Archive for May, 2007
Someone asked to pray for me – both of us, together, hand in hand, if you will – today, and if there’s ever a time when I feel awkward, it’s during an unsolicited public prayer on my behalf. I mean, it was really sweet of them to offer, but I don’t really do that kind of thing. However, because I am a pussy, I sat there, my hand clenched in theirs, while some very nice, prayer-like words were said, half-hoping that the world would swallow me whole, and wouldn’t that give him something to pray about other than me? To be perfectly honest, it bothers me less that it sounds, and though I can’t really go into the context (oddly, it was professional), let’s just say it wasn’t entirely inappropriate, though it’s not like it was expected
(Didn’t I tell you I was in seminary school?)
(What?)
(I just itched my foot!)
(And bought some Tide!)
Ahem. Honestly, I’m a little envious of people who have that much faith in something else. I was raised mostly sans-religion, save for a last-ditch, panic-stricken effort by my parents to have me baptized at 15 (saved!), and though my parents are now very strict fundamentalists (LCMS, for those keeping score), their…zeal… didn’t come out until I was well out of the house. Mercifully, they’re not pushing it on me now.
Anyway, sometimes I sort of wish things had been different – not that I’d been LCMS, necessarily, but that maybe I’d grown up with something, because that would mean I’d feel a little more urgency to impart some kind of faith in my own kids, maybe. Although that would have meant my whole life would be different, and I probably wouldn’t have some of the other beliefs I hold quite dear, and lord knows, if I were a fundie, I wouldn’t have married a Jewish guy.
And had I been their flavor of LCMS, there wouldn’t have been any dancing, drinking or card-playing. In other words, I missed my opportunity to live the Footloose dream, and I’ve always wanted to be Ariel, with her fancy feathered hair, great-ass jeans and the remarkable ability to still look sexy on a tractor. Incidentally, Adam often refers to a phenomenon known as “Footloosed,” i.e., some girls just don’t clean up well, because Ariel was hotter – much hotter – pre-ruffly dress and dance. I tend to agree.
Not to wildly switch gears (religion! surveys! SEAMLESS!), but I have a thing for surveys. I always have. I get irrationally excited that someone wants my opinion on something – I always fill out blog surveys, and I gleefully pick up a little scantron sheet and golf pencil for any restaurant or hotel who asks for it, and oh, do I opine! Yes, my service was fantastic! No, no, I did not have the bread, but I’m sure it was divine, but since you’re asking, I would like softer toilet paper, please, and free in-room hot stone massages.
Anyway, when I was a college freshman, I spent 35 minutes of one horrible afternoon answering a survey of a sexual nature, and so help me Jesus, I answered every. single. question. to the surveyor (a female! FEMALE!), including how many partners I’d had, whether I spit or swallow, and what the merits of other positions were vis a vis the missionary. Before you judge me, it started off so innocently about tampon usage, and if there’s ever a topic I like to discuss, it’s periods. It wasn’t until she started breathing heavily, clearly in the throes of some sort of…orgasmic activity… when she asked if I had any semen in my system right then and there that I realized oh my God, I was helping some random fake survey lady get off.
Oddly, this horribly humiliating experience, which I can’t believe I’m admitting again, to – um, at least what, dozens? – a few weeks later, I would actually answer a stranger who called me at 6 a.m. when he asked what I was wearing because for some half-asleep reason I thought he sounded a little like my boyfriend, and when he asked for details, I gave them to him, including the fact that my pajamas were actually blue satin, and yes, totally I was wearing a thong the day before, why do you ask? Again, I was only tipped off when I picked up on some heavy breathing.
It’s sounding like I was way into phone sex, but alas, I wasn’t, but apparently I am excellent conduit for others to get off via telephone. Give me a call this weekend if you’re feeling…hot and bothered…and you’re not too busy. I’m sure I can help.
Finally, one of my best friends told me today that she’s doing a “soft launch, if you will” in announcing her pregnancy, and in that moment, I’m not sure I could have loved her more. Baby as software launch! Love.
