Archive for October, 2007
I worked with a woman at my last job who had an e-mail signature that automatically appeared in every message that went something like this:
Susan A. Whatever
Honestly, Susan? You cannot be that sincere in every e-mail. “Sincerely” should never be as an automatic inclusion, as it, in fact, makes you insincere, given that you automatically parrot it out like a myna bird no matter what you’re saying. Are you really that sincere when you’re telling me that you have a doctor’s appointment at 9, and you’ll be in late? Seriously, Susan? SERIOUSLY. It should also not be in red glowy italic font, as I recall hers was. Goddamn that signature still haunts me, three years later.
I’m sure it speaks volumes to my mental state (overtired, PMS-ing) that I’ve been periodically getting myself all worked up about this fact for about an hour now, and at one point, very seriously considered writing her an e-mail calling her out for her glaring (GLARING! It’s BLINDING!) insincerity. I don’t even work there anymore, and haven’t for several years.
This is a nice segue into my latest beef with Oprah, which is her extremely dramatic bout with thyroid disease. I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned this a thousand times, but I, too, have thyroid disease (Hashimoto’s thyroiditis), and while it truly sucks, it really set me off to see Oprah going off about it. She makes everything so dramatic, and while I should be happy that she’s bringing attention to the issue (seriously, it really kind of sucks, and does impact everything from your weight to your fertility, and oh yes, did I ever mention half my hair and eyebrows fell out?), instead, I just want to pummel her with empty bottles of Synthroid or Armour. Yes, Armour. Or perhaps just some desiccated pig thyroid, before it’s made into pills.
Why couldn’t Ellen be hypothyroid? Why does it have to be OPRAH? No one asked me if I wanted her to be the public face of my disease, for I most certainly do not. Oh how I hate Oprah, as I’ve discussed before. Loathe.
In other exciting news, I was quite certain that I permanently blinded myself when I unloaded an entire container of Tilex Clean Shower directly into all of my mucus membranes when I inserted the nozzle backwards. This was followed by the entire — and OH I MEAN ENTIRE — spice rack falling to the ground and breaking in a staggeringly loud display of shattered glass while I was cleaning up after making potato salad for a (oh my God) Halloween potluck at the office tomorrow. Nothing like crunching your bare feet over mustard seed and broken glass to get the blood flowing, I say. Perhaps the only thing more exciting is a 10 p.m. vacuum, because who — and I really mean this — doesn’t love giving the old Eureka some mileage?
(Also, no, I haven’t bought a new vacuum yet. I’ve been too distracted by my oh-so-sexy Bissell steamer.)
I also made chocolate biscuit cake, for those of you who also read Holly, and I made two trays and GOOD GODDAMN, I think I died, it is that good. But I think that Digestive cookies need a new name, because doesn’t it sound like … I don’t know, some kind of laxative? Bad enough that they’re called “biscuits” (I’m sorry, Brits, I’m SORRY!) But … Digestive! So gentle, it loosens bowels overnight!
I’ll try not to think about it as I scarf the rest of it down tomorrow.
And hey, by the way, you may not hear from me until next Monday — I mean, maybe tomorrow, but I don’t know for sure. Thursday, you see, I’m off to Disney World with my sister and nephews for what promises to be the least relaxing vacation under the sun, given that the four of us are sharing a hotel room. You see, I snore, and my nine-year-old nephew thrashes all around, so no one wants to sleep with either of us, and it’s more than likely I’ll find myself on the floor, wrapped in the STD-infested hotel blanket, dreaming of angry families clamoring for overpriced pork products and Mickey pins.
Also, have I ever showed you what I have to sleep in every night?
Toes curled to protect your retinas from my horrid, terrifying toenails that are in desperate need of a pedicure.
This, incidentally, is the only thing that’s worked for my plantar fasciitis. If I fail to sleep in it, the pain comes back within 24 hours. And as I understand it, this will very likely be for the rest of my life. I might as well be permanently pregnant, for God’s sake.
Good golly molly, I sound like I’m wearing the grumpiest pants I own, don’t I? They’re plaid, if you were wondering, and also hot pink.
*The Shins. After five years of trying, and three albums purchased, they’re growing on me. You win.
October 30th, 2007
By the time most of you read this, I will have given my notice at my rather cushy office job, and embarked a new career as a professional carpet steam cleaner. That’s right — I’m taking my Bissell on the road.
I know this seems sudden, it’s just that I steam-cleaned the stairs this weekend, and — I know this seems impossible — it was an even greater transformative experience than last week’s downstairs carpet. I came, I saw, I steamed. And I shall steam again. It actually crossed my mind that my mother-in-law mentioned she was in need of a carpet cleaning and damn, if I wasn’t going away next weekend, I would totally take Saturday to clean her carpets if it meant I’d have more surfaces to steam. And that’s where the dream ended.
