Archive for September, 2007
So I was wrong, so very wrong, about a few shows this fall season, as I discovered throughout the weekend, as both days can be summed up thusly: Caught up on TiVo. The End.
Well, not really, of course, but it would be disingenuous to deny that a significant chunk of the evenings were spent lying supine on the bed beneath the pleasing glow of Top Chef (go Casey!) Dirty Sexy Money (Donald Sutherland? Love!), Life (House, but in cop form!), Bionic Woman (So bad. Run for your lives!) and, um, Back to You (ummm … will it do to say that I like Patricia Heaton and can’t help myself?).
This all points to the fact that I’m afraid I may be overextending myself this television season, because Friday Night Lights is coming back, and Pushing Daisies and … well, I’m overwhelmed, and I may have to quit my job to become a full-time television watcher. And after the week I had last week, it’s a bit tempting.
Honestly, we had a great weekend, and I’m crushed to see it end, as usual. We took Sunny out for breakfast on Saturday morning, and to a local park for some fetch, which actually means “lying in the grass and falling asleep while staring at a ball.” While it was lovely, it knocked her on her sad little puggy ass, and she’s done little but sleep ever since — in fact, she’s asleep right now, at 8:30, after sleeping until 11:30 this morning. Oh, to be a pug.
Completely unrelated, but you know, I got an e-mail last week from Saks touting the excitement of new! high-waisted! DENIM! And honestly, I know it’s coming back, but I have to ask: why? Why the hell? It’s not flattering on anybody, I don’t care who you are. I’ll grant you, the low-rise revolution created some issues in the ass-crack department, but the high waist creates a bit of a … well, it creates a gunt. I don’t know how more delicately to put it.
And with that, I’ll leave you with a recipe for my very favorite snack in the universe. We had a bit of a culinary disaster this evening (Adam this time, not me, and it involved a recipe for chicken rollatini gone horribly, horribly awry), and I’m currently holed up in our bedroom with a big bowl of Smitten Kitchen’s roasted tomatoes and onions over white beans (again, I add an entire head of garlic and roast it, too) and my snack is marinating downstairs. HOO BOY AM I EXCITED.
I am nothing if not enchanted by exceedingly stinky brined foods — pickled brussels sprouts are a favorite, and I even like pickled eggs, and if I wasn’t allergic to them, would be unafraid to order them in bars, or is that only a rural Pennsylvania thing, with the pig’s feet and pickled eggs behind the bar? Anyway, these radishes, I must admit, smell a bit like … well, they smell like toe jam. But oh, they are delicious! Peppery and sweet and slightly acidic, with the perfect nutty accord of sesame oil. I implore you, move beyond the stench and enjoy! I usually triple the liquid and use it with about two bunches of radishes, or one medium-ish bag of them, cleaned.
A few hours before you make this, clean the radishes and smash them with a mallet or rolling pin. Salt them heavily (HEAVILY) and place them in a colander or strainer over a bowl to draw out the water. Let them rest for at least two hours, so that they can soak up enough of the marinade.
– 1 tsp. salt
– 2 tsp. soy sauce
– 2 T rice vinegar
– 2 T dark sesame oil (I like to add a drop or two of the superhot variety, for spice, too)
– 1 tsp. sugar
Whisk together all ingredients and pour over radishes. Refrigerate and, most importantly, DO NOT EAT RIGHT AWAY. Oh my goodness, these are much, much better the next day and the day after that and after that and OH MY GOD THEY ARE SO STINKY AND GOOD.
Enjoy, and happy Monday!
September 30th, 2007
“I WANT HIS SPERM.”
Oh Private Practice. You were oh-so-dead on arrival, from the time “Addison” (because was this really the same character we loved on Grey’s Anatomy? WHO IS THIS ADDISON?) started dancing in her apartment naked, but seriously, the second that woman turned in a laughably melodramatic performance by announcing “I want his sperm” in the hospital, I actually turned it off.