*Reindeer Section
May 15th, 2007
I’m sorry, look, I know it makes me immature, but I can’t get over the nudist resort, I simply CANNOT. I can’t believe that such a place exists where this photo is supposed to entice me to do something. It’s just…well, it’s just too much, and while this is likely too much information, I’ve never been one for lounging about in the nude. I don’t even like to sleep naked, because the pragmatist in me can’t get over the idea that there could be a fire, or a dog pooping emergency or something. I just don’t want to be standing outside naked, explaining to my neighbors that yes, I might have left the oven on, and it might all be my fault, but first, do you have a sweatshirt I could borrow?
For starters, I often get cold, and secondly, I just don’t like my precious girly bits out there exposed to the elements, because don’t they seem delicate to you? Doesn’t it seem…wrong, somehow that one’s petite little flower should be hanging out there, where it could be cut or snagged or something? Not that a fishing hook finds its way between my legs that often in my daily life, but it could totally happen. And while it’s not like clothes protect your bits and pieces that much, I don’t like the idea of them bouncing around unfettered on the back of a horse, and I really don’t like the idea of getting into a canoe where there could be spiders, and imagine the urban legends that could come from that, I dare you. GO AHEAD.
Also, um, this photo might be the most unappealing thing I’ve ever seen. Again, I know that a bathing suit prevents nothing from…leaking out, but it seems that the no-swimsuit thing is horribly unhygienic. And also, there is HAIR. Lots more hair exposed than should be, and I really dislike hair, especially that kind of hair.
No. No, I am not a nudist at heart, clearly.
Moving on. I’ve got to come clean about something, and this is going to sound harsh. I don’t like Twitter, and nope, I’m never going to Twitter. Or Tweet. Or Twat, which doesn’t sound good, and that’s not what I meant (but rest assured, we can now rule out fishing while twatting). I don’t care what you’re doing right now, frankly, though I still like you, I promise. Do you care that I just farted and considered briefly blaming it on the dog? And that right now, I’m thinking, gee, a glass of fresh-brewed iced tea would be good, what a shame I don’t have any? No, of course you don’t. How fascinated with ourselves can we be, that we actually think that twittering our random, completely inane thoughts of the day to each other is something that’s worth broadcasting to the world? (Shut up. I know what they say about blogging, and they’re right, they’re totally right, but this is a whole other level, dear God, is it not?)
(Also, I just got a cup of tea.)
(I moved my foot. It itches!)
(Sniffled! I sniffled! Allergies?)
Riveting, isn’t it? And it feels, sometimes, in this insular freakish little world, like we’re supposed to kowtow to all things Twitter, because of who’s Twittering, and who founded Twitter, and who’s friends with the founders of Twitter, when really, who cares? Just because something is labeled Web 2.0, and fits into this whole fascinating social interaction phenomenon that’s boring the pants off of Web conference attendees throughout America, I will resist. I WILL NOT TWITTER.
(Worth noting that I don’t know anyone personally who Twitters, so it’s not likely that this was directed at you, if you love to Twitter.)
(Totally just scratched the dog’s head. Mmmm….cute pug.)
(Also may have eyelash in eye.)
(Am considering clipping toenails later.)
(It’s also possible that I made my point.)
(Down with Twitter.)
*The Shins
May 14th, 2007
Lesley Stahl honestly needs to stop with the lipstick. Is she covering over some sort of miserable flaw? Practicing for clown school? Does she not have make up artists to help her figure out that no, painting over that divot in her lip isn’t plumping her lips, it’s making them misshapen?
I’ve been rather disgusted with pop culture lately, what with The Sopranos sucking wind – which reminds me, is it me, or does no one else care anymore? Shoot Tony! Don’t shoot Tony! Give Carmela The Herp! I don’t care. It’s just that I’ve invested all this time – time that I’m not willing to give up without a conclusion, and although tonight’s episode sure packed a punch, I’ve got to admit that the silent, creeping misery has insulated me against just about anything, because I don’t care. Mostly, I just walk away disgusted with many realizations, but mostly with the fact that Tony Soprano is really, really bad in bed, and while I realize that’s the point (misogynistic, waiting to be serviced, ergo, he just lays there), come on. He wears socks.