I’m pretty pissed off, by the way, that Fox decided to make the World Series games at 8 p.m. EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, because I’m exhausted and grumpy and also, maybe have to work tomorrow at a job that doesn’t involve steaming carpets at like, an EARLY HOUR. And this 1 a.m. shit isn’t cutting it, but seriously, what if? WHAT IF? WHAT IF I AM SLEEPING DURING THE WHAT IF? Also, because it’s Sunday, and could totally have been a 4 p.m. EST game. Totally, if not for football, but whatever, I hate football, really I do. I’m really sorry, but I do — I know it’s weird, what with the Patriots dismantling every. single. team., and while I’d like to care, I can’t. I’m so sorry. Give me basketball season, please.
(Edited to add: oh hell yes, I stayed awake for the what if. OH HELL YES. And who didn’t get choked up when Varitek did? ARE YOU MADE OF STEEL?)
Anyway, I blame Joe Buck. And also, Jeanne Zelasko, because her hair is just that … oversprayed and hazardous, and really, how many curling irons were injured? And now that I have a posse of Jeannes who do NOT pronounce it Jeannie, I hate her even more, because she’s wrong. I also may have cried a little when Dice-K batted in two runs last night, because he was just … well, he’s a PITCHER, and it was his first World Series run and it was the National League and … well, honestly, I got all choked up.
Enough sports! How was your weekend? Ours was punctuated by baseball and steam cleaning, and not much else exciting to report, except that also — OH YES, ALSO — we bought Halloween candy, and I’ve been stealing Take 5s for about three hours, and have you ever had a Take 5? It’s about as close to confectionery nirvana as it gets — delicate, crispy pretzels lend just the right of salty tenderness, enhanced by peanuts and peanut butter drenched in gooey caramel and finally — OH, FINALLY — the whole thing is enrobed (yes, I totally said ENROBED) in creamy milk chocolate.
It seems completely incongruous that Take 5 — or any Reese’s product, for that matter — is produced by Hershey’s, given that Hershey’s chocolate is widely considered to be the foulest of chocolate, although it’s become such a chocolate monopoly empire that who the hell knows anymore, what comes out of that creepy chocolate factory. I grew up in driving distance from the factory, and though I can’t say that the park is all that enjoyable for adults, if you ever have the opportunity to go to Chocolate World, I highly recommend it, because where else are you going to get the experience of what it’s like to be a roasted cacao bean? And dude, the whole town smells like chocolate and the streetlights are Hershey’s Kisses! This would be more exciting if I actually liked Hershey’s Kisses, but since they are made from that godawful bitter swill, I … no.
And in even more incongruous news, I was reading last week’s issue of People magazine and was disturbed, not only by the fact that I am supposed to see George Clooney’s girlfriend as some kind of accomplished role model (she’s a Las Vegas cocktail waitress who is shown in a photo wearing hotpants. What, exactly, am I aspiring to here?), but Prince William, yet again, is being presented as the hotter royal. This confuses me for many reasons, not the least of which is, has no one seen Prince Harry? Does no one see his deliciousness? Yes, yes, there was that very very unfortunate incident with the Nazi costume, but anyone who’s seen The Queen (and if you haven’t, you should) knows that my God, that family is so horrifically removed from reality that it’s not surprising that he thought it would be jolly good fun to be a Nazi! Because Nazis were mythical creatures, right?
(Seriously, that movie was fascinating in that sense. I mean wow, it’s logical, but still, um, WOW.)
I think that’s enough disparate commentary for tonight. Happy Monday! I’ll be the one with the giant sacks of dark matter under her eyes.
*Joy Division. And while I realize it’s not true, whenever I think of Nazis, I immediately think of Ian Curtis because of all those accusations of old. And hey, while we’re on the subject, have I ever told you that I’ve harbored a huge, and I mean, HUGE, crush on Bernard Sumner for like twenty years? And that one view of this video of him in teeny tiny bike shorts and be-bopping around was enough to cure me of that crush for at least another decade, I don’t care if it’s my favorite song, I really don’t. And oh Jesus, there’s a Blue Monday version, too, and a bad one at that (the high vocals! NOOO!). Heaven help us.
And if you’re still here, and have any idea what I’m talking about, go get a cookie, or better yet, a Take 5.