“I want his sperm.” Jesus. She might as well have tried to use the words “labia majora” in some kind of mature context that doesn’t involve surreptitious giggling and snorfling, because neither one of those statements belong in any sort of television that we’re supposed to take remotely seriously.
Thus far, by the way, I have found but one show from the new season that I actually like: Journeyman. I don’t care if it’s Quantum Leap recycled (it totally is), it was refreshingly entertaining without being either a) a cop drama or b) an emotional suckfest designed to pull us into some sort of insane love triangle for years and years. (Hi, Grey’s Anatomy! LOVE YOU!)
And hey, does anyone watch ER any more? I just wish it would flatline already (har!), because it’s been far too long, Stanley Tucci or no.
Enough TV! Sunny’s back to eating poop again, and it was a contentious few moments when Adam warned me she’d had a fecalicious snack so hey, don’t let her kiss you, when I announced that oh, right! That was a habit she’d started yesterday! You know, right before she kissed you all over your face! For real. Everyone is thrilled.
Anyway, for the third time since the Weight Watchers journey (like The Bachelor!), a coworker noticed that I lost weight during a most inopportune time: when I was bending over the crisper drawer of our office refrigerator. Don’t get me wrong — none of the comments were in any was salacious or inappropriate, it’s just that it’s hard to muster more than a “Oh! Gee, um, thanks!” with the realization that it is your diminished derriere in their face that prompted the compliment, especially while digging through a bottom drawer of what might be lettuce, might be old meat, does anyone really know? Side note: About a week ago, I reached into a grocery store bag in the fridge that I was SURE was mine, and oh my God, it wasn’t. It was a bag of raw pork spareribs. In our office fridge. And do you know how gross that is? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA?
I hope you have a great weekend. Adam just pretended — quite convincingly — that the TiVo actually broke in a horrible, melty accident so as to avoid actually having to suffer through Grey’s Anatomy. And by “suffering,” I mean that I am very likely including my own, because the comments! The neverending snarky comments! They cause me pain. (Adam, on Dr. Torres: “Oh my God, she’s just … a beast. A beast! A frightening beast!” OH SOMEONE SAVE ME.)
*Gecko. So Vista included all of these incredibly irritating musical vignettes with my new laptop, and is there anything more irritating then cruising along on a nice run when BAM! a song that you neither ripped nor downloaded, and worse, it’s all jazzy and ridiculous and not at all what you like? That’s right, I don’t like jazz. No! I don’t like jazz! Not even a little! And I don’t care what that says about me!
**Update: Um, for real? FOR FREAKING REAL? More Mer-Der drama? A BREAK-UP AT THE GET-GO THEN MORE ROUND AND ROUND WE GO JUST STAY ON OR GET OFF STAY ON OR GET OFF OMG!111!!!1
September 27th, 2007
I’m not sure what kind of spam filtration system allows the words “anal sex” in the name field on comments, but apparently that filtration system is mine, allll mine, and I just spent the last 40 minutes deleting throngs of salacious spammy comments. Thanks, Spam Karma, for all you do!
Anyway! It’s tip time! If I may, I would recommend that you not take liberties with your Hoover FloorMate, meaning maybe you shouldn’t vacuum up cat pee that made its way outside the litter box, even if it’s been doused in Nature’s Miracle. Why? Well, I’m guessing that most of you won’t have to ask this question, for by now, you’ve exclaimed incredulously, “Who would be so stupid? WHO?”
OH HI. And for anyone else who may have thought hey, it vacuums up liquids, why not? Here’s why not: Because every time you vacuum after that one incident, your will spread cat pee molecules, and your entire house will smell like cat pee, which isn’t exactly the kind of fragrance Glade is marketing these days, as Eau de Boycat (with top notes of fecal indoles and a heart of good old-fashioned ammonia!) lacks a certain mass-market appeal.
