that we’re kind of all over the place when it comes to this sort of thing. Embrace your shape! (Get smaller thighs.) Eat the quesadilla! (Don’t be anorexic!) Exercise! (But not too much! Don’t get obsessed!). Jesus. No wonder we’re all so flipping confused.
And like I said, I still like myself. But the fact that these jeans finally fit? I like that too.
Yeah, uh, self portraits? Clearly not my forte, and actually, I’m kind of happy about that, given my fear of all things Flickr and Self Portraity. This was a test for something, and is the only thing that came out clear. However, you get the bonus of my Ronald McDonald hair and the ugly-ass gold shoes I bought to match my bridesmaid’s dress for next weekend’s wedding extravaganza. (To the bride: I found another pair. This was just a back up, I swear.)
Also, um, please note that about two hours after this photo was taken, I realized my shirt was on inside out. Or more accurately, my coworker did.
*The Smiths! Of course.
April 23rd, 2007
I kind of feel like a jerk for not mentioning the whole sordid disaster that is this week, but quite frankly, I’m pretty sucky about talking about those kinds of things, I have very little original commentary, and it’s everywhere. That being said, and I’m not trying to make light of the situation, but I’d have given a very large sum of money to see Katie Couric’s face when she heard that NBC got the manifesto. I got a bit of a macabre chuckle imagining her beating her perfectly coiffed head on her desk screaming “WHY BRIAN WHY?” while her tiny fists beat against the table in unmitigated fury.
Oh, Katie. So sorry. You never should have left Today.
That being said, today was a pretty good day in my neck of the woods, and I think that’s what life is supposed to be about – being grateful for that sort of thing, I mean. I don’t mean that as any disrespect to anyone or anything, but it’s all too easy to let this stuff send me into a bald panic and spend my days under the covers, afraid to come out, because the world is just so scary. And honestly, every time there’s a major tragedy of sorts, I wonder if having kids is the best idea, because God, I’m just introducing them into a world that is inherently fucked.
But then again, it’s really not like that at all. I really do believe that people are mostly good, and that we should notice the happy stuff as much as the bad, no matter how small it is. I don’t mean to go all Pollyanna on anyone, but again, it’s kind of what you have to do I think, if you’re going to make it.
And so, without further adieu, three really fabulous things that happened to me today, in order of their occurrence:
– As soon as I got to work, I discovered a music fairy (okay, a masculine music fairy) had left the song I was complaining I couldn’t find yesterday right in my inbox. And it was such an easy little thing, but honestly, it made my morning.
– One of my freelance clients sent me a package along with my check full of all kinds of girlie scents and products (of the pampering variety, not feminine hygiene). Even before they did this, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been to work for this couple. I’m pretty sure they think I’m kissing their ass, as I tell them all the time, but I’ve never worked for such nice, competent, appreciative people in my entire career.
– I ended the day with six points, and spent them on a giant bowl of Skinny Cow ice cream and Cool Whip, with a chaser of popcorn while watching TV (LOST!) with my (very cute and very, very funny, if slightly ill and feverish) husband and dog.
I hate to go all “your turn!” with this, because it never seems to work out. I write about menstrual protection or music, and y’all come out in droves. I go for a happy little reader-response and everyone panics, but I’ll do it anyway: tell me one good thing about your day today. Hand it over.
*Beastie Boys. Because, for the frillionth time, someone told me today that my husband reminds them of “a Beastie Boy – I can’t remember which one!” Most often it’s Mike D, and I don’t really see it, mainly because mine is much, much cuter.
April 18th, 2007
I left my credit card at the grocery store this evening, which caused a major back up in the line and required the manager to flag me down in the parking lot, since I’d also, apparently, failed to hit ‘okay’ on that dumbass little keypad. For reasons unknown, I decided that an appropriate response would be to abandon my shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot and run – yes, run – back into the store yelling to no one in particular, “GOSH, I just got so excited I ran right out of here! Sorry! EXCITED!”
I had to say it twice, I guess, for reasons unknown, which drew more awkwardness as I muttered to myself through the parking lot “Excited…EXCITED?” over and over again. I can only guess I was excited about eating Sundry’s Spicy Shrink-Yer-Butt salad, which I eat roughly three times a week (SO GOOD).
Speaking of butt shrinking, this morning was weigh-in day at Weight Watchers, and I lost half a pound this week, which moved the WW engine to give me a little sob story about how I’m probably “ambivalent” about this, when quite frankly, I was thrilled to bits, because at least I didn’t gain anything, given the proximity to piles of pizza, bacon and potato skins for the past week. What I am flat-out bitter about, however, is that little half pound was enough to push me into a different point class, which means I’m losing a daily point. The heartbreak. Jesus. That’s an apple. A glug of milk. Every day. It just seems totally unfair to offer that as a reward for losing weight. Congratulations! Now you have to eat even less!