October 28th, 2007
I just have to speak out against expensive cookware for a moment. And I say this as a person who owns expensive cookware. Maybe I’m not the cook I think I am (ha! HA!), but I am just as happy with my el cheapo cookware from Target as I am with my entire *set* of super-pricey Calphalon, and I’ll even go so far as to say I’m not bowled over by my Le Creuset pieces.
I don’t get it. Someone talk to me. When, if ever, is expensive cookware better? I have a range of stuff, from cast iron to non-reactive stainless steel, but I … I don’t get why they need to be pricey, for I’ve had several of them for — dare I say? — decades. Enlighten me.
I’m trying oh-so-desperately not to focus an undue amount of energy on the Sox game, because when I get too involved, I start to believe that I can move the ball with my mind. (I totally can.)
And right now, I’ll tell you that I fell asleep before the end of last night’s game. I just couldn’t take it, I was so tired that I was snippy, bitchy and unhappy, like a toddler who refuses to take a nap. As I get older — and keep the ridiculously early morning schedule I’ve been rocking — not only can I not stay up late, but I can’t even fake it, as I start to become grumpy, overwrought and excessively whiny. All super-attractive traits, especially if you ask my husband, who can’t so much as ask me to hand him the remote without a long diatribe about how the remote is so heavy and I am so tired, and why can’t he reach just a LITTLE further to save my arm the excess strain?
I am rapidly careening towards that point, so I’ll keep this short. But not before I ask: how is it possible for someone to write your full name — like, say, in an e-mail address — then misspell it in the body of the e-mail? Like, for example, if someone were to send an e-mail to jonna at jonniker.com, then write “Dear Johanna,” or worse, Joanna. Have I ever told you how much I hate the name Joanna? It’s not Joanna’s fault. It’s that it’s not my name, and I’m called Joanna at least five times a week. Instead of being a perfectly nice, valid name, Joanna is an abomination of my own name, and an entirely inappropriate, yet completely acceptable, name.
Also, if you’re wondering if you did this, I can assure you, you didn’t.
I imagine these are the same people who leave messages on our voice mail — the same voice mail that says, rather perkily, “Hi, you’ve reached Adam and Jonna …” and proceed to leave very personal medical information and perhaps the number for a Swiss bank account for a woman named Gloria Freinhofer.
And I just barked like an overtired seal at, in no particular order: my husband, the cat, the dog, the television and also my computer. It’s time.
Happy Friday! Happy Friday!
*Brandi Carlile. I use it today because it was one of the 12 free songs I snagged at Starbucks today, as part of their free song program. Because I am a sheep. A sad, sad consumerist sheep.
October 25th, 2007
I don’t know why I find it funny that my bikini waxer has moral objections to Halloween. I mean, I get that there are many who object to it, but is it me, or is it oddly ironic that a woman who once considered creating bikini lines in the shape of Tiffany boxes is a born-again Christian who thinks Halloween is Satan’s holiday? I mean, not that people with such beliefs necessarily have any sort of objections to a well-groomed bikini line, but there’s something so overtly sexual about the procedure that it seems wholly incongruous with her position that masks are somehow the work of the devil, especially while her fingers are jammed in places where the sun doesn’t shine. Between this and her entirely tattooed-on face, she’s like an onion, I tell you! The layers, they just peel right off, revealing a Technicolor kaleidoscope of wonder and delight.
I’m telling you, she’s a little nuts, but I’m liking her more every day, even though the wax was boiling hot and also may have slipped into areas where the sun really and truly does not shine, under any circumstances at all.
This morning, by the way, I woke up at 5:45 a.m. and watched a full two hours of TV before I even bothered to shower, and it was heaven. I didn’t realize that mornings could be so deliciously glorious. I watched Grey’s Anatomy before sunrise! Desperate Housewives before breakfast! Yes, yes, I intended to run, but a fresh pot of coffee and a fully loaded TiVo beckoned. And I’m pretty sure this pushed me right into pathetic old lady territory, because I had lunch at 10:30, and was clamoring for dinner by 3.
Also, since it didn’t happen, I am free to tell you that we were thisclose to becoming a full-time (FULL. TIME.) Nielsen ratings family, box and all. They were “salivating” over the prospect of someone in our neighborhood in the 18-34 bracket, sans children, and were slated to come tomorrow at 5 p.m. to install the wiring. There were confidentiality agreements and everything! I wasn’t even allowed to tell you about it, lest they take away our privileges. We were the future of television! See you later, Private Practice! Adios, Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader!
And then I ruined it, and I’m heartbroken. Because of what I do for a living (media-related), I am unwelcome. Unwelcome! Uninvited! Private Practice could stay on the air for DECADES, and there’s nothing I can do about it, and it kills me. This means that Top Chef will be canceled, and it will be all my fault, and it certainly means that The Singing Bee is sticking around.
