Archive for September, 2007
At the grocery store last week, I was rifling through the cucumbers, when a man approached me — with his kids, mind you — and announced, as he, too, picked through the pile, that they need to be “long and hard – LONG AND HARD – otherwise, it’s not a good cucumber, if you know what I mean!”
And then he winked.
And the thing is, I did know what he meant, actually, because English cukes are my favorite, and they’re long, and cucumbers MUST be firm, yes, yes, I agree. And then I think I smiled at him. I was on the phone with my mother at the time, and it only just now — an entire week later — dawned on me that he may have been of the pervy sort, and quite a brazen one at that.
Incidentally, my mother is fairly certain that high heels are going to be the death of me, so much so that she won’t let me drive her car in them. When I mentioned I’d be wearing heels to the rehearsal dinner at the wedding next weekend, she announced that I had to wear “driving shoes” if I were to borrow her car, because high heels are dangerous and will somehow cause a rollover accident. You see, my heels will get stuck in the floor, which will mysteriously made out of, I don’t know, BUTTER, and I will lose control of the vehicle and wind up in a ditch somewhere, maybe with my heel sticking out of my neck. Also, what are driving shoes?
This is the same woman who insists that I not travel with my engagement ring, because she’s convinced — utterly, completely convinced — that someone is going to take a machete and chop my finger off to sell my ring on the black market. A machete. I don’t know why she thinks that traveling with it is so much more dangerous than wearing it at home, but she actively fears for the safety of my fingers when I travel, because machetes are so prevalent in airports. I must add that my engagement ring is normal and not a six-carat canary diamond. While I love it, it’s not like it’s machete-worthy.
I love her.
Apropos of nothing, I really and truly dislike Daniele Donato, and would like it if she would just, I don’t know, QUIT WHINING. Oh my gawd, the whining! The neverending whining! And the knee socks. I have tired of the knee socks.
Our weekend, by the way, was spent doing a whole lot of cleaning and eating and relaxing and napping with the dog. I don’t know if you’ve noticed (ha HA!), but I never have glamorous photo reports of my weekend, mostly because my life is so extraordinarily un-glamorous. And I often wonder, are those who purport to living such glamorous lives actually living them, or are they showing us the prettiest of it all? Or are they doing things just so that they have something to post/take pictures of? I’m guessing not, and it’s that their lives are more … golden than mine is, because mine usually involves lots of laundry and if we’re lucky, some sleeping-in. And if there are martinis involved, they’re usually homemade and sucked down in bed in front of the television in wholly un-glamorous fashion, usually while I’m wearing a night splint for my plantar fasciitis (which is back, by the way, and oh-so-painful).
And finally, in the How Annoyed Would You Be? category: After a particularly ornery outburst from me, Adam turned to me and rather smugly asked, “So we’ve got four, five days until your period starts? Am I right?”
Me: “…”
The only thing worse than being accused of having PMS is being accurately accused of having PMS. Life is so uproariously unfair.
Happy Monday!
*Erasure
September 9th, 2007
Sunny has double ear infections, and while it’s horrible, and I feel terrible for her, I must admit, cleaning her ears is dangerously satisfying, I’m sorry, it just is. I know it’s gross. I know earwax — canine or human — is pretty foul, and it’s not like I have some sort of earwax fetish or anything, it’s that I cannot tolerate any sort of bodily crusts or byproducts of any sort, and I must eradicate them. I MUST.
Also, she may have had a zit in her ear from all the ointment and I may have mentioned it to Adam and he may have said, rather sternly, “DO NOT POP A ZIT ON THE DOG.” And maybe it was hard for me to admit that yes, the thought crossed my mind, because while I realize it’s gross, I can’t let a zit lie there. I can’t, even if it’s IN MY DOG’S EAR. I may have a problem, and yeah, that may have happened.
Am I alone here? I know I’ve mentioned this before, but if there’s a blackhead in a 10-mile radius, I need to get rid of it. It’s not an option. I need to clear the pores! Freshen the skin! GET RID OF THE SEBUM.
Are you disgusted yet? I am, and I’m sorry, but it’s only going to get worse. Because while I’m at it, I’m going to update you on bikini waxes, but there is a payoff unrelated to my own hoo-ha, I promise. Remember when I said that whoever said that bikini waxes don’t hurt if you get them regularly lied, because they do! They hurt! HORRIBLY!
They don’t. Retracted. I’m on my third monthly wax of the .. more thorough, variety (please note I did not say entirely thorough, and I don’t know why this matters to me, what you think of my bikini line, but it does), and I’ve got to tell you, I hardly felt a thing. Seriously. I mean, there was some vague stinging, but it was nothing like the absolute bald (hee!) terror of the first few waxes, and I’m a regular waxing sort, just not always of the … more thorough variety. And also, as if this wasn’t awkward enough, lying naked on a table while a woman smears hot (HOT) wax in your most intimate areas, and near some very sensitive and intimate-type skin that doesn’t normally see the light of day, my aesthetician (the one with the tattooed face) told me about a class she’s taking next month. A class where she will learn how to dye the nether-hair hot colors, like shocking pink, purple and blue.
