Archive for July, 2007
Saturday was a day I’m just not ready to talk about in any sort of coherent fashion. We have a list of summer house projects about six miles long, so Saturday was supposed to be our fun day, while Sunday was the work day. We were going to have a fancy waterfront lunch on a nearby island! Hooray!
Except: no hooray. In summary, we got bad directions from Google Maps, drove four hours (yes, four. No, I don’t know how we did it exactly, it just happened) to the completely wrong place, and ended up on the bitter, isolated tip of what appeared to be the wild west. I don’t really don’t know what else to say except that I didn’t know such places existed except on television. I didn’t know there were that many people missing teeth, limbs and… and… PANTS, for chrissake. Yes, there were pantless, limbless people all over the place, and … I don’t know even know where to go from here. Honestly, it was like Deliverance meets Boxing Helena. We were afraid to get out of the car, and when we did get out of the car to get a map (dear God), I swear I heard a record scratch to a grinding halt as people stared and marveled that my God, we were wearing pants! Look! And were those teeth in our heads? Actual, live teeth?
I’m just shaking my head and cringing and beside myself at the moment, remembering the completely unembellished horror. I don’t even know what else to say except that we were starving and exhausted and sweaty, and after one failed attempt at stopping to get lunch (half the bar appeared to be packing sawed-off shotguns in their pants), we ended up at one of those terrifying country all-you-can-eat buffets, which was the only well-lit, safe-seeming location (near a Wal-Mart, of course), where I picked at day-old brussels sprouts and plucked shreds of sauerkraut from around some sort of mysterious potted meat food product.
When we finally arrived home, we walked the dog and promptly passed out from exhaustion. It was 5 p.m., and we’d been gone since 10 a.m.
Anyway, it’s over, but it shall live on in our minds for a long, long time to come. I’m still…well, I’m still shuddering.
Moving on. The Nielsen experiment, Day Four: Winterwheat was right. Every single channel change becomes an existential crisis. Adam’s found himself turning on CSPAN while he works, so that he’s not obligated to record the hour that he was on a conference call and forgot to change the channel, leaving The Bold and The Beautiful to quack away in the background, because God forbid, he comes across as a soap watcher (which he isn’t). Instead, he’d rather come across as the type of person who enjoys watching long, complicated Senate hearings.
For my part, I’m embarrassed to admit that I had to write down that hour from 7 to 8 a.m. when I zoned out with a towel on my head, watching Jessica Simpson shill for Proactive. Although honestly, after gazing at it for 45 minutes, I was ready to plunk down my money for whatever super-special mask they’re hawking this week, and that would have been so, so much worse.
And finally, we bought a Hoover FloorMate this weekend, and it’s honestly the most exciting thing to happen to us in a long time. Pearly clean tiles without kneepads! Amazing! The fact that I am genuinely jazzed about this speaks volumes to the quality of our life this hot, humid summer where I haven’t–not once–brought my new, semi-toned body out in a bathing suit, because it’s too damn hot. This is not, by the way, our first FloorMate–about a year ago, I went through a Freecycle phase to offload some stuff, and lo! one of my takers was giving away a FloorMate. We met, I took her FloorMate, she appeared totally normal and healthy, and three days later, she died. Freakiest thing ever–her husband sent out a mass e-mail, not realizing that hundreds of Freecycle strangers barely knew her were also on the list, and it was just so CREEPY. I haven’t been able to use that FloorMate since, as it belonged to a dead person, and it could have been haunted! The haunted FloorMate! Okay, fine, yes, it was ultimately broken, which is very likely why she was Freecycling it, but still! I was using the FloorMate of the recently deceased, and none too happy about it. I’m thankful that this one is untainted by the blood of the dead.
(I know that’s not rational, and look, I’m so sorry she died, it freaked me nonetheless. The FloorMate of the dead!)
Separately, but related, did you know if you buy an item with a damaged box and ask about it, the fine folks at Target will give you 20 percent off? Just casually mention it, and whoosh! Twenty percent gone. I was asking if we’d have trouble returning it, as it was the last one and rather banged up and just like that! LIKE THAT! Twenty percent off my FloorMate. Also, in random advice, I cannot say enough about the magic of epsom salts, for it healed Sunny’s irritated paw in less than two days. I was thisclose to taking her to the vet, but four to five soaks in an epsom salt sink, and voila! Perfect paw. Don’t say I never gave you anything.