Also of the non-sequitur variety, I somehow stumbled upon a discussion about Jessica Seinfeld’s new book, Deceptively Delicious, and while seriously, I couldn’t care less who did it first (I think the plagiarism accusations are nothing more than a sly, effective marketing strategy from the Sneaky Chef peeps), and while yes, the idea of taking that much time to puree vegetables for the simplest of recipes is ridiculous, what I find *most* absurd about the arguments I’ve read is that people are all up in arms about the ’50s-style cover. Like a twinkly font and a wink is some kind of implication that we’re all supposed to be staying home like June Lockhart.
Which reminds me, have I ever told you about my twisted fantasy of being a stereotypical 1950s housewife, if only for a day? Don’t get me wrong — there are few people who are more driven than me when it comes to career, but there’s something exotically appealing about spending the day in a crinoline skirt and worrying about ring around the collar. And with that kind of outfit, who’s to say I wouldn’t wake up one day dreaming of the perfect recipe for tomato aspic that would wow my husband’s boss, who would, of course, be coming to our house for a dinner party where I would be sure to set out clean ashtrays and offer everyone a cigarette from a silver case.
I’m off to bed. Or at least I’m off to lay there like a bump on a pickle and watch the Red Sox.
*The Standells. I originally had Dirty Water, but I panicked, because, what if I jinx it? WHAT IF THEN? I’m writing this in the middle of the game, so it’s not like an omen or anything, but it’s on my mind because freaking Fox won’t stop playing DW between innings, which is SO STUPID. STOP, FOX. STOP. It’s a song we ONLY PLAY WHEN WE WIN. And also, Joe Buck is a douchebag of the highest order. Does he want to have intimate relations with the entire Yankees organization? Why yes. Yes, he does, thank you for asking! THE YANKEES ARE OVER AND OUT OF THE PLAYOFFS. GET OVER IT, JOE. AND PLAY A DIFFERENT SONG WHILE YOU’RE AT IT.
October 24th, 2007
I loved hearing about all of your hobbies, or lack thereof, and perhaps most importantly, Lawyerish is right: who the hell has hobbies under the age of 85? Who? I mean, assuming that hobbies involve train sets and die-cast cars and maybe some woodcarving.
I kind of want to make out with my Bissell steam cleaner. No no, I want to have intimate relations with my Bissell steam cleaner, and do wildly inappropriate things with its purple steamy cleanliness. It’s highly possible that I may be leaving Adam for the steam cleaner, oh yes it is. It’s so satisfying, really it is, in a way that vacuuming could never be. The nap is restored! The carpets smell oh-so-fresh!
I really think I need a moment. It’s getting hot in here, isn’t it? Some might say steamy!
(I kill myself!)
Anyway, my carpets are sparkling, and I’m with Beloved Reader Kristin in that I have a particularly odd love/hate relationship with the resulting gallons of black, black water and terrifyingly large clumps of pet hair, and I can’t believe I even deigned to walk on such filth before the existence of my new lover, the Bissell.
It reminds me, too, of the bizarre phenomenon of imploring others to witness and/or smell whatever horrors unfold before you. You know that urge you have to share something gross? How many times have you smelled something horrid, only to announce, “This reeks like moldy towels. Hey, smell this!” and proffer it before your companion so that they, too, can understand just how foul it is? Lest there be any mistake, I will wholly admit that I am the first — the very first — to stick my nose in whatever nastiness is offered before me. And really, I want to smell it, because I must know — I simply MUST KNOW — if this particular mildew growth rivals that of my past.
Ergo, I was dragging large clumps of moist, filthy pet hair up the stairs to show Adam the disgusting, wretched mess, because he needed to see it, really he did, just like I need to know when your fingers smell like earwax, despite the fact that they were not in fact in your ears, for reasons unknown.
Go forth and steam!
Also, hey hey HEY, how about them Red Sox? Or, if you’re Suebob, the most loathsome team in baseball.
Aand, speaking of loathsome … Heroes, anyone? Is it making anyone other than me want to kill themselves slowly? Because the characters! The neverending stream of characters! And women kissing Peter Petrelli who are not me! And oh my God, just enough, please, enough with the whole thing.
And finally, look, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I can’t keep it in: Sunny has tapeworms. Ostensibly, she got them from swallowing an errant flea, despite being Frontlined and … and … well, the discovery was among the most defining moments of intestinal fortitude in my entire life, and I don’t know how to say it other than … I can’t. I can’t even say it. It’s too much, even for me. It’s too much.
Happy Tuesday! Happy happy Tuesday!