Unrelated (per usual), we live in a really wealthy town, and it’s an odd sort of all-encompassing rich where the poor or even the middle class are hidden so far away that you can’t see them. Money – lots and lots and lots of money – is everywhere, and it’s created a sort of strange alternate reality, since the vast, and honestly, I mean the vast, majority of residents have incomes that are blindingly far beyond the national average. How they let the two of us in is beyond me, and further, why haven’t they kicked us out?
Adam overheard a conversation recently where a man and his wife were trying to determine the typical shopper demographic of Target, only to have the wife come to the conclusion that it’s a store designed for “poor, lower-income people, right? I mean, I’ve never been in one, of course.”
Chappy apparently nodded in agreement, and then let loose with a light, tinkly sort of giggle and marveled at how wonderful it is to fart rosebuds and gold ingots.
It boggles the mind that are people who are so sheltered they’ve never been in a Target, where they’re missing out on some really stellar boxed wine, is what I’m saying.
Anyway. The whole point of this is that high school graduation is coming up, and do you know what happens at high school graduation? Hummers happen, and I wish I was talking about blow jobs, because at least they’re more…appropriate. The graduation gift du jour is a Hummer – an H2 – with a big red bow on it. Last year, a female acquaintance had just moved here, and after seeing row upon row of bowed Hummers, was actually moved to innocently ask if Hummer was having some sort of spring special where they were immeasurably cheap.
I’m just not sure that I could, in good conscience, give my kid a Hummer for graduation no matter what my financial circumstances were. I mean, unless we’re expecting some sort of small, obscure-town urban warfare that I’m not aware of, or perhaps the deep south is expecting 15 feet of snow next winter, and no one told me. Granted, we really aren’t car people, as evidenced by the two nondescript, slightly decrepit Hondas in the driveway, but still.
Isn’t that a bit…excessive? I can’t help but wonder: if your kids are getting Hummers at 18, what on earth could they possibly have to look forward to later in life? It just doesn’t scream “bright, self-sufficient, well-adjusted kid” to me.
*Lightning Seeds. Do you remember them? I really liked them back in 1994 or so…such a catchy little number, that Life of Riley, and woefully unavailable on iTunes, and I only have it on cassette.
April 17th, 2007
They’re gone…or rather, they were. This morning, we had roughly 15 minutes of peace. Sweet, beautifully quiet peace full of nothing but warm breezes, (imaginary, Weight Watchers-approved) peach cobbler and mint juleps and vodka and giant blue cheese-stuffed olives and sunshine! Lots of sunshine!
Except it isn’t sunny in the Northeast. No, no. It’s a MONSOON, thankyouverymuch, and flights! Flights are canceled! Everywhere!
My in-laws, they linger beyond their initial departure date. And it’s fine, it’s really fine! Fine! But we’re tired. So very tired, although they’re probably much, much more tired than we are, and this situation is exhausting for everyone involved.
The weekend in a nutshell: Eat. Sleep. Talk. Talk. Talk. Eat. Eat. Eat. Talk. Eat. Talk. Hold baby. Eat. Talk. Pull crap out of dog’s mouth. Talk. Talk. Talk. Eat. Eat. Eat. Talk. Talk. Talk oh my God TALK.
Or, if you’re me, during all of that eating, you’re standing around looking forlornly at things like pizza! Cream cheese! DONUTS! whilst munching sadly on a pathetic little broccoli stalk and wondering why you can’t just suck it up and get fat again already, because at least oh my God AT LEAST your mouth would be full so you could have five minutes without having to talk.
Here’s the thing, though: Truthfully, I enjoy houseguests. I like the process of preparing baskets of wee toiletries and fresh sheets and warm towels and buying a ridiculous amount of breakfast foods that no one ever eats (Eggo waffles! Bagels! Eggs! BACON!), and it’s a little soothing to have a house full of people twittering around at all hours. I can even handle the talking, but after a certain point of being perpetually on like a 60-watt light bulb, you just start to crumble, and it comes out in unexpected ways. You know, like getting in someone else’s car or staring at a calculator and wondering aloud what kind of MIRACULOUS MACHINE is this, one that adds, subtracts and divides without a pencil?