And Entourage! Don’t get me started on Entourage. I don’t like Vince. I don’t care if Vince ever gets another job in Hollywood, or ends up doing Aquaman VII: The Series and has sex with Mandy Moore on the streets of Calabasas. I don’t care about Medellin. I also really, really dislike Kevin Connolly.
And you! Grey’s Anatomy! I know I said I was done and all, but again, there’s that investment thing. An investment I’m not willing to walk away from without some sort of resolution – resolution that will never, ever come, because the world seems to revolve around forbidden love, which has kept television going for decades, oh Jesus Christ. It’s like those years in college I spent so wrapped up in Days of Our Lives waiting, just WAITING for that day that Marlena and John would finally be together, blind to the realization that Stefano had kept them apart for decades, with cages and possessions and hypnotism or whatever, and that it was just never going to happen, or at least not while I was matriculated at Syracuse University.
(Um, seriously, does anyone remember when she was possessed by the devil and then stuck in a cage? Or something?)
(Also, I see that John is now in a COMA, while Marlena waits by his side to wake up. JESUS.)
Jim and Pam are on the same path, by the way, and yet I can’t help myself; I’m sucked in and bitter about it. Oh Pam.
The bitter pill is making its appearance because I spent the better part of this weekend watching a glut of TiVo’d television after last week’s ParentFest. A fest that included, by the way, dinner with my in-laws, the details of which came to me in bits and pieces over the course of several days, thanks to searing panic and a few gin and tonics. God. I must have blocked it out.
However, a few snippets have me cringing on a daily basis, including that horrible moment where my stepmother – who’d had one too many glasses of wine – screamed over the table in a half-amused, half-terrified voice that surely my (kind of scary and slightly mafioso-seeming) Russian father-in-law must have connections with the Russian mafia, which prompted him to retort that while he’s not in the mob, he does always carry a gun and then I believe (oh dear God) he half-jokingly threw out a few people he’d like to knock off and it was horrible, just HORRIBLE, especially given that my parents are staunchly anti-gun and um, anti-murder. Or whatever. And not that he’s the murdering type, or so we at least hope, Jesus, it’s just that it was all SO AWKWARD.
God, I’m so much more accustomed to causing awkward moments that I never realized how miserable it is to be an innocent witness.
And while I’ve deluded myself into thinking it turned out somewhat okay, it’s a good thing they live in different states.
Not to bring it back to further television embitterment, but I’m also personally angry with Brooke Burke, who promised me another summer of Rockstar and yet, I see nothing of the sort. No Rockstar. No Ryan Star replacement. No Dave Navarro as lurking Svengali. And while Blythe and I may be the only two people who care, disappointment looms large. But not Storm Large.
However, because I’m twelve, I have to say, this (NSFW) page… with the nudists playing volley ball? Has had me snickering for hours! Nudists! Playing volleyball! And canoeing! The ass crack and the life vest!
*Ryan Star. Because it’s never going to happen again.
May 13th, 2007
I have a bit of a tan right now, the result of playing tourist with my parents and being out in the sun for more than three minutes at a clip. It’s nice, sort of, being tan, and it makes me long for some sort of outdoor exposure, but considering the last time I went out in the sun, my nose disappeared into the purple Barney-like entity that was my face, and wild peeling ensued for several weeks afterwards, despite my naturally olive complexion. So ah, sun. No thanks.