October 22nd, 2007
Our black tie optional event was about a 70-30 mix of suits to tuxes, and given that the event was at 6 p.m., I’m thrilled we opted for the dark suit option, because again, unless we owned a suit-like tux (who is this we?), it would have been wretched. And did you know that the cummerbund is not dead? There were LOTS of cummerbunds which surprised me, although I guess if you’re buying a tux, you’re not buying a new one every time the tux trends sway in the breeze. Mercifully, no one was wearing a ruffled shirt, so there’s that.
There was, of course, that small issue of it coinciding with the Sox game, which excited no one, and ensured an early exit on our part, because not only do I go to bed at a ridiculously early hour, but we had a Sox game to watch and a dog starving and crossing her legs. We were home by 10 p.m. because we’re rock stars, and also, because the last thing I want to be is That Girl from Editorial who drank too much and laid her boobs on the table while singing karaoke and telling the corporate vice president how much she loves him, she really really loves him.
Have any of you ever been that girl? I think I was her when I was 22-ish, and hadn’t yet realized that corporate events did NOT mean that you should drink for free just because you could. I distinctly remember somehow finding myself dancing with a client (A CLIENT) while he sang Frank Sinatra in my ear and told me I was unlike any 22-year-old he’d ever met, and gee, maybe we had a special thing going on, despite the fact that he was 56. I didn’t like him — nay, I found him repulsive — but I’d drank too much to gracefully extricate myself from the situation, and I can distinctly remember thinking that wow, there was no way out of this, and I guess I was going to have to accept my fate as Mrs. Al Heinen.
Ah, growing up. Remembering those times makes me far less nostalgic about my early twenties. Getting older is good.
Most importantly, however, was that we survived Saturday night, and no one wore a tux or sequins and all of our boobs remained in our respective clothing.
That was, however, not the highlight of my weekend. That honor went to hanging out with Lawyerish on Saturday (pre-gala) and it’s not fair — it is SO NOT FAIR — that we don’t live near each other. Our relationship transitions so smoothly from e-mail to real life, and I can name maybe three people I’ve met in my whole life, seriously, who are that easy to be with. I’m also compelled to add that her mom is a total hoot, and I’d be happy to hang out with both of them for many, many hours every day, if they’d let me.
However, here’s a question: do you have any hobbies? Because I realized with somewhat abject horror that we really don’t. I’m sure this makes us staggeringly boring individuals, at least in small talk-related conversation at things like black tie-optional events, because when someone new asks us, so hey, what do you like to do for fun, we usually return a blank stare for at least a full 20 seconds before answering, “Uh, pop culture. Reading. Farting around? Does farting around count?”
Honestly, I don’t know what to say. In my spare time, I’m usually working on a freelance project, cleaning the house or, if it’s before 7 a.m., running. And that’s kind of it. I mean, I read and watch television and hang out with friends, and discovering new music can suck up hours of my time, but I’m not one of those people who runs out of the office to go sea kayaking amid the reefs, and the last sweater I knitted ended up with baby arms and an elephant body, so crafts are out. In other words, I’m more likely to race out of the office because Dirty Sexy Money is on TiVo, and Project Runway is on the horizon. I accept this, but bringing it up in conversation is utterly pathetic.
So, a question for you: What are your hobbies, if any? And if you don’t have them, what do you like to do? Catching up on TiVo and surfing the Internet are perfectly acceptable answers, as is staring blankly into space, if that’s your thing …
October 21st, 2007
I love Halloween. Much more so than I did when I was of the age that I could actively participate, for Costumes + Hate Center of Attention = Anxiety. And that whole getting egged thing that I recounted last year. Nothing quite reinforces nerdy tendencies like literal egg on your face.
Anyway, now? Halloween is a blast. Little peapods and pumpkins and kids in Spiderman pajama pants and I can’t get ENOUGH, I tell you! The cuteness and candy and near-constant availability of Reese’s peanut butter cups, and I know, I know, I say this every year right around this time, and I honestly believe this is the third damn year in a row.
And, like last year, I can’t believe the misery of some people around Halloween. This list! This list that suggests that people hand out tiny bags of pennies or worse — they suggest that people hand out individual applesauce packages! APPLESAUCE! Who the hell wants applesauce on Halloween? You might as well hand out pork chops while you’re at it. Oh hi! Do you want some pork? How about some brussels sprouts? Maybe a nice order of BEEF BRISKET will whet your appetite this All Hallows Eve?
No. NO. And if that’s what any of you are thinking of doing, I’m telling you right now, prepare yourself for the morning-after egging — or maybe applesaucing — by angry teenagers, and I dare say you deserve it. If you don’t want to — or can’t — participate in a proper Halloween, do everyone a favor and pretend you’re not home. I feel very strongly about this. I mean, even if you have allergy issues, you can at least get some SweetTarts or maybe some Spree.