I might also add that our garbage can mysteriously smells like … well, man juice, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Since we just got it yesterday, I can only assume it came like that (A pun!), unless the men at Waste Management were having a bit of fun before they dropped it off, and um, ew. Perhaps more disturbingly, the fragrance seeped into our garage, which then leaches into the car, which results in a drive to work that resembles a romp in a dirty bed at the Bunny Ranch. This is not particularly conducive to drive-time breakfast scarfing, as I’d rather not eat a bagel next to Isabella Soprano, fresh from the office with no time to wash her face.
Aaand, the final cautionary tale of the evening: While taking out our porny garbage tonight, I stepped on a snail, the hard crunch of its shell like an extra-crunchy potato chip, followed by the snot-like consistency of the body it was made to protect, all oozy-like underneath my foot.
My bare foot.
I help where I can.
Hope your Wednesday is everything you hope it to be and then some.
September 25th, 2007
In an uncharacteristic turn of events, I, like many others, am obsessed with the Flickr Working Closet pool, and will very likely be contributing, because if there’s one thing that leaps out at me, it’s that people look SNAZZY when they go to work, and where are the Reefs? The sneakers? The horridly ill-fitting pants that I seem to sport every day?
Seriously, y’all, if nothing else, it’s made me realize that my own wardrobe is rife with Glamour Don’ts, and while it’s not the most important thing to me, it’s gotten so bad that I am actually embarrassed to put myself together, lest people notice and make it a THING, because they always make it a thing. Take today, for example: I was out of clean clothes, and was forced to throw on a pair of slightly dressy trousers with zippy little patent leather heels, and you’d think the universe had been suddenly set to melt down, the way my co-workers reacted in my morning meeting. My boss actually yelped, “HER SHOES OH MY GOD! LOOK AT HER SHOES.”
I take that as a sign that really, I need to step it up a bit, because if a pair of heels sends people’s heads spinning, like it’s some sort of wild special occasion that maybe involves an interview for another job (seriously, I think they were panicked) or at the very least some sort of cookie-and-balloon-laden occasion that also involves bacon, then maybe I’ve got some wardrobe issues I need to address.
Speaking of Glamour Don’ts, have you seen this? It’s just … well, it’s like Hot or Not, but with an added dose of cruel, cruel terror, and now I can add this to my list of things to be afraid of: one day discovering that those are my eyes behind those nefarious, nefarious bars, and my be-Reefed feet held up for the mockery of millions of people who know how to pull off a wedge heel, or at least pretend that they do.
Onward! It’s premier week, and I’m overwhelmed with television, as I was last year. It’s become a chore, rather than a relaxing activity, and instead of being excited about Heroes, I viewed it as time away from cleaning the cat litter box. Aaand, I think perhaps we’ve just illustrated the second problem that needs to be solved, like perhaps there’s a life I can pick up at Target this weekend. I think I said the exact thing last season, and ooh, update: Heroes! Loved. I don’t care how much Matthew Gilbert warned me not to get too attached, as there is danger ahead, in the form of far too many characters. I am a sheep. Love.
And with premier week comes the painful decision regarding Grey’s Anatomy: dump it? Give it another chance? We’ve been promised pseudo-redemption by Shonda Rhimes, but really, I don’t know if I can endure another season of Mer-Der drama, and the whole show just makes me feel stupid. And yet I find it oddly compelling, not unlike a ripe blackhead that begs to be squeezed. I know I shouldn’t, because it’ll leave a hole, but I can’t help it.
With that appetizing image, I’ll leave you with a product recommendation for your trouble: While Clinique products generally have a bad rap, their brush-on cream eyeliner is fantastic. It goes on smoothly, blends easily, and Black Honey is one of the best, most wearable browns I’ve ever used. Personally, I’m a fan of applying it with the MAC angled eyeliner brush.
I may not be able to dress for shit, but my eyes are lined beautifully.
*The Cake Sale. So, after months of coveting the album from afar, because I can’t get enough of Lisa Hannigan, I finally sucked it up and ordered the import last week — for $40 — and it arrived today. Imagine my excitement when I learned that it’s being released in the U.S. in two weeks for, I’m guessing, a lot less. But how pretty is this song? In two weeks, you, too, can own it for a lot less than I paid for it. Enjoy!