We’re done in that fork-in-eye sense, and the fact that our black Honda Accord up and died a pathetic coughing death this morning left us relatively unscathed, because we’re just too tired to care. Also, the fact that my hair looks vaguely short mullet-esque and is the shade – the exact shade, once again – of Ronald McDonald’s only dawned on me this morning, leaving me with the horrible decision to ponder: do I let Squiggy, he of extreme hair dramatics and weak disposition, fix it, despite the fact that this is his second identical offense? Or do I go somewhere else, risking Squiggy’s eternal ire and potentially damaging clairvoyance and Carrie-like powers? The wrong decision could leave my head a thousand shades of red, either from a pool of blood or a botched color job.
However, I think someone else is going to have to decide, because I’m too tired to do anything but drink a big glass of leftover white zinfandel (my sister in law’s drink of choice) and stare blankly into space.
*Warrant. As I wrote this, I was watching a VH1 “Where Are They Now?” on Celebrity Fit Club contestants, which detailed the weight loss journeys of such iconic figures as Jackee, Gunnar Nelson and former Warrant lead singer Jani Lane who won’t stop singing – you guessed it – Cherry Pie. Not surprisingly, he won’t stop talking about how desperately he wants to move on.
April 16th, 2007
I have a house full of people. Lots and lots of people, and more people are coming tomorrow, and while it’s fine – really, it’s totally fine – I think what’s most exhausting is that I’m never alone, not for one second, which makes me want to do weird things, like grab the first flight to a big city and wear cute shoes and wander the streets by myself, alone in the crowd with nothing but music in my ears.
New music! In my iPod, which will now be very full, very shortly, thanks to everyone. Really – thank you. I’ve had time to listen to exactly zero of your recommendations, but I’ll say that I’m pretty excited about it. Ooh ooh, and that song I referred to? It’s here, along with a few others. Go on and have a listen. Pretty! And heartbreaking. And it really makes me want to – you guessed it – be miraculously transported to a very large city wearing cute shoes and wandering the streets the way I did when I was 25 and start it all over again, just for one day.
“Just let me be here. I won’t tell anyone…” Le sigh. First, I need cute shoes.
What would you guys have done if I just printed the entire lyrics of the song with some seriously emo photo of myself – maybe in black eyeliner – with a tear emphasized by the macro setting? Could you imagine? Because I can, and every time it actually happens anywhere else, I ponder killing myself, very slowly, maybe with a soup spoon.
Yesterday I got into someone else’s car for the second time, which means it might be time to get rid of the black Honda Accord, because apparently the streets are rife with them. Yes, yes, the one I got into was green, and a totally different year, but it was overcast. Also, I may have taken a sip of someone else’s diet Pepsi while trying to figure out why my key wouldn’t go into the ignition before I looked around and realized hey, this interior is…gold…and mine is…gray. And oh holy shit, this is not my Pepsi. I mean, I’m not saying definitely, I’m just saying it’s possible.
In other, infinitely less gross news, dude, I’m small. Or at least smaller. And while I don’t really want to go into sordid details, let’s just say I’ve lost a Sunny and a half, and given that I’ve got 13 left, um, that’s a little frightening, in kind of a mixed good/bad way. What I think is most upsetting is that my clothes fit better. A lot better. Which to me definitely means I had no business wearing them at a Sunny and a half heavier. No no, I did not. I am, however, regretting not taking a “before” picture, which would never be for public consumption (No Flickr. Never.), oh my God, although I can say that it wouldn’t have been in a folding chair wearing a muumuu with a plate full of potato salad and a plastic fork (why?).
Also, oh my GOD, I can’t believe I forgot to mention this, and it involves, um, the Moon Cup. Again. But this is important, because nothing says “I love the Moon Cup!” like a UTI, which is what I was graced with earlier in the week. And while normally, pissing razor blades is something I like to keep to myself (or not), did you know that the Keeper people acknowledge that this is a potential side effect of sorts? I KNEW it was blooming too close to important parts, I just KNEW IT. However, let it be known that I am extremely susceptible to these sorts of things, scoring my first one at age 13, which prompted The Sex Talk from my mother, to my endless humiliation and horror, because how else could I have gotten a UTI? From some wild escapade in the back of a GTI, of course. When except, um, no. That wouldn’t be until much later. (Oh yes. At a drive-in movie. Because I was classy like that, even at 16.)
Anyway, um, the Moon Cup is a risk factor for UTIs. However, some of us are on prophylactic antibiotics and can prevent such things, at least when we remember to take them. But consider yourself warned.
Have a great weekend.
April 12th, 2007
I haven’t showered once this weekend, and hoo boy, I should have, but at this point, laziness prevails and I’d be shocked if I get under the spray before tomorrow morning. There was essentially no point, since I spent the weekend knee-deep in such glorious elixirs as Comet, Fantastik and those friendly little scrubbing bubbles, so I could, in theory, be clean by association. Also, it’s worth noting that if you have any sort of flooring that benefits from hands & knees cleaning, as we do (cream ceramic tile all OVER the damn place), get thee some knee pads.