There was once a time, when I was in college and cruising through some kind of wild sorority rage, I became addicted to tanning – this was Syracuse, after all – and turned precisely the shade of a fresh-picked carrot, except for my white-rimmed eyes which were protected from the bright light from the tanning booth-issued goggles. My preternaturally orange color prompted a very nice, if overzealous, pledge-slash-neophyte named Shih-nan to report me, and a few others, to the standards committee in an attempt to stage a sorority tanning intervention. Our next chapter meeting involved a lot of circumspect discussion about skin cancer and tanning (*cough* Jonna *cough*) while Shih-nan glared at me pointedly, announcing that “SOME PEOPLE ARE ORANGE THIS CAN’T BE GOOD FOR YOU.”
Many years after college, Shih-nan would work for me, and lo, it was very tempting to chastise her every time she came in with a little color, but I resisted.
Other than that, hi! My parents are here! Life is awesome! Except really, there isn’t a whole lot of sarcasm there, as things are quite perky here, for the most part, as I really like spending time with them, and we’re having fun, and it’s nice to see them. That is, except for a dinner with my in-laws that required some lubrication of the Tanqueray variety that was, sadly, sorely needed, because I was a wreck in manner of oh-my-God-I-am-so-stressed-about-this-because-what-if-it-sucks kind of way, which then became a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts, meaning I have no idea how it actually went, all I know is that I was supremely uncomfortable, and maybe a little un-sober.
And oops, look at that, I have to run, because my dad, he is addicted to the Internet, and unlike two geeks like us, he doesn’t travel with a laptop. He is, however, enamored with the fact that we have wireless instead of dial-up, and has commented more than once how miraculous it is that THE INTERNET IS ALL AROUND US, and also, shockingly fast.
*The Clash. I have nothing that makes any sense.
May 8th, 2007
I recently finished Lolita, and I’ve been talking about it with anyone who’ll listen, because I’ve got to tell you: I hated it, as evidenced by the fact that it took me more than a month to read, which might as well be a year in book-time. I. Hated. It. And yet I know at least two people who count it as their favorite book of all-time, and I’ve got to throw out a general query: why? I mean, I get all the reasons why I’m supposed to, and yes, yes, it’s beautifully written, and it’s allegorical for what, some kind of tyrannical reign, and throwing away youth and it’s also some randomly odd love story and I GET IT. Except: I don’t actually get it, because I am small-minded and too old to enjoy such a thing, because my whole brain is just screaming “BUT THIS IS GROSS.” Especially the line about him kissing her “brown rose” which almost made me puke, just VOMIT right then and there, and that makes me immature, I know this. Although it’s possible I might have made you puke just now too, and I’m sorry about that. Kind of.
So, Lolita = gross, and not at all enjoyable for me. I told you, I’m immature. And I *like* books! I love to read, really I do, but no no. No Lolita for me.
Also gross, or not, is the fact that this is my second period using the Moon Cup, and I have to say, for the bajillionth time, my periods are bordering on pleasant at this point. I mean, consider the fact that I wore a light khaki skirt today with whatever underwear I damn well pleased and not once – NOT ONCE – in the entire day did I consider that something might happen and I didn’t have to change or mess with anything, and that, my friends, is a miracle. I’m throwing away my period underwear. Buh-bye, ratty underthings! Hello, fresh-as-a-daisy…nethers.
In other gross/non-gross news, I have a confession to make.
*deep breath*
I don’t find the word moist that gross. I said I did, and in theory I do, and at the end of the day, I see why people find it gross, but the fact is, I think of Duncan Hines. And all I want is cake. Moist cake. Moist yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Mmmmmm….CHOCOLATE. Moist chocolate. Or muffins. Tender, moist muffins made with sour cream and maybe some cherries. Moist cherry muffins. Moist chocolate muffins. MOIST CHOCOLATE MOLTEN CAKE.
Wetness, however, my Jesus. Yesterday, Dana left a comment that used the word “wetness” in place of moist, and I have to say, I’m perplexed by the horror around moist when wetness is freely tolerated? How can you tolerate wetness? WET. NESS. It screams of inappropriately damp underwear, and honestly, it smacks of Lolita. Lolita’s underpants, to be very specific, and I’m going to go throw up now, thanks. This, FYI, is why I hated the book, and now hate the word wetness, and for God’s sake, can I just get some muffins up in this piece? Where are my moist chocolate sour cream muffins?
