Archive for July, 2007

When It’s Raining

It won’t stop raining. It’s been raining and storming and raining and raining for what seems like weeks now, and while at first it feels like ooh, fun! Rain! because it’s all novel and stuff, as it’s been hot as blazes and sunny! Sunny! SUNNY! all the time, when I can’t get outside to take the dog for a quick pee and poop and she ends up holding it until she explodes in grand dramatic fashion, well then, I’d like it if it would stop, please, because I’m sick of being wet, and I’m oh-so-sick of dog assplosions.

There were thousands of things that were annoying about Big Love this week, not the least of which is that it harkened back to season one, which was The Season of Bill Paxton’s Ass, because honestly, dude, I saw his ass more during that one season than I’d seen of my own in YEARS. I thought we were done with Bill’s ass, now that I can map out the moles on it, but I guess they want me to memorize the pattern of hair growth as well. And God, we won’t even talk about that strange woman who talked in such a random, indiscernible accent that Adam and I were puzzled as all hell, when suddenly she announced that she was from Boston, hence the accent, and Jesus, I almost turned off the TV right then and there, because no no, that was not a Boston accent, and I need to tell anyone and everyone who saw the damn show that no NO, Bostonians don’t sound like Top Chef’s Micah after thirty beers, no they don’t.

Anyway, I made a great meal tonight — chicken with roasted sweet potatoes and onions, asparagus and garlic green beans — and while the whole thing tasted delightful, the dry rub I made had a fair amount of cayenne pepper in it, and what I hadn’t counted on was while the chicken cooked, the pepper was diffused throughout the house, which had the effect of — ha! HA! — being pepper sprayed or, I don’t know, like a giant cloud of mace whipped through the kitchen, and worse, it’s not the first time I’ve done this.

This was followed, of course, by the dog eating a giant pile of poop, and since it was raining and dark, I gleefully plucked it out of her mouth, which is further illustration of my complete and total lack of common sense, because I could totally and quite clearly smell it, yet I plunged my fingers directly into her gaping maw. Mmmm … POOPY FINGERS. Wet Willy, anyone?

Also, I must issue an apology to anyone who’s watched Big Brother at my urging this season. Not a single player is marginally likable, and if I could smack Amber with a Nerf bat until she stopped bloody CRYING already, I would. I really would. But I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time even enduring it, but once I commit, there is no turning back.

As a precursor to any menstrual talk (I’m trying y’all, I’m really trying, it’s that it takes so much effort, because it’s so ICKY, and I feel so guilty about doing it), one of the things everyone told me when I first started getting bikini waxes was that eventually, it stops hurting, and it becomes a piece of cake, or at least a hell of a lot easier. Better waxing through frequency! Hello, um: no. Consider this a public service. Bikini waxes hurt just as bad the fortieth time as they do the first, which is to say that it feels like a heartless beast is ripping your hair out of your crotch with a hot, sticky substance and a piece of lame-ass cloth, which, conveniently, turns out to be a literal phrase, because it makes its way directly into your ass, actually, and quite lamely at that. Lame-ass indeed.

AND NOW IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE REGALED WITH ANYTHING MENSTRUAL-RELATED, I URGE YOU TO NAVIGATE AWAY NOW. For suggestions on what to read, might I offer these lovely little bits on the future of Boston sports? Yes, we’re ecstatic, why do you ask? And further, who cares if Garnett, Allen and Pierce are oldish? The Celtics! They are RELEVANT again! And the Yankees! They don’t have Eric Gagne, because we do! Suck on that, bitches!

Also, if you want to start from the beginning and are new, at least on menstrual center, start here.

So, look. I have a few menstrual cup-related notes gleaned from discussions with folks, and the most important thing that I had to learn first-hand, thankfully with corroboration, is this: Do not use The Keeper under any circumstances. I lost my Moon Cup and since I ended up with The Keeper by accident and never returned it, I figured hey! Why not? Ha. HA!

Here’s why not: it smells, and by “smells,” I mean it smells SO AWFUL that I actually thought it was me, oh my God, and I was thisclose to calling the doctor, because I was pretty sure I had some sort of deeply disturbing infection, and these horrible memories of the miserable time my college roommate had when she had what we referred to as The Beav, which was short for BV — bacterial vaginosis — I was EXTREMELY DISPLEASED and terrified, because I didn’t want The Beav. Mercifully, however, I didn’t have The Beav. I had The Keeper, which formed a horrid cocktail of odors when mixed with … you know. And I’m not alone, because oh, there are many reports and oh, when I switched back to (thank God) the Moon Cup? Gone. Fresh as a daisy, or at least a springtime daisy that resembles Carrie. So no Keeper. Under any circumstances.

Also, as to what a final cup should feel like while its in: it snaps open like an umbrella, and you should be able to stick your finger in there and feel the entire opened cup, and it should actually fill the whole … girly bit area (Am technical!). To test if it’s a solid seal, push on the side of the cup; it should make a suctiony sound (yummy!). This means it’s in there as best you can, and is all sucked in. If it’s not in right, pull it down a little — it doesn’t sit very high in the girly bit at all, and a good bit of stem should be on the outside, but for God’s sake, the stem should not be sticking out of your undies like an overactive girl penis. And if you find that you’re having trouble peeing, it’s not in high enough — I actually can’t go to the bathroom if it’s too low, which is just about the freakiest feeling in the world, and is very likely how I landed myself a cup-related UTI. Others have reported this too, which: ew! Ew! (Am mature, too!)