September 24th, 2007
I made good on my fruity drink promise of Friday, as we went away for the weekend to Clearwater/St. Petersburg to see a playoff-clinching Red Sox/Devil Rays game and stay at a comfy fancypants resort on the beach. It was lovely, our seats were ridiculously awesome (the players could hear me if I yelled loud enough, I swear. It was wicked, wicked cool) and the game was actually exciting, except for the fact that Tito hasn’t figured out that Dice-K is a six-inning pitcher, period, so please pull him after the sixth inning. It will come back to haunt us in the playoffs, mark my words. We will have another Grady Little/Pedro situation, oh my God, WE WILL.
But I digress!
Do you know what’s in Clearwater, other than beaches and fancypants resorts? Scientology headquarters. As in, L. Ron Hubbard’s Scientology — the religion that arguably transformed Tom Cruise into a man who uses the word “glib” on national television and made John Travolta agree to star in Battlefield: Earth. And um, oh my God, y’all.
The headquarters themselves are entirely unassuming, and part of me thinks we might have missed them if not for the sudden sight of this:
Oh hi, Scientologists! That’s the first of three bus loads of Scientologists in uniform — I’m told they were students. And oh my God, the whole uniform thing was extraordinarily disconcerting and y’all, they were all wearing the same navy pants/short sleeve shirt combo and this crazy regulation belt! They were all wearing THE SAME BELT. And special pagers! They need pagers?
I don’t even know how to explain the bizarre details of the rest of our encounter, but it involved an unhappy Scientology guard who left us with a veiled threat to confiscate our camera if we took any more photos by simply saying “the others” wouldn’t like it. “The others” also wouldn’t like us being there, so maybe we should move along, unless we’d like a sanctioned tour for a hefty fee? I might also add that he indicated that he’d been watching us take pictures from as far as two blocks away, which is even … well, it’s even creepier.
I might add, too, that when we left the vicinity, we kept seeing belted Scientology students lurking around every corner, and we got the distinct, if paranoid, sense that we were being watched and/or followed by aspiring operating thetans. Or maybe it’s just that they were everywhere, because they really were, though I’m told that’s just downtown Clearwater. They were all belted and pagered and navy panted, except for a few people in khakis, who had clearly been promoted to a different enlightenment level and granted permission to wear khakis with their regulation belts.
I’m not one to make any sort of judgments on anyone’s religious beliefs — in fact, I don’t think I ever have. It’s just that honestly, the whole experience was just … well, it was a little creepy. And admittedly, I am very skeptical of L. Ron Hubbard and his purported comments about religion-as-business, not to mention the enormous costs involved in being a Scientologist — it’s my understanding that even the most rudimentary levels of enlightenment can cost tens of thousands of dollars. And the belt! THE REGULATION BELT!
And it sort of grates my cheese that the guard was so weird about the whole thing, because honestly, I can’t imagine any religious headquarters that *isn’t* seen as some sort of tourist attraction, so why the secrecy? And further, why the regulation belt?
And even further, I’m fairly certain that the guard wasn’t so stoked about us after he got wind that we took this photo, which is, um, me doing a rather bad version of the Vulcan salute (the thumb! I messed up the thumb!) in front of the church, but come on, man, it’s kind of hard to resist, because again: BATTLEFIELD EARTH.
I just … I don’t know. I just know that I can’t get over the belt. I don’t think I would wear the belt.
Other than that, we had a fantastic weekend. I hope you had a great one as well. Happy Monday!
*Flock of Seagulls … or Scientologists, if you prefer.
September 23rd, 2007
Lately, I find myself increasingly repulsed by the very existence of lettuce. Not sweet butter lettuce all delicately torn into pretty wooden salad bowls, but iceberg lettuce that’s shredded and haphazardly tossed atop sandwich buns. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing more disgusting than hot wilted lettuce, and I can’t stop gagging at the memory of my lunchtime sandwich, the vision of the hot, sticky lettuce triggering my gag reflex over and over again. It gets darker green! And hot and wilty!