I think it speaks volumes about the quality of one’s weekend, when the best you can come up with is a bleak suggestion about picking up a pair of cheap knee pads at Lowe’s and going to town on a ceramic floor. Sad.
I felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment when my 7 a.m. haircut appointment with the Squiggmeister was horribly uneventful, except for his repeated habit of smoking a cigarette while leaving my hair to sizzle under the dryer, which always leaves me panicked that my hair is actually burning off, because I can smell it! I can smell the burn! Perhaps what bothers me most about this is that each and every time, he fails to wash his hands before resuming the hair action. I find this absolutely foul – is it just me? I mean, after I have the occasional cigarette these days, I’m at the sink in four seconds, and even when I was a full-time smoker, I washed my damn hands, because really, smoker’s fingers are foul! FOUL!
Painfully boring, if clean, weekend aside, I spent the better part of my free time this weekend perusing new music and the best I could come up with was a late-night download of the entire Snow Patrol/Reindeer Section discography, of which I already owned about half, and while I’m aware that I’m not breaking any early adopter records, I have actually come to the conclusion that while I really, really want Gary Lightbody to be hot, he’s not hot, but he is a cheating bastard. Ditto to The Fray guy. Not hot, though maybe he’s not the cheaty type. I’ll never know. But neither one of them! They’re not hot!
That being said, the whole point of this is to beg for new music recommendations, because if the best I can do is rounding out my sad little Snow Patrol collection, clearly I need help. Before I’m pummeled with recommendations for Regina Spektor and Amy Winehouse, I will quickly add that I have and yes, indeedy, love both. They tried to make her go to rehab and she said no! no! NO!
Also, my favorite music in the world centers typically around something that Peter Gabriel or Bernard Sumner did, along with our friends Morrissey and Johnny Marr. Because I haven’t moved on from the things I loved when I was 21. no! No! NO!
Other than that, lay it on me. I’m open to anything – new, old, whatever, any genre, any decade – and if you think I’ve heard it before, it’s highly likely that I haven’t, because I’m just getting around to Snow Patrol, for crying out loud. Or even just a song! I’ll take a song! Your favorite song. Or band. Or whatever. So, ah, heard any good music lately?
*Snow Patrol. Thanks to my friend TwoBusy (always a source for good things like this, really. And before asking all of you, I thought about just asking him, because he’s that good, or at least he sure hit the jackpot with that one song a few months ago).
Also, with this song, you have one of my very favorite songs ever. It’s so pretty. And heavy and all twisty and weepy and stuff. So now you *have* to tell me yours, or at least something. And also, maybe run out and download that song if you don’t have it already, because you won’t be sorry! You won’t! I promise.
April 8th, 2007
A final note about the Moon Cup/Keeper/Diva Cup…wait, where are you going? No no! This is fast! And honest! And important, because I’m afraid my zeal the other day might have clouded the very real drawbacks, the most important of which is the emptying.
I mean, as much as I’d like to be all zen-like about periods and sit back and crow about how natural it all is, blah blah BLAH, the sheer fact of the matter is that it’s gross. And unpleasant. It’s just extremely un-fun and kind of makes me feel a little ill. Is it enough to stop me? No, because I’m not very easily grossed out by the sight of blood. If you are easily grossed out, or if you cannot stand the sight of…well, that…then you should not even attempt such a thing. I cannot really emphasize this enough.
< end period talk >
I learned today that the fastest way to delight and amuse your coworkers is to eat a gargantuan plate of Amy’s organic saag paneer and rice (six points!) and kim chee (zero points!) which, if you were ever wondering, makes the entire office smell like you farted approximately 4.5 million times, even if you did not, in fact, fart, despite the fact that farting is inevitable, given the kim chee. Seeing as I was alone, however, I’m pretty sure they didn’t realize this, and there are at least five coworkers telling their friends and family about the stealth Office Farter, and it appears that I am that farter.
We’ve got a shitload of family coming in next week, which means we need toilet paper and lots of it, because God knows I use enough for three people, and since three people are actually staying with us, plus four more visiting, I need to be prepared to spare a square. Hooray, Costco! Home of the 1,000-pack toilet paper.