Lastly, a word about clotting. If you are the clotting type, this is where your cup will fail you. Large clots (the size of about a quarter or larger, which I’ve discussed with my doctor, and no, apparently, it’s not anything for me to worry about, but then again, I have a thyroid disease, so don’t ask me) totally trip up the cup’s collection, and cause leakage almost immediately. The cup catches the clot, but any liquid that comes with the clot? Hello, undies! It’s all over you, and it’s everywhere, and oh my God, please empty it ASAP, unless you want to and end up buying cheap black pants at Target, because your khakis are ruined and you’re at work! How awesome! Nothing says “professional” like bloody pants! Personally, I can feel clots make their hasty exit, so I hightail it to a restroom, but if you can’t I … I don’t know how to help you. I’m sorry.

I’m sure there’s more, but frankly, I’ve just grossed myself out enough for one day.

Happy Wednesday, in what is likely the longest week ever, oh my God.

*The Samples. Um, I love Sean Kelly? And I never, ever said a bad word about him, like EVER, and no, one of his relatives and/or friends didn’t e-mail me and yell at me for spreading false rumors, why? IT NEVER HAPPENED. DON’T LIE TO ME.

26 comments July 31st, 2007


Doing nothing suits me absolutely perfectly. Give me good company, Diet Coke and maybe something with heavy cream, and I don’t have to leave my house. My favorite thing in the world is to sit around and chat with friends, and oh, I got to do that for 48 glorious hours this weekend, which was spent with Lawyerish — a LawJonniHer, if you will. Both nights, I stayed up until I could no longer speak in coherent sentences, and even then, I went to bed very reluctantly, and oh, I wish the world were perfect, and we could all live next door to each other, because then I would so totally buy the world a Coke and keep it company, preferably with some sort of fruit-based dessert.

Honestly, y’all, we didn’t do anything at all, and it was delicious. We sat around on our duffs and ate hummus and crackers and drank wine and talked, and I basically gave her the Spanish Inquisition, because it was the longest amount of uninterrupted time we’d ever had, and Jesus, there was SO MUCH to cover, and I know we missed things, and it kills me, just kills me. To sum up: I love her, I honestly love her, and I swear, I’m not just saying that in the overly hyperbolic OMG!! I LUV HER!! sense that is all too common these days. I mean, I actually love her in the very real sense, and I will not be dissuaded from saying so. You can’t stop me.

Speaking of delicious, we made Ree’s peach crisp, and though it was lovely, we did indeed undercook it at first, and it was a little … crisp for all the wrong reasons, but the second time we reheated it, it was perfection, but mostly I have to tell you that it’s all about the maple cream sauce, which is thick, luscious and would go swimmingly on almost anything in this world, and that very likely includes bacon. However, for my part, I would much prefer the crisp to be made with something like apples, which goes better with maple and butter and cinnamon, oh my!

And before she arrived, I must tell you that I made clafoutis, with a recipe adapted from one I pilfered from Smitten Kitchen, who took it from ceres and bacchus, and yea, it was very, very good. I opted to make it with raspberries instead of cherries, so technically it was a flognarde, and not a clafoutis, and, as someone pointed out, a flognarde totally sounds like something I made up or maybe the name of a wizarding race only found in the wilds of ancient Dacia, but I assure you, it is a lush, custard-like dessert with a really wonderful crust of caramelized sugar and floaty berries and hello, did I mention I fell off the wagon this weekend? It’s back to running and pre-packaged lunches tomorrow, because no one should eat a pint of heavy cream in one weekend, but it sure was great while it lasted.

The only fly in the otherwise perfect weekend ointment was that it ended, and this evening, it ended with me stepping in a plastic bag full of rain-soaked dog poop, which promptly exploded all over my flip flop-clad foot. Oh oh, and tomorrow promises to truly suck. But instead of worrying about it, I’m going to relax and remember how lucky I am.

Happy Monday!

*INXS or Vanessa Carlton. I have both, and you know, I always like Vanessa Carlton, with her teeny tiny voice and all.

**PS, I’m working on a Moon Cup entry, for those of you who were asking, I just haven’t been able to broach it entirely delicately yet, plus I was busy flapping my gums this weekend.

13 comments July 29th, 2007


I got up early this morning, all bright and perky and ready to run, hooray! And then I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and idly picked up Harry Potter, thinking oh yes, I’ll just read a few sentences before I go! Yes! And then I perched myself on the edge of the bathtub for something like an hour and a half, and actually considered calling in sick to work, because Jesus, I can’t just leave it hanging like this, I SIMPLY CANNOT.

I did, ultimately, and I think it was a healthy decision, because calling in Harry Potter is generally considered bad form. However, I’m totally rushing through this blog post, because Jesus, there are Deathly Hallows to be read about! And then also, I am basically leaving you until Monday, because half of you will be at BlogHer, and I will have a houseguest, and there are sheets to wash and there is wine to buy and there is … well, there is hand-wringing, as I always panic that there will be something unforgivable, like cat puke on the guest pillows or something. And um, that’s totally possible, by the way, given that God, I keep finding these giant cigar-like hairballs all OVER the damn place, Jesus, does he hork ALL THE TIME? (Yes, yes he does, I suppose.)

(Update: shortly after I hit ‘publish’, I shit you not, he horked in my bed. I am now, um, changing the sheets. I LOVE YOU CAT. THANKS A BUNDLE FOR MAKING ME SOME KIND OF PROPHET, I APPRECIATE IT.)

Also, in random useless advice that you all totally knew and I didn’t, did you realize that running at night and then getting up the next morning to run will actually make your legs fall off, because oh, it is FAR TOO SOON? Yes, yes it will. The remainder of my legs are currently about three blocks away, and the meat has been plucked off by hungry pit bulls.

“I have no legs! I have no legs!”

(Quick: name that movie!)