Hot lettuce. Oh my God, I can’t stop thinking about it. HOT LETTUCE.
(Note how I sadly, and completely ungracefully, managed to work lunch into this — a screaming faux pas, I’m aware — but seriously: HOT LETTUCE OMG I MIGHT DIE.)
While we’re on the subject of food, Adam and I were wondering: how many people, do you think, get dessert out at a restaurant? Do you get dessert when you go out to eat? Granted, we eat out far more than your average couple (>4 days each week — remember, he works from home and must get out or die), but we never do, and my God, the way that our waitresses glare at us with white-hot glares of glarey, dessertless death, you’d think we decided to forgo entrees and subsist on coffee and free water with extra lemons, and please, do you have any more rolls?
Which led me to wonder when people opt for dessert, because it is a rare occasion that I’ll agree to a dessert out, and it almost *always* involves creme brulee, as I don’t own my own torchey thing, and with good reason, as I would almost certainly bring the home to a state of rubble. I’m not against dessert, you see, it’s just that I like it much later than dinner, and scarfed down at home in my pajamas.
By the way, I realize that there are all of three of you who care, but Casey. Casey is my favorite to win Top Chef, and I hope she wipes the floor with Hung’s classically trained ass and sends him packing for his glorious, glorious mushroom world.
And with this sad, sad and utterly pathetic effort at trying to write something remotely coherent, I’ve got to go to bed. I’m trying not to drool from exhaustion, as I just (as in, five minutes ago) wrapped up a humongous freelance project, and I’m coming off of one of the busiest, most stressful few months in my professional history. I’m ready for next week, but first, I am so beyond in need of a weekend that involves fruity drinks and maybe a foot massage.
September 20th, 2007
I don’t know why this matters to me, but my boyfriend in high school had a mullet, and it’s served as small consolation as I remember and not-so-fondly envision the whole mix tape disaster. Yes, yes, he had a rather long one, and believe me, I’ve asked my mother for some photos, because again: A MULLET. Also known as “hockey hair” around Pennsylvania. Adam, for some reason, maybe because he lived in a cave that had nothing but clothes from Chess King, seems to think that no one had mullets in civilized states. I insist that no no — everyone did, and I maintain they weren’t that unattractive back then. That’s right, I said it: there was a time in my life when I thought mullets were hot. Do with this what you will.
Incidentally, we haven’t put our house on the market yet, because we’re chickens (BAWK!), and because in moments of defeat, I can get very Eeyore about it, because who will buy it? And why, then, should I live my life frantically fretting over whether my water glass left a ring or my Moon Cup is resting on the edge of the sink? (Oh my God, the second I wrote that, I thought, seriously? RESTING ON THE SINK? Um, no. No, I’ve never done that, and I don’t know why I didn’t just correct it, rather than go on this way, but there it is, and no, no I’ve never left my Moon Cup on the sink. I would be divorced.)
Anyway! Onward! Remember how I said work was going to be settling down, all easy-peasy like? Not yet. NOT YET. I am dying here with the not-yettedness yettiness, and the freelance dance when I get home, and I maintain: what’s the point of making money if you can’t even enjoy it, like with a nice beer with someone other than your coworkers? (Beer. Beer is all I could think of? Seriously? Why not Coach handbags? No no, apparently, I miss BEER. And handbags. And maybe kind of clean underwear, but I’m not that picky.)
(I won’t let Adam do laundry ever. I am a control freak about this, ever since my niece turned one of my lambswool sweaters into a Barbie vest.)
Incidentally, and this is in no way related, but that has never, ever stopped me before — did I mention that my brain is mush, like green mushy peas without the butter? — we continue to be plagued by little gray jumping spiders, and in researching them (THEY JUMP), I’ve pretty much freaked myself right the hell out of Dodge. I mean, they aren’t Sundry‘s giant house spiders, but did I mention they jump? THEY JUMP. I killed one this morning by spitting toothpaste on it, and for one fleeting second, terrified myself into thinking that maybe it was about to jump into my mouth on the toothpaste string (I just grossed myself out even more) and JESUS, I’m never brushing my teeth again. (Because I am dead, I have KILLED myself with grossness.)