Hey, by the way, am I the only kid who had an inordinate number of residential dentists in her neighborhood? I don’t know if it was the zoning where I grew up or what, but I recall coming home with a ridiculous amount of miniature toothbrushes and travel size toothpastes and maybe some dental floss. How … tasty.
In other shocking news, I am positively floored by the number of Philosophy devotees there are out there. I mean, I accepted a long time ago that it was one of the few areas where Amy and I would differ, at least on Smackdown purposes (Because, y’all, have you SEEN how much she loves Philosophy? Alas, I got despair rather than hope in that jar, in the form of unwanted blackheads and pores the size of a large white whale. Seriously, you could picnic on the bridge of my nose and marvel at the lovely dark polka dots! Festive!
Also, speaking of festive, I have a work event to go to on Saturday night, and while there’s a lot of vague discussion in the invitation about it being a “black tie gala,” the pictures from last year show that many people — important people — did not opt to go black tie, and instead wore dark suits. At least one of my coworkers is going in this direction as well, and frankly, that’s where I’m planning to steer my own man, because really, a rented tux? (Who owns a tux? Do any of you own tuxes? I mean, your significant others. Or maybe you, if you’re a dude, or just a chick with a penchant for pushing the envelope. I don’t know. I just know that the last black tie event I attended was honestly my senior prom. Maybe that means I’m missing out on a higher level of living that involves a lot more chiffon and cummerbunds, but I’m okay with this. But why am I still in parentheses?)
Seriously, is there anything worse than being in a tux when everyone else is wearing a suit? I can’t imagine it would be a comfortable situation, unless you’re George Hamilton and your face hasn’t moved since 1979, so what’s a bow tie in the grand scheme of things? So I ask you — would you rather be overdressed or underdressed, assuming that you are not GROSSLY underdressed? And given the parameters I’ve laid out for you, what would you do?
Incidentally, I’m planning on wearing this again, because I can. (Pictures of me in it are on Flickr, actually) And also because that outfit was worn in another state, and no one here saw me. And yes, I plan to wear it again to the wedding of a friend in November, because that friend will not be at this weekend’s event, and because I am the type of person who wears things to death, and also maybe hates to shop.
Happy Wednesday! It’s been a good week so far for me, and I hope it’s the same for you.
*Or tux. Whatever. Yo La Tengo
October 16th, 2007
Warning: I’m about to talk about lunch! Run for your lives!
There are many reasons why eating an entire cantaloupe for lunch is a bad idea — I’m not sure it’s the most nutritious solution, for example, despite its high concentration of vitamins C and A. And fiber! Let’s not forget fiber! Let’s also not forget the two apples and banana I had for snacks, and who knew that too much fiber was a bad thing? I spent the majority of Thursday afternoon face down on my desk praying for a hasty escape and some sort of way for me to finish deadline without losing my mind. I was sweating! Clutching my abdomen! And did I mention the sweating? Over a cantaloupe?
Never again. You think that fruit is a good idea for lunch, and then it all goes to hell. It’s not a good idea. No. I’m still paying for that cantaloupe. Please learn from the error of my ways.
I watched a lot of sports this weekend, and while there is oh so much we could all say about that, I walk away with one odd fear I’ve had my entire life: The fear of the high five.
I hate the high five. I’ve never been able to do it properly, and worse, I have never — and will never — initiated a high five, because I live in mortal terror of being left hanging. That fear of rejection is so great, and how many times have you watched a sporting event, only to see this poor guy, likely the nerd of the team (Maybe because everyone’s pissed that you’re overpaid! I’m looking at you, J.D. Drew!) initiate a high five to the cool guy (Papi!) and he just blows right past him into the dugout? And it’s FILMED on national television, that moment where he was publicly shunned.
That’s never going to be me, no sirree bob. My hands remain firmly at my side, and if it’s initiated, I am a half-assed high-fiver, because what if it wasn’t meant for me? What if I raise my hand and they meant to high five the woman behind me?
This is all coming across as very sad, isn’t it? Like some kind of metaphor . And while maybe it is, I just really think that the high five is kind of lame, leaving countless individuals poised for public rejection. I have no plans to participate in the high five in the near future.
I’ll spare you the details of the rest of my weekend (Hanging blinds! Vacuuming! Cleaning toilets! Dog farts!) (Seriously, enough with the dog farts, what the hell is she eating?), but I will tell you that we ordered a Bissell steam cleaner, and it will come as no surprise when I tell you that I can’t wait for its arrival. In fact, I am downright giddy.