Adam is traveling, and though I have no reason to be afraid, because oh my God, my neighbors are about three inches from me, and I bet if I banged on the wall, they’d totally come running, that doesn’t stop me from coming up with elaborate and detailed schemes of exactly how I’d get out of the house if someone came into the house with a gun or a knife — for some reason, the knife is always more likely in my um, fantasies? That can’t be right. But anyway, someone’s always breaking in with a knife, and I’m always seeing the shine of the knife out of the corner of my eye after hearing the creak of the stairs and I am TOTALLY PREPARED in the event of a knife sighting. Basically, I plan to hurl myself out of the window onto the roof and scream like a fool until someone gets me down. If I must, I will shimmy down the drainpipe, but that is only under the most extreme of circumstances, like if he’s a knife thrower or something. Or, you know, has a gun.

And while you think I’m kidding, I actually practiced how to do it. I can get the window open in 2.8 seconds, and be shimmying in four. So um, there. Knife throwers beware. Enter at your own peril, because I will RUN from your ass, assuming someone can get me some prosthetic legs, as mine have been devoured, if you recall.

Finally, because I’m sorry, look, it’s been a slow week, and absolutely nothing has been going on other than cleaning, running and oh holy shit, Harry Potter, I have to point out that Ilan from Top Chef Season Two is a douchebag. A giant, steaming douchebag (I don’t think douchebags steam. Do they? Oh my God, what a wretched image! IT STEAMS. And it’s giant! What could possibly go with a GIANT, STEAMING DOUCHEBAG? Please, someone stop the mental imagery.) (I’m sorry. Ew.) I knew it then, and tonight’s special confirmed it. And Micah! Oh, Micah. You, too, are a douchebag, though perhaps a chilled one that is less … hulking in size … but you are, oh you are, and an ignorant one at that, and oh my, did you look stupid.

Happy rest of the week! See you Monday!

*David Gray

26 comments July 25th, 2007

Sunday Girl

I had french toast and bacon for lunch today, and honestly, it was one of the best things in the world I could have done. Yes, yes, I know that no one cares what I had for lunch, but that french toast took me to a different plane of existence, it was so good, oh my God, and I’m only telling you this, because sometimes, it turns out, when you crave something — when you really, really crave something, oh my God — you should just have it. Please do as I say and not as I did, and do not try to fill the void with fat-free Jello pudding, because it totally won’t work, and will just piss you off.

I’ve mentioned this a thousand times, but I am such a sucker for a good description. Oh, the cinnamon is imported, you say? That must be special! The vanilla is from Madagascar? AWESOME. Wait wait – you’re telling me that this is DAIRY-FRESH cream? Sold. Totally sold. Give me the toast.

(Random aside: I actually do know the difference between vanillas, but most vanilla comes from Madagascar, so no, it’s not that special. Tahitian is used in perfumery, and Mexican vanilla is also a slightly different ballgame, but not as common due to a dangerous additive, and are you asleep yet? Because I can go on about vanilla for no good reason.)

Anyway, you can see how I ended up hunched over my desk, shoveling in french toast and bacon, and oh my God, I buttered every slice before I put syrup on it, and I could have WEPT, it was so good. Except for some reason, I’m really self-conscious eating things like that at the office, like I should be subsisting on lettuce and maybe some watercress, if I’m feeling really saucy, because buttering and syruping shouldn’t be done at lunchtime. That is MORNING food, appropriate only for Sundays if you’ve saved your Points (TM). (I totally did, in fact.) I realize this is a horribly anti-feminist notion, because a man would never feel this way, no, my God, he would just EAT the whole thing and not worry about it, but instead, I was all surreptitious about it, buttering and shoveling and and buttering and shoveling, then looking around like I was about to be busted with crystal meth instead of creamy, egg-dipped sourdough.

And Jesus, I totally went on far too long about what I had for lunch, and I’m really, really sorry, it’s just that the memory of it lingers, and I wish I was back there, lurking around my cubicle and buttering my toast, which sounds like a dirty euphemism for something, but in fact, it is not. I’m disappointed, because “butters my toast” sounds like something positive and maybe kind of hot.

In other news, I’m going to go ahead and admit this, in the event that it will cleanse me of my sin: I left a note on a car on Friday, informing the car owner that his choice of parking for his fancy car (smack-dab between two spots, totally on purpose) was, in fact, a “dick move,” only to discover that the owner of said car is actually a someone I know quite well, which, um, oops. Had I known, I wouldn’t have left the note, obviously, and upon discovery of this information, I ran out to my car because I “forgot something” and removed the note, thank Jesus, before it was spotted, but not before I ranted and raved to everyone I saw about the offense, which is how I made the discovery of the car’s owner.

Bad parking jobs do not, in fact, butter my toast, but they do grate my cheese, and though I am loathe to write passive aggressive notes under most circumstances, you must trust me that this was particularly egregious and all too common, and was pretty much the BAJILLIONTH car parked in such a manner, and I just wasn’t having it, I guess.

(I’ll stop, I promise, it’s just that it’s new to me, the buttering and the grating. And maybe the sauteeing.)

Finally, I have never won millions of dollars in the lottery. I have also never been handed wads of cash just for standing somewhere and looking pretty. Also! Also! I have never, not once, been offered a high-paying writing job (maybe a novel!) for no other reason than I have short hair. Why am I telling you this? Because it seems like every time I make some sweeping declaration about the Moon Cup, about a problem I’ve “never” had, I am mysteriously plagued with that problem, and I’d really like it to be something good instead, like maybe money, fortune and well-protected fame. For example, I’ve had leakage. Miserable, awful leakage these last few days, and I promise, I’ve done nothing different. I did, however, learn some valuable lessons, in addition to many e-mails thanks to last week’s post, that may help, and I’m debating: do you really want me to go into it here, or would you rather e-mail me? Hint: it involves, um, clotting, and no one really needs to see that unless they ask for it, oh my God.