The whole point of this was to say that I ended up looking up photos of spiders to make sure they weren’t poisonous, and I discovered, for the frillionth time, that I have an irrational fear of touching pictures of insects, like they’re going to come alive and eat my fingers with their giant bugginess.
And with that, I’m off, because the next thing you know, I’ll be talking about the intricacies of Lean Cuisine vs. Weight Watchers meals (Weight Watchers all the way), such is the shallow, shallow depth of my current brain capacity. Also, maybe kind of I cried three times in Kid Nation, especially when Sophia won that stupid gold star, and yes, I’m watching it, and yes, I freaking CRIED.
Happy Thursday to you, and really, I swear, it’s slowing down soon! SOOOOON.
September 19th, 2007
First of all, thank you for all of your vacuum recommendations. I should tell you that we’ve had both Eureka and Dirt Devils, and hoo boy, they sucked, and not in a good way. Oh, and both are dead, and can only be described as some sort of appliance roadkill.
Anyway, in case it isn’t obvious, I’ve become rather …. smug about running, and when I told my parents that I was heading out for a run on Friday morning, I announced that I typically run about four miles in the mornings, and was considering training for a 5K! Because I am a very serious runner now, you know, I said knowledgeably.
Ha. HA! Do you know what Pennsylvania has? HILLS. I do not live in an area that has a single hill, and boy did my legs let me know, thank you! And this officially makes me Not a Runner, because runners can run places that are not flat, which I clearly cannot do, but given that I haven’t seen a real, live hill in two years, I forgot. And then I died and my legs fell off. The end.
The weekend was perfect in that sickeningly perfect way that leaves your face in actual pain from smiling so much. I can’t tell you what indescribable joy it was to see my childhood friend get married, and to get to hang out with a group of my favorite people in the entire world. My friend Dee was the only exception, as she couldn’t get away (I’m linking, because if you can, go see her. Go now. She’s amazing), but every single person who was important to me while I was growing up was there, including my very first boyfriend, who I dated all through high school.
Ha HA! Surprise! Matt conveniently forgot to mention that he was invited (“What? I forgot you dated! Wait, shit — that’s RIGHT!”), and when I turned to hear him say my name, I was, for a moment, dumbfounded, because honestly, it was almost too much to bear after spending an hour with my old English and Spanish teachers, and reeling from the shock of holding my friend Justin’s Gerber-quality baby, because Jesus, could this have been more This Is Your Life? We have old friends and their babies! Teachers! Ex-boyfriends! MY GOD.
(Incidentally, the teachers were there because Matt’s mom is the secretary at my high school, and they’re friends. Matt is not so nerdy that he still writes to his teachers in long, overwritten prose about his accomplishments, I swear.)
It was surreal. And perfect. And for some reason, it made me immeasurably sad, that life marches on the way it does, and that we’re no longer sixteen, with endless stretches of time to hang around in someone’s bedroom, doing everything and nothing. I think, incidentally, it might be time for me to eat my words, because I realized that all of my high school friends were boys, with only one exception. I was the only girl from school at that wedding, and when I looked around, it hit me that I preferred playing Nintendo to playing cheerleader, and watching The Highlander over and over again was more important than putting on make up. So I’m sorry! I am that girl, in a way, and I didn’t even know it.
To me, though, they were almost genderless, in that we slept over each other’s houses in groups, in the way that was usually reserved for boys or girls alone, and one of us was always having dinner with the other’s family. I don’t think there was a weekend we spent apart, from the time we were ten years old, and like I said, it breaks my heart a little sometimes that those days are gone, and we’ll never get them back. But for one weekend, though, it was as though we’d never been apart. They remember me, and I remember them, in a way that most people never could.