And finally, both a product recommendation and a bit of a personal (har HAR!) complaint. Let’s start with the rec, shall we? Ah, Clinique. So inconsistent. So good and yet, so bad. But as a person with oily skin who lives in a raging hot climate, it’s nearly impossible to find an oil-free moisturizer with sunscreen. Enter Superdefense.
Love. Matte finish, 25 SPF, no breakouts. No one paid me to say that, I promise. But a query: can anyone recommend a great oil-free moisturizer for nighttime, sans SPF, bearing in mind that when I say my skin is oily, I mean it is really and truly OILY, like a sweaty slice of pizza in the hot sun?
Enter rant: “Don’t take it personal.” OH MY GOD, truly, if one more person says this to me — in lieu of “personally” — it’s possible I might reach across the table and shave their eyebrows off. I’ve started carrying a disposable Schick solely for this purpose. PERSONALLY. PERSONALLY. It’s an ADVERB. YOU CANNOT TAKE SOMETHING PERSONAL.
Although I really shouldn’t throw stones, because remember, I thought frou frou was pronounced “frow frow.”
Ooh, ooh! I forgot! You know what I did on Friday? I had lunch with TB. And while the groupthink-y culture of “I love you, man!” blogging kind of grates my cheese, because frankly, I don’t think all of it is genuine, really I don’t, and I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just mean … oh, I don’t know, I guess it all sounds disingenuous after a while, because it’s sort of required after meeting another blogger, you know? And I hate that all of that prefaces with what I have to say, because I can tell you with total sincerity that Tammie is one of the most genuinely kind people I’ve met in a long time, and I was so impressed by her that spending time with her changed me for the rest of the weekend. That’s not hyperbole. I mean it. The world needs more people who are that genuine and pure.
Also, I may have wanted to eat her baby with a side of mayonnaise. He’s that cute.
Happy Monday! Blech!
October 14th, 2007
First, can I fleetingly mention how much I adore Pushing Daisies? Love. LOVE. Who is this Chuck actress? And when can I make out with her? Because I love her. LOVE. And also, she’s more than a little hot.
So! Before the man in my life books me on the next flight to Chuck’s hometown for the mere potential for some hot girl-on-girl action, let’s move into an ungraceful segue, shall we? One of my longtime friends deliberately, and rather calculatedly, didn’t invite me to her wedding. However, she invited literally every other friend in our small circle, and I can’t help but be … stung by this. I’m also stung by the fact that she still hasn’t told me she’s married.
That kind of sucks, and I think maybe … I think maybe we’re done, and that makes me a little sad, though if I’m honest with myself, it was a long time coming. But mostly, it makes me angry, because really, it’s not the wedding, it’s the conscious decision not to tell me about it that gets me.
Sorry. I usually don’t do that, bringing out the dirty laundry and all. And to the closet it goes again!
Moving on! I’m a bit disturbed lately by the appearance of antibacterial gels in ladies’ rooms, very often in lieu of actual soap, given that the antibacs merely kill the germs, but do not whisk them away. And personally, I don’t necessarily groove to a bunch of pee molecule carcasses dangling about on people’s hands, when they could be swirling down the drain where they belong. I also might add that I am not proud of the fact that it does color my opinion of someone if I learn that they don’t wash their hands after using a public restroom. I know it’s awful, but it does.
Speaking of restrooms, as a vague (and clearly very scientific) anthropological study: which stall do you gravitate towards? I find myself mysteriously drawn to either the farthest stall or, if there is one, to the handicapped stall. This concerns me, for I think it’s a very popular choice, as many of us don’t like to feel encased like a sausage while we pee, and hovering is hard in a single stall. I also believe that I’ve read studies to this effect, and doesn’t it have to do with pheromones or something? Gross. It’s gross. Am I attracted to these stalls because of the number of people who use them? Is that it? Wait wait — don’t tell me.
And finally, I live in a relatively small neighborhood that, like every other neighborhood in the state, is just off of what is basically a highway, meaning that I only run in the same three sad little circles all morning long. This means, unfortunately, that I pass the same neighbors over and over and over again, and while the first time I smile and say hello, I am at an utter loss as to what to do during laps two through eleven. My plan thus far has been to alternately wave and stare awkwardly at the ground, assuming I’m not grunting, panting and otherwise focusing all of my energy on merely surviving. What, however, is the proper etiquette? I’m assuming picking your underwear out of your ass is not an appropriate greeting, however I seem to do that a lot.
Sorry for whining. I hope you have a great Thursday. (THURSDAY. HALLELUJAH THURSDAY) (Even though I have to work Sunday.)