Speaking of chocolate, for the frillionth time, I microwaved my Skinny Cow cookies n’ cream ice cream sandwich for all of ten seconds, and it diminished down to absolutely nothing which is why, if you were ever wondering, they’re so low in calories. The whole thing is something like a tablespoon melted. A tablespoon of fake ice cream and fiber. Whee-freaking-HOO.
Also, um, PS: Grey’s Anatomy writers? I actually think I’m done. I AM DONE. I AM DONE WITH THE MCMEREDITH BULLSHIT, and to leave that as another season cliffhanger? Another McDerek McDrama? McSeason pass? MCDELETED. I don’t give a shit if Derek buys another McHottie another McDrink. It actually makes me McAngry, and TV shouldn’t ever make you McAngry. So, McFuckyou. McFuckyou very much. For McReal.
*Snow Patrol. Also the only footage I’ve ever seen where Gary Lightbody is actually passably cute, and it all makes sense, because that ’70s hair? The hair he’s rocking now? IS AWFUL. Short. Short is cute. Enjoy.
May 3rd, 2007
I’ve got to get over my clean floors. I won’t let anyone walk on them, and given that a vast amount of our first floor is tiled, that means I’m demanding that every living creature – two- and four-legged – avoid making a mess. There are multiple paw wipings each day, and the amount of litterbox scooping I’m doing is incredibly unhealthy. I mean it’s to the point where I’m hovering over him while he pees and immediately whisking away the results. If I hear scratching down there, I’m hurtling down the stairs at breakneck speed, pooper scooper held aloft. Today, Adam dropped an ice cube in the kitchen, and I attacked him with the fire of a thousand suns, screeching “BUT…MY CLEAN FLOORS!” like Donna Reed on meth. God.
We also went a little Glade Plug-in happy, and in retrospect, perhaps I should have gotten corresponding fragrances, because oh holy shit, the sticky-sweet vanilla from the dining room is not meshing well with whatever oceanic breezy-type thing we’re rocking in the kitchen. It’s like having a vanilla cupcake up to your neck in seaweed. Tell me, is this not the most exciting thing you’ve read all day? Because I could go on. I could talk about my toilet cleaning and the intense pleasure I feel every time I wield a toilet wand, because clean toilets are extremely important for everyone involved, and I am a bit of a zealot about them. I am not, however, a zealot about the toilet cleaner I picked up, which smells like mint, the implication being that I want minty-fresh toilets. Which is gross, really, because there is no licking of the toilets happening. This isn’t Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Room, for chrissake.
The truth is, we’re milking whatever sad calm we have before my parents arrive on Saturday. Which, for those of you keeping score, means that we’ve either had family in town or been visiting friends and family every week for the past three weeks, and while I’m looking so forward to seeing my parents, there is a small part of me that’s just sort of had it. Also, I’m a little disappointed that all of my cleaning efforts are being focused on parts of the house that we don’t actually utilize, i.e., our bedroom is pretty much the grossest place ever, although it looks passable, if you don’t inhale the sheets deeply, that is. And if I don’t get in there and clean that toilet, instead of focusing my attention on the other two, however, I’m going to have to start doing the Stall Squat right in my own master bathroom.
Speaking of clean: I’ve discussed my neighborhood’s frustratingly pervasive poop wars before (incidentally, the Asshole Bag is still in full circulation, although I believe the originator has been outed), but what’s bothering me is that there are some – nay, there are MANY – neighbors who don’t want my dog pooping anywhere near their yards, even if I clean it up. Now, this hardly seems fair, given that postage stamp-sized lawns are the norm around here, and unless I feel like circling Sunny in a two-inch radius, screeching, “Sunny go POOP?” over and over again, I’ve got to walk her. Is this reasonable to anyone, and if so, for the love of poop, why?