(Although secretly, I am so not squeamish about this stuff, but some people are, and really, I can’t say that I blame them. Also, I tried The Keeper, and no no no no no no no NO. Don’t do it. DO NOT DO IT. Stick with the silicone, please. I don’t even want to tell you why.)

Happy Tuesday! Hooray!


26 comments July 23rd, 2007

The Scoop

It’s time for another exciting installment of weekend events! What will it be this weekend? Laundry? Vacuuming? Closet-cleaning? Answer: All of the above! We’re preparing to put our house on the market, for a variety of reasons I won’t go into here, and as anyone will tell you, it’s not a pleasant process, as weekend after weekend is spent walking through your house the way you would if you were buying it, and really, wouldn’t YOU insist that the scuff mark in the laundry room be painted over? And God, what IS that stain on the carpet, anyway? Do these people live like pigs?

Anyway, who cares, because God, the last thing the world needs is another blog post about the woes of selling one’s house in a down market, because everyone else has done it better than I ever could, but suffice it to say: it blows. Bigtime.

Oddly, real estate is one of the areas that brings forth the most amount of unsolicited advice of anything I’ve ever dealt with. It’s boggling, really, the amount of advice I’m given on a daily basis, and if I followed all of it, I would not be living anywhere, but in fact, would have snapped in about twelve bofrillion pieces from the strain of being pulled in too many different directions. And not – NOT – that I’m asking for any advice, oh my God, but the truth is that I don’t actually mind unsolicited advice. I mean, yes, it can be frustrating when the advice-givers are overly insistent, like you will follow their way OR ELSE YOU WILL DIE, OH MY GOD THAT IS SO NOT THE WAY YOU DO IT, but mostly, it’s benign. And no, I don’t follow most of it, but I’m usually not offended by it.

The way I see it is that people care enough to tell you what they think, based on their own experience, and they want you to save you the trouble of their mistakes. That really is it, most of the time, never mind that there are many solutions to one problem, and what works for one doesn’t work for all, and um, YES, sometimes we need to make our own mistakes, but they mean well, really they do. And really, as the second-youngest of seven kids with two sets of parents, parents’ friends, friends’ parents, etc. etc., you could say that my life has been defined by unsolicited advice, Jesus.

All this being said, if my hairdresser gives me one more piece of advice, it’s possible that I may drown him in a vat of Goldwell haircolor, because he has a response for EVERY SINGLE THING THAT I SAY. He noticed I lost weight, yay! Except, he follows it up with a comment that gee, while I may be exercising more and therefore probably eating more, I shouldn’t stop exercising AND keep eating more (Oh my God really? So what you’re saying is…I need to eat less, move more? How revolutionary!). And was that a pack of Combos in my hand? Because I’d be better off with some protein to build muscle. Oh oh oh, and while all of my pants might be too big, wasn’t I thinking of getting pregnant soon? [Ed note: um, not that it’s any of your business, but thanks for the family planning advice, Squiggo!] Because why waste the money if I’m just to “let myself go?” Give IN to the maternity clothes, ASAP! (He’s also my mother-in-law’s hairdresser. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s being influenced. Just a guess.)

All of that was in the first five minutes of my foils, Jesus, and by the end, I’d been handed enough advice to write an entire self-help book of The World According to Squiggy, and poking my eyes out with alligator clips was something I was very seriously considering. And it turns out, even I have limits on unsolicited advice.

Also, lately, I’ve had the burning desire to attend a potluck. It’s not that I want to hover over scorching-hot plastic picnic tables full of someone else’s food that probably has the saliva of a thousand people who may or may not be related, it’s that I need to make food for more than two people. Cooking for two sucks the big one, really it does, because a three-pound pot roast, though delicious on night one, really loses all of its appeal by the fourth consecutive meal, and by the eighth, we’re both ready to hang ourselves over the dead, moldy pot roast that threatens to take over our entire lives.

But the thing is … have y’all seen The Pioneer Woman Cooks? Have you SEEN her peach crisp? HAVE YOU SEEN IT? Chocolate & Zucchini? The Smitten Kitchen? I don’t even know what clafoutis is, but I know I must have some. Hell, even Top Chef is sending me into another dimension of food lust, although personal note to Padma: I still don’t like you. Please pack your knives and go, for the frillionth time.

It’s all so unreasonable for us, it breaks my heart. Oh yes, please, let’s make a Fourth of July cake fit to serve forty people. We’d be bloody hospitalized, because no no, actually, we can’t let these things go to waste. The last time I made a batch of cupcakes, I gained ten pounds (Oh, how I wish that were hyperbole. No exaggeration? I think it was my downfall. I think I single-handedly ate fourteen cupcakes over the course of three days. FOURTEEN. CUPCAKES. THREE. DAYS.)

I’m considering joining a church, just so someone will invite me to a damn potluck, and I can finally make something that serves more than two damn people — four, if we’re really burning for leftovers.

And with that, I’m off to read more Harry Potter. Say what you will, but I really had a great time reading all of them, and of many things I’ve ever read/done, they really make me wish I had a kid to share them with. Ah, someday (NOT TOMORROW SQUIGGY). And look, I understand that they are completely simplistic to some, and many people think they’re cool because they eschew all things Potter (I find that irritating, because really? Disliking something does not make you cool). Whatever, I say! Whatever! It was an absolutely bizarre phenomenon, and while I’m not pretending they’re great literature, nor is it the only thing I read (I know what good, real-live books are, I swear, as do most adults who read Harry Potter, I imagine), but they are an intense guilty pleasure, and I’m sad to see it all end. Just please, I’m only on page 120, so don’t tell me anything yet. We can discuss … well, I don’t know when, as I’d hate to spoil it for anyone.