I’m going to toss away vanity for a minute here, because this is one of my favorite pictures, maybe ever, because it was a moment I was so ridiculously happy that even the public appearance of my quadruple chins isn’t fazing me. Charlie and I have known each other since fourth grade, when he sat behind me in reading class, and almost from that day forward, I spent as much time at his house as I did my own, and he practically lived at mine. My parents call him their second son, and I can still recite his favorite movies by heart, and I know by the look on his face almost exactly what he’s thinking, even still, after more than 22 years. He remembers what I wore the first day of school, and he knows exactly how I helped him to beat the Legend of Zelda (Northwest, southwest!).
(Am I making us sound super-cool, or what? Did I mention he played the trumpet, and I, the oboe?)
(Please note giant hunchy wrap around my shoulders, because we were outside smoking — yes, I smoke around these people, I can’t help it — and it was frickin’ FREEZING OH MY GOD. Also, hello, chins! How nice of you to appear, as you always do, every SINGLE TIME I laugh in photos!)
And while I’m sad that it’s over, the best part of all this — the very best part — is that Charlie’s getting married next summer, to one of the nicest people I have ever met. And, come hell or high water, we’re going to be there, and we’re going to do this weekend all over again. And I cannot wait.
Happy Monday to you!
*So, lots of people, right? But this particular reference is to the Pet Shop Boys, with a nod to Willie Nelson. The Willie Nelson version came on at the wedding, and my old boyfriend tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I requested it, because he remembers that I gave him a mix tape (A MIX TAPE) of sappy love songs (SAPPY LOVE SONGS. SOMEONE PLEASE KILL ME NOW), and I did some sort of re-mix (RE-MIX) of the Pet Shop Boys and Willie Nelson. Oh oh, and “Somebody” by Depeche Mode opened and closed the tape. I swear to you, I’d never seen the kid laugh so hard, because apparently HE STILL HAS IT, and his fiancee told me it’s one of her favorites, because it’s so utterly hysterical in its emo sappiness. Again, if someone could get me a gun, or at the very least, a knife, that would be great.
September 16th, 2007
So, ha ha! Um, coke nail? As I said in comments, am I just too innocent for this world that I’ve never heard of this? Because that never occurred to me. Plus, if Schnozz hadn’t announced that it was to *snort* cocaine, I’d have thought it was to readily open Coke cans . Because I’ve been known to have that kind of Coke nail on my thumb, because who likes to rip off the last remaining shred of fingernail for some Coke Zero?
(Disclaimer: Schnozz is not a cokehead, she is very nice and normal, but is simply more worldly than me, lest I be accused of spreading false rumors. For real. I’ve met her.)
Also, it warms my little heart to see that so many of you abhor Sarah Silverman. I would make out with you all, but that would be wildly inappropriate.
And with that, I’m basically off for the weekend. I’m flying to the wilds of New Jersey tomorrow (Newark! Who doesn’t love Newark?) for a weekend with my family (my entire family, as my sister is also coming), and the wedding of a close friend. And the weekend after THAT, we’re staying at a fancypants hotel on the beach and going to a Red Sox game. Because we’re fancy like that, if you count “fancy” as not doing anything that requires any sort of movement whatsoever, save for maybe getting a beer and a hot dog, and falling asleep while Tim Wakefield pitches, because watching a knuckleball is akin to watching the slowest baseball in the entire world carefully, gingerly, S L O W L Y make its way to home plate. Unless, of course, Wake is having a tough night, in which case, you have the oh-so-painful experience of seeing a pitcher get shelled first-hand.
But! Save for the Sox game, it’s not likely there will be any fancypants anything. The last time we did this, we didn’t leave the hotel for more than 11 minutes at a time, because it was raining, the hotel had a spa, and did I mention there was a bathtub in front of the television?
I will be back before then, however, and hey! My work hell is ending! It’s OVER on Monday! Well, sort of, Monday. But it’s ending. Maybe Tuesday.