This is certainly nothing original, but who doesn’t marvel at the giant sizes of everything and wonder, who in the hell needs three gallons of mayonnaise, and what on earth do they plan to do with it? Ditto Mt. Olive pickle relish. Pickle relish should never come in a container larger than four ounces, and Mt. Olive pickle relish, even less. But while that is all very fascinating, and yes, indeed, a can of tuna the size of a basketball is a something to behold, I’m much more fascinated by the 40-packs of avocados, because honest to God, I can’t imagine needing more than two avocados at a clip, and I’ve been daydreaming about why the family in front of me had two bags, and can only assume they have an unrivaled penchant for guacamole, which I would give my right nipple for, per usual. Both nipples for a cupcake.
I hope y’all have a great holiday weekend. For our part, we’ll be continuing the toilet paper restockage and cleaning the floors (with knee pads! Dude, we bought KNEE PADS! I’ve never been so excited to clean a floor in my life. KNEE. PADS.) and completely ignoring Easter as we do every year until we try to figure out what to have for dinner and realize with shock and awe that nothing, just NOTHING, is freaking open and we have ramen and maybe some Chef Boyardee.
April 5th, 2007
My completely batshit insane hairdresser now thinks I’m even more insane than he is, and I’m kicking myself for giving him the upper hand. First, I completely (and completely accidentally) blew off an appointment last week, leaving him irate and with the thinly-veiled promise to “get me back later” accompanied by an ominous hollow laugh. He then rescheduled me for what I thought was this evening at 9:30 p.m. (I know), which I dashed off to at the last possible second, leaving a lovely evening with Carol – one of my favorite people – and her utterly charming dad (I am in love with him. In love!). When I arrived, Squiggs looked at me with utter confusion, because my appointment was actually on Friday night at 11 p.m.
A Friday night haircut. At 11 p.m. Right. And seeing as that wasn’t possible, because that hoses not only my Friday night, but Adam’s, because we usually watch movies on Friday nights, and they are rather sacred these days, I opted to reschedule for Friday morning instead.
Friday morning at 7 a.m, that is. Jesus. So while most of you will be sleepily hunkering over hot cups of coffee, or maybe rousing young children from their peaceful slumber, I will be in the hairdresser’s chair being regaled with wildly inappropriate sexual innuendos and getting a penis thwapped in my ear, and what better way to kick off a weekend, I say?
Speaking of sexual innuendo, or rather, overt sexuality, have I ever mentioned my affinity for Cathouse: The Series? I love Cathouse. Love. It’s all so…ridiculous and sad and pathetic and all the things that prostitution is, but it’s so utterly compelling I can’t tear myself away. These women take their jobs so seriously, and they honestly believe it has some sort of future in prostitution, like what, I cannot actually fathom. The things they dream about are often so inane that it’s clear that they have the collective IQ of a potato (“I love unicorns! And ben-wa balls! I totally bet that heaven has lots of unicorns and ben-wa balls. That would be totally awesome!”), which I find surprisingly shocking and endearing, given the fact that I’m talking about women who make a living wearing clear platform high heels and fringed chaps.
I might also add that I have the same affinity for G-String Divas, a fact that I announced at the dinner table with my dad and entire extended family, to my brother’s endless amusement and Adam’s horror, as I talked WITH MY DAD all about how strippers are fascinating beings, just FASCINATING, and really, they’re just trying to make it like everyone else. I did, however, draw the line at my outright adoration with a loud “OH COME ON NOW!” when stripper Jordan pleaded her case to the camera, explaining that exploiting her body for money was no different than working in an office because most people sleep their way to the top in offices, so why shouldn’t she at least get paid for it? Because stripping is just like sleeping with your boss for a promotion! What’s the big deal? Oh, Jordan. I love you.
I should mention here that one of the girls in my sorority was a stripper, a few hours away in Albany, and actually stripped her way through college and the stories she had were utterly riveting. The customers! The lap dances! The bizarre fetishists! The ah, Special K that she did on a regular basis to come down from the coke she did to stay alert during the drive home. Good times.
Not that all strippers do this, because although the drug use wasn’t really my deal, I will admit to a certain…admiration for her dedication to at least use her stripping powers (and rock-hard abs) for good instead of evil. And last I saw her, she was getting married to my ex-boyfriend on The Knot’s on-demand wedding channel. So at least, you know, she hung up the g-string. I assume. Then again, I can’t be sure about that.
The truth is, I have no problem with porn, strip clubs and/or legal prostitution. I don’t go all Camille Paglia about it, but it certainly doesn’t keep me up nights. And Isabella Soprano? Love her. Oh, I love her so.
I can’t help it.
*Jackson Browne. Don’t make fun, man, because I love him. LOVE. (Although the lyrics aren’t really apropos.) (Clearly, I don’t care.)
April 3rd, 2007