I hope your weekend was great, and that you have a delightful Monday. Oh, oh! Because so many of you know so much: any idea on how to clean grout? Like honestly clean grout that was once white-ish, but is now, um, black-ish gray? Not that I would know what that looks like, but if I DID know, I will say that it’s not my fault–the previous owner left it that way! I swear! (I hope! I hope!)
*Jimmy Buffett. I don’t know why, either, but I have an entire ALBUM. Cheeseburger in Paradise! It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere!
July 8th, 2007
We had a very trying Fourth of July, as evidenced by the fact that at 8 p.m., I was still halfway in my pajamas with a glass of wine by my bedside. Yes, yes, we should have painted the garage, but we couldn’t, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to go out there in wild thunderstorms and sweat ourselves silly. I mean, I got half-dressed to go out and have nachos after some serious Point(TM) saving this week, and that was quite challenging enough, thank you. It shall wait until the weekend. (Pajamas are totally back on.)
That being said, it was a long night anyway, what with the flaming fireworks, and a certain small dog who is TERRIFIED of flaming fireworks. I swear her barks were asking me, in a small voice akin to Alby Grant, “Is this the end of days, Mama?” I said it before, but I hate fireworks. Hate.
Separately, in things I also hate, I had a cortisone shot in my foot on Tuesday, which made me feel very athlete-like and brawny (I am important enough to need steroids! Steroids!). Or, you know, like a whining Ashlee Simpson after screeching her way through the Orange Bowl (Anyone remember that? Anyone?) Now, I’ve had steroid shots before, but I’ve never had one hurt quite this badly before. The burning! The flames! THE BURNING FLAMES! After carping and promising that I was going to “either faint or throw up, I AM GOING TO FAINT OR THROW UP,” they tilted back my chair, where I proceeded to jam my fingers so tightly into my eyeballs that I actually temporarily blinded myself, and when the shot was over, I couldn’t see, which was embarrassing on so many levels.
Foot doctor: “Are you okay?”
Jonniker: “I can’t see! I can’t see you!”
And dude, I couldn’t. I could not see him for the life of me. But it was because I jammed my thumb directly into my eye socket and made my vision go blurry and askew. Smooth. Also, I honestly couldn’t walk for an entire day–I mean, sometimes shots make you sore, but this was…well, this was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Cortisone shots in the feet = painful. Very, very painful. But hopefully worth it.
Oh! OH! What I’ve really been dying to tell you is that I was at American Eagle the other day, and they have lots and lots of cute, comfortable underwear on sale, including the tanga, thongboy and plenty of boyshorts–you may want to drop by there, because they’re adorable, and oh lordy, they are cheap. They also have those really frightening boy-brief undies that resemble tightie-whities, with the flaphole and everything, and I just find them really upsetting, as they’re designed for a generation that is not mine. Honestly, I find it upsetting in general that teenage girls are buying lingerie, and nothing is more distressing than heading past a Victoria’s Secret and seeing a bunch of pre-pubescent girls wandering around the aisles pondering lacy demi-cup bras. I just…well, I feel very queasy about it, and I felt similarly in American Eagle, as nymphet after nymphet loaded sexy underwear into her arms and headed to the checkout. They are too young for sexy underwear. I wanted to take them all aside and explain that sexy underwear is for grown-ups, and some day, when they’re all grown up and really truly in love, they can find out what happens between two people who really dig each other, but for now, they should be in Jockey For Her, at best. I’m sure that would go over well. I’m also fairly certain that I was all over Victoria’s Secret in high school, and that my mother wanted to lock me up and put me in full-body plaid bras.
But I digress. While perusing the undies and picking up a few boyshorts, a boob popped out in my face. A boob! A pierced boob! People are undressing before me all OVER the place, and what am I supposed to do about it? Is this some kind of test? The worst part is that I could see that it was about to happen. I saw the tank top give way, saw the boob about to break free, and for one fleeting moment, considered screaming, “YOUR BOOB! YOUR BOOB!” but remembering the Starbucks incident, I stayed quiet. And then…there it was. An entire boob, with a pale blue barbell through it, just staring me in the face as its owner and I hovered over the size M thongboys. It almost brushed my NOSTRIL at one point, but I stayed calm, despite the fact that she remained oblivious to the exposed barbell, until finally, she giggled and said to no one in particular, “MY TIT!” and put it away.