I’ll let that sink in for a moment. You know, the DYED GIRLY BITS. Also the fact that we had a thoughtful discussion of how to protect the super-sensitive girly skin from searing dye and peroxide. PEROXIDE, OH MY GOD.
And then I will tell you that she recently learned how to sculpt women’s remaining decorative hair into the shape of a Tiffany box, and how awesome would it be to turn a woman’s crotch into a baby blue Tiffany box? Can you think of anything more fun? Because I can’t. Unless — wait — unless that baby blue Tiffany box was adorned with crystals, which her class next weekend is teaching her how to (oh my God) weave into the landing strip — I mean, Tiffany box.
“I can make a Tiffany box with a diamond! A man could propose to a woman that way!”
Oh, my lovely, not-too-bright waxer. No, he can’t. Because I am pretty sure — just a guess — that the future fiancee might realize her girly bits were being ripped out, dyed and adorned with a diamond ring. I’m just … well, I don’t know.
And beyond that, there’s no point in typing anything else, because I don’t even know what else to say, except I didn’t get the baby blue Tiffany box with crystals, I hope that much is clear. My special lady area, as Emily so hilariously put it one day, remains unadorned.
*Hee! Deep Blue Something. Oh, I’m cracking myself up here. Also, my friend Heather and I once drove from Pennsylvania to Syracuse and back three times during college and listened to nothing but that song, oh my God. But I still have it.
September 4th, 2007
My oven needs to be cleaned so desperately that I actually can’t cook *anything* in it without setting off no fewer than three smoke alarms, and if you think that sounds incredibly irritating OH I ASSURE YOU IT IS. Especially when you’re married to me, the person who has actually started house fires in ovens, so every time the oven’s on and the smoke alarm goes off, Adam all but gathers his most precious belongings and heads for the nearest window.
Incidentally, tonight’s false alarm was brought to you by a variation of Smitten Kitchen’s roasted tomatoes and onions over white beans, and I’m telling you, it was so worth the flames. My variation includes a few cloves of garlic and a mixture of olive oil and balsamic vinegar and is it to die for? YES IT IS . Go make it now.
Wait, where are you going?
Oh hi! How was your weekend? And last week? Because I seemed to have missed all of it, given that all I did was stare at a computer until my eyes crossed and God if that doesn’t make for the most boring human being on the planet, I don’t know what does. And ah … I’m not even sure what to say about that. I go to work, work work work, then come home and freelance, because all of a sudden it’s busy freelance season! And given that I prefer my freelance work to my day job sometimes, I’m not about to turn it down, because who doesn’t like money?
Which reminds me: I celebrated Labor Day by … well, by laboring at the office, which seems like the perfect way to honor our nation’s workers, don’t you think? But that was not before we got to relax and do the usual Lowe’s/PetCo/Bed Bath & Beyond run and make a visit to Hooters.
Hooters! Hey, so have I ever told you that we eat out a lot? We do. A lot. Like seven to eight times a week a lot. Adam works from home, and while under normal circumstances, like when he goes to work in an actual office, we at least attempt to cook three or four nights a week. However, when his greatest social interaction of the day is a conference call and a drooling beast, he’s anxious to get out of the house every night, and I can’t say I blame him. And so, out we go.
To Hooters, because we eat out six nights a week, and oh my God, we’d exhausted all of our options, and it’s happened before, okay? MANY MANY TIMES. And I don’t have a problem with Hooters (or strip clubs, for that matter), but the whole outfit? The outfit that is borne of 1986? It makes me crazy. If you haven’t seen it, they wear cheerleading tights. And slouchy socks. SLOUCHY. SOCKS. And while the tights, I sort of understand, because I know my legs look like they’ve been through some sort of war involving a Venus Divine and a dog leash, and if it’s about the fantasy, let the men ogle perfect, shiny, nipped-in legs. Fine. But slouchy socks? Honestly?
The waitress next to us was extremely pregnant, and I can’t tell you how much it thrilled me, because how disappointed must her tables have been, unless they had a very, very specific pregnant fetish (and God knows, oh my God, there are PLENTY OF THEM). And yet, natch, Hooters can’t do anything about it, and it was so … gleefully subversive, I wanted to hug her a little, which would have been wildly inappropriate, and also weird.
I’m hopeful, by the way, that this week will be better than last, and I hope yours is relaxing as well. And with that, I’ll leave you with one question: I bought this dress in a desperate attempt for … well, I was dress shopping for a wedding I have in two weeks, and even though it wasn’t right for this wedding, I panicked and bought it anyway, because if I didn’t walk out of the shops with SOMETHING, then my head would explode, and hours would be wasted.
And I had big plans to return it, because oh my God, it’s boring, and then I thought wait! If not for this wedding, what about super-conservative October family wedding? Maybe? So I ask you: too funeral-like for October wedding, where black will be okay?
I’d also like to say for no other reason than I can, that this dress was purchased in a size six. And Adam’s only complaint about it was that “wasn’t fitted enough.” SOMEONE GIVE ME A [zero points, fat free sugar-free] COOKIE. (Just kidding. I eat real cookies now, I swear.)
Happy Tuesday!
*New Order
September 3rd, 2007
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