October 10th, 2007
I took a bath last night to alleviate the Great Uterine Escape, and while it worked, I got a little overzealous with the bath beads — as in, I think I put in nine, thinking hey! We have a big bathtub, why not? And when I emerged, I was … well, I was all lubed up, is the nicest way I can put it. I emerged from the water with a thick buttery sheen — I’m quite sure I could have shot myself up to Boston if I’d launched myself on a set of satin sheets. A shame I don’t have them, really. I could have had dinner with friends in no time!`
And ha ha, do you know what nine little oil balls will do to your drain? And more importantly, do you know how to extricate them from said drain? Because right now (HA HA HA … oh God) there is about a half an inch of oily residue-y lube in the bottom of my bathtub, and I can’t … well, I can’t drain the little gelatin balls, as they’re sitting in the drain just out of reach, and it’s starting to freak me out. I knew nine was too many! I KNEW!
Adam, by the way, had today off, which was delightful for him, as he slept in, had a leisurely lunch and went for a bike ride. HOW LOVELY. I, on the other hand, slogged through a particularly trying day at work, while listening to the periodic reports on his day which, again, was leisurely and likely involved loungewear and maybe a smoking jacket.
My day ended with pet fluids, and I’m starting to believe those of you who think I live with particularly oozy creatures. I changed cat litters, and while yes, I know (AH KNOW) I should have changed more gradually, dude, the cat has always been super laid-back about litter box changes, provided it stays clean — no, no, PRISTINE. And I was so happy, for Tidy Cat Crystals kept the house wonderfully odor-free and fresh-smelling. Except tonight, not so much, for I was greeted with a rather large puddle, which might as well have been a giant neon sign screaming “ME NO LIKE TIDY CAT NO WELCOME THANK YOU.”
And Mr. Man of Leisure did not notice this of course. He was too busy lounging about in his smoking jacket wondering if Colonel Mustard really did it, and was it with the lead pipe or the rope?
And look, as much as I’ve tried to keep television out of this, you have to understand that look, I’m sorry, I was SO EXCITED about Friday Night Lights! SO EXCITED! And then there was some sort of rogue murder foil and all the characters became caricatures and it all, oh my God, it all fell apart, and I’m embarrassed.
And finally, our neighbors got a pit bull puppy, and I’m perfectly fine with pit bulls, really I am — rottweilers, chows, American bulldogs, honestly, I’ve known darling dogs of every breed — because I firmly believe it’s the owner, not the dog. But — and this is something I feel very strongly about — if you’re going to take on the responsibility of a powerful dog, then you must be an even more powerful owner (an alpha, if you will), and you have to know what you’ve signed up for. A pug, for example, is not a large amount of responsibility in that arena, given that by the time they mustered up the energy to hurt someone, they would realize, hey, it’s snack time! And HOO BOY, I am so tired! Wait, what? Do YOU have any bacon, maybe on your cheeks, that I could lick off? Because I totally smell bacon somewhere. Ooh — Bacos!
And given the way that the dog — who is very, very sweet, by the way — is walking all over them, I daresay our neighbors are not the owner this dog needs. Last night, Sunny and I were trapped behind our front gate while she barked and growled at us menacingly, and this morning, she chased me halfway down the street as I ran, barking all the way, until I ducked into a neighbor’s gate. She’s a puppy now, and a sweet one at that, but without training and socialization, what’s going to happen to her as a dog? How will she know not to bite people, or that other dogs are not for snacking? And again, all dogs are capable of this, but I do firmly believe there is a difference when it involves a large, powerful dog. And sadly, it is often the dog that suffers the most, provided no one is seriously injured — our shelters are full of pit bull and rottie mixes, because the wrong people got them to begin with.
And again, I hate to say this, but size and power really does matter, honestly: If Sunny acts up — which she never has, seriously, her teeth have never touched human flesh and in fact, um, if she feels threatened or frightened, her solution is to first go belly up, and then beg for belly rubs and also maybe lick your fingers? Please, may I lick your fingers, master? Because did I mention that my dog is a pansy-ass pussy? — I can just pick her up and cart her away — she’s tiny, and her teeth can barely crush kibble. She would also like you to know that she is very hungry and tired, and does anyone know where there’s a secret stash of Jumbones? OR BACON!?
Frankly, I’m nervous, and I feel bad for the dog.
I would be a lot less nervous if it were me kissing Peter Petrelli instead of that Irish chick, however. HELLO HOT PETER, HOW ARE YOU?
Like, dude, I could so totally kick that pit bull’s ass, man. Hey, do YOU have any bacon? I might get up for bacon.
October 8th, 2007