Happy Monday! Four days and counting until she arrives! AIEEEE!

*Beastie Boys

21 comments July 22nd, 2007

In This Skin

Look at me, all typey typey on a flashy new laptop! With VISTA! Vista, the bane of my existence, that I have no idea how to use. Oh Vista. We are not friends yet. But hello! HELLO! HELLO VISTA! I really dislike you, but gee, you are very pretty, even if you do exactly what the PC in the Mac commercial does, and scream at me every time I want to do anything at all, including open the calculator, because a calculator is SCARY, and you need my permission before you’ll add and subtract, because all that math could be dangerous.

Incidentally, Sunny ate the power cord to my other computer — the back up Dell that hard-boiled my eggs — which was the last straw in the technological meltdown that hit up Casa Jonniker, and also happened to occur on a freelance deadline, Jesus, that was sucky, and is also the reason I’ve been everywhere but here. But lo, Alert Reader Susan was quite helpful in the procurement of a shiny new TiVo for a third the cost of a new one! Turns out a little complaining is a good thing. Well, in certain contexts. I’ve beaten the complaining to a bloody pulp, so off we go! Let’s talk about lightning!

I’ve mentioned my fear of lightning before, but did I ever mention my EXTREME, RIDICULOUS fear of lightning? The fear that actually makes me hold my bladder the entire time a thunderstorm is going on outside? Yes, because you see, I actually believe that if lightning strikes the ground anywhere near us (and it does all the time, oh my God, this is the land of lightning, for God’s sake), that the electrical current is going to whip up the water pipes into the toilet, then travel up the stream of my pee and fry my girly bits. It could totally happen, I really believe this, and honestly, there isn’t much anyone can do to convince me otherwise. I will not go to the bathroom during a thunderstorm, no matter how badly I have to go. I’ll pee in a jar first, though thankfully that’s never happened.

Speaking of fried girly bits, as part of my ongoing plantar fasciitis treatment (please kill me now), I’ve got to smear Biofreeze (a very strong menthol-type rub that … well, it freezes and cools. Or something.) on the bottom of my foot twice a day, and while I feel absolutely no effect on the bottom of my very calloused foot, that stuff is potent and, as I’ve discovered, has aftereffects that last through several handwashings. Thus far, I’ve Biofrozen my earlobe, eye and–my personal favorite–my nether regions, thank you Moon Cup! Three handwashings, and a small exploration mission left me aflame, err, afreeze, for longer than I’d like to remember. (The prereq for the Moon Cup may also explain The Crazy of earlier in the week, and I hate admitting that, especially to Adam. It’s like I’ve lost some sort of feminist battle. The PMS-deniers will never let me into their ranks.)

Speaking of Moon Cup, one of the strangest things about writing here, and the infamous Moon Cup incident, is that strangers often e-mail me their difficulties using the cup. I don’t get much unsolicited mail, honest, but about this one issue, I am often inundated. This is problematic for one reason only: I’ve never had a single problem using the Moon Cup, and it worked for me right away, so I don’t know how to help them! And I want to! But I had no spelunking, no leaking (well, that one time, but that was totally not its fault), no messes. The whole “learning curve” thing that everyone insisted I would have? I never had it. Umbrella-like snap and go, and off I went into the land of menstruation without fear of leakage. Yes, yes, there was that time I almost yanked out my cervix because I forgot to break the seal, but that was easy to fix. (Break the seal, yo. Not worth it otherwise.)

So I ask you, gentle readers, as many of you have either been longtime users, or bought one since the incident, what, if any problems have you had, and how did you overcome them? Because I want to help people troubleshoot, and I just can’t. If you don’t want to tell me here (again with the menstruation, first mittelschmerz, now this oh my God, I may never move on), you can e-mail me at jonna at jonniker dot com or jonniker at gmail dot com — they both go the same place, as does that little contact form at the top.

Have a great weekend! Happy Friday! Wooo!

*Jessica Simpson. I don’t know why I’m admitting this, but back when Newlyweds came out, I was horribly addicted, and even developed a bit of an affection for Jessica Simpson that has since passed, thank God (I tend to do this, you see. Anyone remember Ryan Star? Ahem). And, in a fit of sympathy during season one, I picked up her CD In This Skin at Target for something like five bucks, because I actually felt sorry for her, because man, she was so dumb AND her CD was on clearance! The horror! It’s … well, it’s truly terrible, as you would expect. Oh Britney. You are missed.

33 comments July 19th, 2007


So, hahahahaha, I really must be in the mood to bring The Crazy this week, I guess, because wow, I’ve been a waffly, slightly insane person to be around, and I’m pretty sure–no no, I’m certain–that Adam would like to pack me up and ship me elsewhere until it passes, along with a few other people (GOD SORRY SORRY SORRY IF YOU’RE ONE OF THEM). I don’t have any sort of logical explanation for my complete departure from reality, other than the fact that yes, yes, a man on a Confederate-flag-emblazoned ATV with an ammo box (and, you know, AMMO and things that require ammo) and a swastika tattoo burst out of the woods near my house, and my computer died, and I haven’t slept in a few days and God, someone get me a Valium! Perkins, bring me my smelling salts! And smack me in the face, because I have a case of The Dramatics. And also, I’m afraid until today, for the past three days I’d packed up my sense of humor and lost it somewhere in the bath mats. I think maybe I found it, and not a moment too soon. In fact, it may be several moments too late, because I was … well, I lost my mind. And did I mention that our TiVo died, too? Two weeks after the warranty expired? And that this very scenario happened the LAST time my computer died, which was about a year ago?