But first, a question to give me something to come back to … we’re looking to buy a new vacuum, and we’re finally ready to take the plunge on a decent one, because honestly, I’m sick of fixing our old ones, and we’ve been through four, count ’em, FOUR, in the last two years, and that doesn’t count the two we fixed. I am done with cheap(ish) vacuums. Oreck? Dyson? Miele? Panasonic? Hit me with your vacuum recs. I will only say that I *hear* Dyson is overrated, but I know nothing from personal experience, so that could be like saying I heard Sarah Silverman is really funny, which we all know is not true.
Have a wonderful weekend. See you Monday! Hey, I may even have photos!
*The Brother Kite
September 12th, 2007
Am I the only person who doesn’t find Sarah Silverman funny? I never have, honestly. It’s not just the Britney Spears thing, although really, kicking someone when they’re down, and I don’t know, IN THE ROOM, isn’t something that thrills me. It’s just that when Jesus is Magic came out, everyone was all, “Sarah Silverman is so funny! And she’s so hot!”
And I just … well, I didn’t, because I just think she’s mean, and really … base … and not particularly intelligent, no matter how ironically she tries to portray her humor. And really, I promise, I thought this before Sunday night. I mean, look, dude, I have a mean streak, and God knows I’m capable of not-so-shining moments of moral superiority, but honestly, the genre of comedians who do nothing but push the envelope and cross the line do nothing for me, and I don’t think it’s smart comedy (there were times I disliked Dave Chapelle for the same reason, though I mostly liked him). Maybe that makes me … not smart, and I’m sure it means on some level, I don’t get it, but I’m kind of happy not to get it. Stuff it, Sarah Silverman.
Anyway! On with my own base humor! I find it ironic (OH THE IRONIC IRONY) that I purchased blush at Sephora today from a woman who was sporting a thick, luxurious mustache — I mean, you could pet this sucker, and maybe braid it — given that part of what Sephora is selling is the expertise and the … experience and the illusion. A MUSTACHE, oh my God, seriously? Please? You are there to sell me beauty products. Beauty TOOLS, no less — the kind of tools that can remove facial hair. And while personal beauty isn’t a requirement of the SAs, really it isn’t, you might sell more blush if you wax the mustache, is what I’m saying. I just …. well, she was very nice, and I bought my blush (Nars Orgasm, for those who care), but the mustache lingers.
Random beauty aside: You know how Orgasm is universally flattering and easy to wear and all that rot? I implore you, do not expect the same level of universal goodness from the lipgloss of the same name, for it is … well, it is not flattering on me, unless I’m aiming for Corpse-Like and Lipless. Also, whatever you do, don’t try to use Philosophy Three-in-Ones as a shampoo, no matter how desperate you are, because your hair, it will die. It’s not even a good bubble bath either. So Philosophy One-in-One is really what it is. Oh, how they lie.
Also, oh my God, I also experienced the, um, helpful shoe SA at Nordies who was wearing hotpants and metallic high-heeled platforms and, when I professed that I was seeking dark patent red peep toes, spent at least 10 minutes trying to sell me a pair of clear red plastic superthick platforms. To go with this dress, mind you. Which, unless my name is Mysti, and I spend my nights moonlighting with a set of pasties, isn’t remotely appropriate. And now, because I used the name Mysti, at least twelve Mystis will send me angry e-mails because I called them strippers. Do you know why this will happen? Because when I wrote a post about my dislike for Ben Folds, the wife of one of his former band members (yeah, um, from Ben Folds Five. AM SMOOTH) announced herself (quite gracefully, I might add, BUT STILL), such is my luck.
Mystis of the world, reveal yourselves!
Also, while I’m at it, can we talk about the horror that is long nails on men? And why is it that it’s always the pinky nail? My waiter at my favorite local (read: only) sushi restaurant placed his long, yellowed nail in front of me this evening, like some kind of hardened urine droplet — no, no, PEE WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER — along with my spicy tuna rolls, and for a moment, I thought I wouldn’t make it.
It’s always the pinky. Why the pinky? Is it for added elegance while drinking tea? Is it used as some kind of tool to remove rogue mustaches from Sephora employees?
Happy Wednesday! For my part, it’s the last day of the week for me. Happy!
September 11th, 2007