Also, thanks for the comments on the bad habits, because Jesus, I am so happy there are at least that many quiet eaters out there. It’s worth noting that Andrea made the most insanely accurate observation of a smacky eater I’ve ever heard, which is that loud eaters sound like someone is stirring a big bowl of very creamy chicken salad. And um, EW? HOW ACCURATE IS THAT?
Finally, after watching Bon Jovi on American Idol tonight (what?), I can’t help but notice that there’s Jon Bon Jovi (hot), Richie Sambora (also hot) and then there’s the other guy with the bad perm. Kind of like the bass player in the Goo Goo Dolls, or, say, Turtle on Entourage, I wonder what it’s like being the unattractive dude with bad hair in a hot band-slash-entourage (ha!)? Or do they just not care that people think they’re relatively unsightly because, hey, at least they’re getting laid? And further, what the HELL is with that guy’s hair?
*Rolling Stones, of course. And, I might add, it’s the frillionth – THE FRILLIONTH – song that I love that American Idol ruined for me with their cheesy Ford commercials. I don’t care how overplayed it is, I’ve always loved Paint It, Black (comma and all).
May 2nd, 2007
Twice this week – TWICE! – I caught a woman in the neighborhood pushing a stroller around our fair streets. Both times, she was wearing an aqua bedazzled airbrushed sweatshirt with a cat on it, which means, as Mimi Smartypants accurately guessed, she probably has a kitchen full of stenciled geese, and both times – BOTH TIMES, I tell you! – her stroller was not full of a baby, but was, in fact, a little screened-in contraption bearing a very unhappy-looking Siamese cat, who was issuing plaintive cry after plaintive cry and looking like he wanted to break free and eat the face off of the sweatshirted woman. Frankly, I didn’t blame him, because you gotta figure, the sweatshirt-stroller combo probably means she diapers him in her spare time.
Do I need to add that she was loudly describing the passing scenery to him (BOTH TIMES) and that his name is Elmo? I didn’t think so.
I’m perplexed by the pet stroller phenomenon, if I may be so bold as to call it a phenomenon, since I recently spied a woman at a nearby shopping center wheeling her stroller-bound yorkie through the crowd along with her armload of purchases (Chanel! Louis Vuitton!) What was particularly odd about the whole scene was the fact that her three children – all of whom were under the age of 5 – were all walking and whining that their feet hurt. The yorkie wouldn’t complain that much, is what I’m saying. It must have been that choosing a kid to push would have been too hard. Yes, that’s it.
Let’s pretend there’s a really nice segue here that involves yorkies shaking hands and eating. Okay? Okay.
Generally, I’m a pretty tolerant person. I don’t have a long list of pet peeves, and it’s pretty hard to seriously get under my skin. That being said, loud eaters really grate my cheese. Unless you’re eating ribs or something else that requires finger licking (though let’s be honest, what does?) I mean, did your mother not TELL you to be quiet? Do you not feel the breeze on your tongue and wonder, wow! It’s windy in my mouth! How is it that you don’t hear the smacking? THE NEVERENDING SMACKING? How? I’m honestly dumbfounded by this habit, because it just seems like unless you’re hard of hearing, you should hear the smacks and say hey, I’m smacking when I’m eating! Why don’t I close my mouth?
*SMACK*
Along these same lines, let’s discuss handshakes. While I don’t think handshakes should feel like dengue fever, when someone hands me a dead fish, I immediately jump to conclusions that they are either a) arrogant and/or overly proper, therefore too cool to care whether their handshake measures up (to that I say that unless you accompany that limp rag with a curtsy, and are, I don’t know, doing some sort of REENACTMENT, it’s no excuse); or b) are pussified. I know that’s sort of jerky of me, but I can’t help it. Can someone explain this to me? I’m actually asking. Tell me!
Or if you prefer, I can say in a baby voice that Elmo really wants to know. I’ll wear a bedazzled cat sweatshirt and we can stencil the walls in hearts.
*Rusted Root
May 1st, 2007
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