Separately, not that anyone’s asking, but I’m not going to BlogHer, and the only reason I’m mentioning it is because Lawyerish is coming that weekend, and I’m a little excited about that weekend, but not for any of the reasons everyone else is, it’s just that she’s coming! Here! A whole weekend of unadulterated Lawyerish. I’m afraid I’m going to hold her hand too much and freak her out. Yes, actually, I am a LOT excited about it, and I’ve been looking forward to it for so long that I actually already dread the moment I have to drop her off at the airport, because it will be too soon! TOO SOOOOON! Visit aside, it’s highly unlikely I’d be going to BlogHer anyway, because I have to go to Chicago for other reasons at some point, it’s expensive, and large groups make me want to start crying, and I’d have to down 11 vodka tonics just to get through five minutes, not because everyone isn’t lovely and perfect and wonderful, but again, large crowds and all. I wish there was a way for me to meet everyone in a one-on-one situation over cookies. But meeting everyone en masse? It kind of makes me want to run and hide, until individuals plucked me out one at a time and talked me off the ledge (ONE AT A TIME. TWO AT MOST.)

Plus, if I’m honest, and I’ve said this elsewhere, but I’m interested: does anyone else not have the slightest desire to overanalyze blogging, or is it me? Frankly, if I take a closer look at this weird little thing that I do, and examine it closely, warts and all, wow, um, I’m pretty sure I’d pack up and head for the hills and never think about it again. Not that I don’t think it’s wholesome and lovely and actually quite helpful, but I have no desire to monetize it unless it was sheer happenstance (the idea of turning something relaxing into a job-like entity makes me want to cry, and I know that’s counterintuitive), and I’m not particularly ambitious about it, ergo, the content of BlogHer is of little interest to me personally (the people and the blogs? Totally of interest to me, and I know that’s sort of silly to make that distinction, but there it is, but again, ONE ON ONE). To be clear, however, I do not mind ads on blogs in the slightest, nor do I think that they have any impact whatsoever on the quality of the content. I don’t believe that any blogger writes to please her advertisers, unless it’s that godawful Pay Per Post, and the second, and I mean THE VERY SECOND, a blogger writes one of those, I run, and I never come back.

I didn’t mean to go so meta on you. Sorry. In other news, why didn’t anyone tell me about the weightlifting hunger? I’m familiar with the running hunger, but the weightlifting hunger is something else altogether. It’s a primal need for … peanut butter. If someone could please hand me an entire vat of peanut butter, I’ll gladly spoon it up and eat it with nothing else. I never even LIKED peanut butter before, but tonight, I did everything I could to convince Adam to have peanut butter & jelly for dinner. He declined, but the need is still unfulfilled, and I’ve packed two peanut butter & jelly sandwiches for tomorrow: one for breakfast, one for lunch. Because I’m twelve.

And I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me, because my ovaries are currently preparing themselves for some sort of deviled egg dish, because my God, this laptop is hot, and we’re going to be in brief blogging land until my new one arrives, because I really can’t imagine that I’ll be able to procreate if I keep this up.

Happy Tuesday. May it be a less insane one than Monday was, and dear God, please, let me calm down and stop acting like someone who needs to chill out already. Perkins!

*Alana Davis

27 comments July 16th, 2007

Walking In My Shoes

I don’t even KNOW what I was in the middle of writing, or thinking about writing, when my computer went blue in that awful, miserable blue screen of death-way on Thursday night. I knew the failure was coming–really, I did–after a few weeks of periodic crashes and blue screens and clanking sounds that sounded like the legs of a legion of little elves were getting tired inside the machine, but that didn’t stop me from doing a lot of moaning and hair-pulling and yes, garment-rending (um, seriously. I almost tore my t-shirt right off, like Brandi Chastain, but for much less celebratory reasons). I also may have clutched my chest in heaving desperation and screeched, “MY FIIIIIIILLLLLLES!” like it was some sort of SURPRISE that my computer was dying, nevermind the back-ups and blue screens and … well, whatever, this is boring to even me, but suffice it say that I am writing this on some wild back-up Dell machine that weighs approximately 4,500 lbs and runs hot enough that I could poach eggs between my thighs. I do, however, have a shiny new laptop zooming its way through the magic of UPS, depending on when it’s completed, which is exciting, and will hopefully have no impact on whether I can bear children.

I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned the bizarre oddity of my neighborhood before, what with the people who walk their cats in strollers and whatnot, and while there are plenty of normal, nice folk that I love spending time with, the fact that I spied a man–A MAN–walking down the street wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and carrying a chihuahua in a Baby Bjorn really makes me wonder if this is all some sort of test. Is someone waiting for the day that we finally have enough and run screaming to the end of the universe, which is really just a Truman Show-like DOME? Because God, this man, he wasn’t wearing any shoes, and he was walking through a construction site with, P.S., a chihuahua in a Baby Bjorn. In his underwear. The man, not the chihuahua, I mean, although it wouldn’t shock me if the dog was wearing undies in the Baby Bjorn, and maybe a diaper.

I have to admit, nothing like this has ever happened to me anywhere else, and I’m becoming quite attached to it. Living in an underdeveloped area causes a ton of culture clash, and it’s fantastically entertaining, but hoo boy, I need to move out of this neighborhood.