Oh, to be so comfortable with exposing your boobs in public. But I guess, you know, you have it pierced, you WANT people to see it. Personally, I’ve never really wanted to share my nipples with the world, but who am I to judge? Mostly, I wanted to punch her for using the word “tit,” as it’s always reminded me of something very hard and immovable, like an underripe peach, whereas “boob” sounds soft, squishy and slightly friendly. A boob is a soft, smiling pillow of sorts, whereas a tit is very angry and unhappy. Women should not have tits. No one needs angry breasts.
And that’s all I’ve got! Happy Thursday! I know we’re all excited to go back to work after that one, pathetic Wednesday off, aren’t we? AREN’T WE?
*Blur
July 4th, 2007
It’s here. It’s here! Our Nielsen package is here! Let the television watching commence! What’s disappointing about this is that it’s only eight days. Only EIGHT DAYS to discuss our television habits in extreme detail. Only eight days to properly explain my disdain for all things cheap reality TV, and my passion for all things Top Chef (except for Padma. Padma, please pack your knives and go). This hardly seems fair, don’t you think? I’d like to be a lifetime member, please. Adam is also lording it over me that the envelope is addressed to him, and him alone and that this is his project–his “cross to bear,” as he put it. Which, HAHAHAHA. No.
Our weekend was incredibly hot, sweaty and uneventful. I don’t mean to be one of those people who waxes painfully about the weather, but Jesus, it’s hot, and nothing says “whoo! weekend!” like sealing and painting the floor of a garage in 90+ degree weather and pudding-thick humidity. And um, it’s only halfway done. And worse–worse!–guess what we have planned for our random Wednesday July 4 holiday? It’ll be lovely to sweat our asses off and kill ourselves with paint fumes amidst the shrapnel of a thousand bottle rockets and those miniature tank things that never do anything but spin around and disappoint people, because really, is that all they do? They just spin around like little sparklers wrapped in some sort of tank-like wrapping and…and…and then nothing? That can’t be! And yet, that’s exactly what it is.
July 4 has never been my favorite holiday–I’m terrified of fireworks; I always have been. I also don’t particularly enjoy them, and I’ve never, not once, sat along the Esplanade in Boston and watched them to the enchanting music of Keith Lockhart and the Boston Pops. I just don’t find it all that magical, considering that I spend most of my time waiting for the barge to explode in some horrible accident, started by a flaming man who caught his arm on fire because he didn’t step away from the fuse fast enough. This fear is compounded by a memorable Fourth spent in Massachusetts, when the wind blew flaming effluvia onto innocent bystanders and actually ignited the blanket of an unfortunate family of holiday revelers.
In the land of non-sequiturs, I’ve started lifting weights, and um, it’s horrible, and I’m not very good at it, and did you know I can’t lift more than…10 pounds in most cases? And that even that leaves me wheezing and grunting and almost wailing in agony? And that I tried to lift 10 pounds on the bicep curl machine and actually could not, but was too embarrassed to admit it because there were people in the gym watching me flounder, so I (oh my God) pretended that the seat broke and walked to another machine? Yes. I think I even said it out loud, “Well, the seat is all screwy!” and then huffily walked away. But in reality, I couldn’t lift it. Like, not even a little. And yet, I can pick up 10 pounds, just not on this particular contraption in this particular way, or at least I keep telling myself.
And finally, remember how I said that poop is always funny? It turns out, there are times that while it might be funny, its inherent humor is outshined by sheer dumbassery. Take, for example, this afternoon, when I walked into the laundry room–where the cat’s litter box is housed, by the way–and gleefully picked up what I assumed was a chocolate chip. Look! A chocolate chip! Never mind that I don’t have any chocolate chips in my house, nor would there likely be one in our laundry room, but that didn’t stop me from picking it up and–well, I don’t even know what I was planning on doing with it. But it was most definitely not chocolate, and in fact, was a stray blob of cat poop. And need I remind you that this was the second time one of us mistook cat poop for chocolate?
Also, um, and this is random: mittelschmerz. Do you get it? If so, um, how does it manifest itself? Feel free to e-mail me if you don’t feel like discussing the details of your menstrual cycle in a public forum. I understand.
Happy Monday!
*Iggy Pop and Kate Pierson. I love Iggy Pop, veiny arms and all.
July 1st, 2007
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