Anyway, that’s plenty of weirdness for now, I think. At least if I run into much more, I will, actually run off to the end of the proverbial dome and maybe hang myself, because Jesus. Other than that, our weekend was spent doing exciting things like laundry and cleaning the litter box (Note to cat: Please stop peeing on the floor NEXT to the litterbox. I know you’re big, and I know you like to put your ass as close to the edge as possible, but really, it’s not getting in the box the way you think it is, and I, for one, am sick of cleaning up your urine. Thanks! xoxo, Mom), but we did get out to see Harry Potter, and I know look, I KNOW it’s a little on the lame side, but we always go to see them in the theater, we just do. It’s a bit of a compulsion, similar to the one we had with Lord of the Rings, though they are decidedly not the same experience (oh, how I wish there were seven LotR movies! Or twelve! I don’t care how nerdy it is! Bring on the ents!)

Did you ever, when you were younger, think that weekends would degenerate so? I mean, I honestly had a great weekend, even though the highlight was cleaning the bath mats and enjoying their fresh fluffiness (I’m thinking about going in there later just to stand on them, such is the nature of my jubilation. They’re so fresh! And fluffy! And clean!). Oh oh, and cleaning the master closet. That was a thrill. And sadly, I’m not really kidding. It’s just the way it is when you get older, I guess.

But finally, honestly, Big Brother? I love you. I love your Name That Pie contests, and I love Jen. I LOVE HER. She is very likely the dumbest person I’ve ever seen anywhere (although she is a member of JENSA), and it’s truly amazing, really, that you found her through the miracle of casting. Some might say it’s JENIUS.

Happy Sunday/Monday!

*Depeche Mode

**Edited to add that I accidentally edited/sliced a whole section while editing, and now I’m too tired to bring it back. Whoops. But it involved a strange man on an ATV with a swastika tattoo popping up out of nowhere, which is always exciting.

21 comments July 15th, 2007

Paper Bag

My feet are way bigger than they used to be. Am I alone here? I mean WAAY bigger. It’s so…well, it’s awful and freakish, is what it is, and I’m really and truly terrified that one day I’m going to wake up with my flipper-like feet dangling off the edge of the bed like a rubber chicken. To wit: three years ago, I was a size six-and-a-half. Yesterday, I bought a pair of running shoes in size eight. SIZE EIGHT. Granted, you generally need a half size up in running shoes, but still. STILL. And worse, I’m hearing that they grow again when you get pregnant, and God, I’m telling you, the clown feet are coming and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Also, I have officially become a Person Who Exercises–a person who is rather rabid about it, in fact–and nothing frightens me more, because really, am I going to turn into that chick on Work Out? (I love her, by the way. She’s totally obnoxious and self-aggrandizing, and all those awful, despicable things, but I’m strangely drawn to her, but not in that way, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.) I have become a little obsessed with the state of my arms, and am all but flexing them to anyone who walks by, because hi, have you met my tricep? I’ve never had one before, and boy howdy, I’d like to introduce you to it. Adam is decidedly not interested, as he’s concerned that I’m going to turn into a bodybuilder type who thinks it’s cool to open Brazil nuts with her armpits at parties, and it’s a valid concern, because if I could open nuts with my armpits, I totally would. Wouldn’t you? Much cooler than tying a cherry in a knot in your mouth, non?

Incidentally, and apropos of nothing, I was tooling around our local department store, and I was positively entranced by the seemingly never-ending collection of peignoir sets. Kate Chopin aside, I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who wears peignoirs. Doesn’t it seem so strangely romantic, if horribly impractical? If I wore a peignoir, I have to believe my life would in some way be more glamorous, and also include late-night cheesecake festivals with my two best girlfriends, and maybe my mother, who would suddenly be Italian, and also named Sophia. Instead, I’m usually wearing the tank top I worked out in, and maybe a pair of pajama pants fished out from some unsavory bowel of the closet.

Also, incidentally, while wandering around the department store, I found myself in the handbag section. Have I ever mentioned that I love handbags? I love them, and it’s completely incongruous, given that I’ve announced on several occasions that I can’t dress myself and I hate shoes, but oh, I love an expensive handbag, and sadly, I always carry one, and it’s usually Kate Spade. I realize she had her day, when everyone had her classic nylon bags, but I’ve never moved on from her (though I no longer carry the nylon bags), and I still find them to be absolutely perfect under all circumstances. I buy a new one every season. Don’t hate me, because, if it’s not obvious, I am not the kind of person who judges others by their handbags, and again, I’m usually carrying these cute handbags with vagabond-like clothing. It’s my one vice.

This is important information before I launch off here, lest you think I come from a place that does not appreciate pricey handbags, because oh, I truly do. But Dooney & Bourke? Are they serious? I find them to be positively tacky and hideous and everything a handbag shouldn’t be, and further, I am strangely ENRAGED by Emma Roberts sponsoring her own line of bags, because, not to beat the teenage horse, but she’s SIXTEEN. And while I love expensive handbags, I can’t help but feel like I’ve sort of earned the right to have an expensive handbag, because Jesus, people, I’m THIRTY-ONE, and wow, look at all the money I’m saving on clothes and shoes! Emma Roberts’ peers? They’re SIXTEEN. Sixteen-year-olds should not be coveting $250 handbags, and I’m not even going to start on the nepotism, I’m just not.

(Speaking of clothes, Ann Taylor Loft is having a fabulous sale right now. Pants! I bought two pairs of adorable capris for $14! Hooray!) (I have to go to the mall a lot for my job. It’s not healthy. But I digress.)

I’m sorry. I really need to stop hating teenagers. I think it’s because school is out, and again, Jesus, they seem to be everywhere, like that godawful LOL cats trend (“I’m in ur pool…wearin’ a bikeeni”) (Have I mentioned how badly I want to find that site funny, but I can’t? I mean, it was funny once, but at this point, I am LOLcats’d out.)

Also, to end on a light note, while I was on a professional call (in my car, of all places, parked) yesterday, something–I do not know what–made a horrible noise that sounded exactly, and I mean EXACTLY, like a giant fart. I promise you, if I weren’t the owner of these buttcheeks, I would swear that I farted, but that kind of noise is something you can feel, of that I’m certain. So, what do you do? I was horrified and embarrassed, because seriously, I DID NOT FART, and yet I’m completely certain my phone mate not only heard it, but he now thinks I farted on the phone with him, and also have a gas problem. I mean, I could hear the iced coffee he was slurping, there is no way he didn’t hear the fart-like honk. And yet, to say something seems wrong (“It was my shoe!”) and calls attention to it, and also sounds needlessly defensive. Only a guilty farter would say such a thing, so I didn’t say anything at all, and just let the fart lay there, but oh, there was an awkward moment where I didn’t do or say anything–the kind of awkwardness that follows a real life phone fart, so it’s not good, not good at all. He thinks I farted, and I didn’t! I DID NOT FART.

*Fiona Apple or Anna Nalick. Of the two, I prefer the latter. Oh Fiona. How I’d like to break you in half.

42 comments July 11th, 2007

On and On and On

Not to go on about my dog, but I think we thought in some small way that a puppy would be a trainer baby–you know, something to get us used to taking care of another being, wake us up in the middle of the night, and get us up early in the morning so that the shock of weekends before 9 a.m. wouldn’t be so…shocking. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, we ended up with the World’s Laziest Dog–a dog who gets up at noon on the weekends, and goes out for a nice brisk walk to the end of the corner and comes back and naps for three hours, because that 100-yard pee and poop just plum tuckered her out. She requires all of 11 minutes of exercise a week, and a good romp around the bedroom knocks her out for DAYS. Sunday, for example, I arose at 8:45 a.m., while Sunny didn’t get up until 11:30, when I rudely woke her ass up and dragged her outside for her morning poop, because Jesus people, you can’t sleep all day! After I woke up, I could see that she’d wormed her way under the covers in her bed, and when I went to retrieve her, shot me a look like I was ripping her paws off. She didn’t even have to PEE, for chrissake, she just SLEPT. UNTIL ELEVEN THIRTY.

I guess what I’m saying is if you’re looking for a low-maintenance, lazy-ass dog, get a pug. She won’t go for a jog with you, but by God, she knows how to sleep, and she snuggles like nobody’s business.

Also, Cassidy asked me yesterday if I watched Big Brother, and the answer, I’m embarrassed to admit, is yes. I’ve watched Big Brother since season one, and it’s now a sort of weird sentimental thing, as it’s the first show that Adam and I ever watched together (bad reality TV! How romantic!). This was, oh my God, eight years ago. EIGHT YEARS. I don’t know why that’s striking me as a strange sort of eternity (in a good way), but it seems so long ago I can’t even believe it. But anyway, I have a ridiculous passion for Big Brother that cannot be denied–from the first season, when One Legged Eddie won, to the neverending antics of Evil Dr. Will, I’m pathetically addicted, in part because it’s so, so bad. I mean, where else on television can you find grown adults who talk seriously about how well they did in some nebulous “food competition” where they get giant vats of butter poured on them and have to squeegee it out into big buckets of popcorn? And people CRY about their performance in said competition? Where, I ask you? WHERE?

I’m exhausted, and intended to go on about something more meaningful like, I don’t know, too-young teenagers in bikinis–oh, what the hell, I’ll go there for a second. Dude, tonight, I was at the gym, which is near the pool, and our little nymphet neighbor, who is no more than FOURTEEN, was toodling around in a zebra-striped itsy-bitsy bikini, and a) she looked super-hot; and b) every man/boy/whatever within 100 miles was ogling her, and I just wanted to cover her up like Johnny did to Paulette in that awful, terrible talent show scene at the end of Grease 2 (what?), and I guess I’m wondering, between this and the Victoria’s Secret rant, when did I get so old? And will I get over this? Am I being a prude by proxy? She’s FOURTEEN! Shouldn’t she be in a … muu muu, or at least a ONE PIECE? JESUS.

I mean, I am being a prude by proxy and also a crotchety old lady. I know. But God, I don’t know. Kids are growing up way too fast these days, and God, I just hope I don’t have a daughter, because if she–at 14–tries to act sexy in zebra for even ONE SECOND, she’s off to the nunnery. TO THE NUNNERY.

Finally, because I mentioned it once, it’s worth noting that I finished Atwood’s Cat’s Eye, and ultimately really loved it. I didn’t enjoy reading it, but I love it in retrospect, which sounds completely illogical, but makes sense in reality. It’s just one of those books I love thinking about, but hated reading. Which brings me to my next statement. Have any of you ever read Helprin’s Winter’s Tale? TwoBusy recommended it to me a few weeks ago, and it’s one of those books I’ve had for ages, but never picked up. I am positively enchanted. I’m obsessed, afraid I’ll devour it too quickly, so I’m reading it slowly, slowly, savoring every single word. I’m dreaming about it, mooning over it at work, weeping if I can’t snatch a free moment to read it. I’ve re-read chapters already, and I’m only 1/10th of the way through. Magic. It’s magic! Go read!

Between this book and the recipes I’ve stolen from him lately, I think TwoBusy is actually starting to worry that Adam and I are going to set up a yurt in his backyard just to soak off some more recommendations and eat his food, and actually, it’s a valid concern, as we’re very seriously considering it. I’m hoping his wife and kids don’t mind. We’re nice, clean people, and in fact, we come with our own super-special FloorMate.

Happy Tuesday!


29 comments July 9th, 2007

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