Archive for October, 2007
I spent the better part of Sunday laid up with a hefty dose of Advil while my girly bits threatened — no, no, promised – to make a rapid escape from … well, from wherever they could get out. I’m guessing there was some sort of wild cocktail party with other girly bits — a uterus convention, if you will, complete with wine and martinis that they just had to make an appearance at, and I wasn’t allowed to come along. And perhaps even more frustratingly, Adam warned me late last week that, based on my behavior, that this period was “going to be a doozy. Prepare yourself!” The man is a menstrual Nostradamus. If only we could somehow turn this talent into profits.
Anyway, um, anyone know what happens if you exceed more than six Advil in 24 hours, which the packaging oh-so-gravely warns you not to do? Because I just realized I’ve downed my eighth. Whoops.
Our weekend was, as you can imagine, astonishingly uneventful in the best possible way. I wonder when, if ever, weekends will become exciting again? Certainly the time for pinot noir-soaked late nights have long passed, but there is no doubt that the 22-year-old me would have laughed uproariously at a life whose most exciting moment was staying up for the first fifteen minutes of SNL and feeling like it was some sort of late-night accomplishment. Granted, the nights that the 22-year-old me had weren’t that much more exciting, they were just more drunken, and usually ended with a deep conversation around a sausage cart. And ah, I mean an actual sausage cart, not a metaphorical one, although there was more than likely plenty of that too, but, um, without the cart.
However, nearly 32-year-old me was thrilled — we tried new restaurants, watched some great baseball (sorry, Suebob) and I did get my whole belly clams and they were perfect: little nuggets of sweetness fried in batter so buttery and light, they were almost delicate, despite emerging from an industrial Fry Daddy only moments before. It breaks my heart if you’ve only had clam strips, for they are rubbery impostors designed for consumption by only the wimpiest of seafood lovers. And yes, yes, I’ve know I’m eating clam poop, poop chute and all, I know.
Also, I must say, I’m shocked at the amount of sherbert people there are out there. SHOCKED. Sherbet can be just as much fun to pronounce. Say it with me: Sherbet. Sherbet. Sherbet. Pretend you’re a frog: Ribbit. Sherbet. Ribbit. Sherbet. Delicious! Sherbet!
Sherbet. Sherbet. Sherbet.
Unrelated, but must be said, despite the fact that only Boston fans will fully appreciate this statement: Eric Gagne disgusts me, and the only person who reviles me more is Roger Clemens, who picked the wrong team, because he’s a selfish, egotistical, moneygrubbing monster who is getting exactly what he deserves.
Quick! Who is a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot? Name that movie!
What did you do this weekend? I really do want to know, for it had to be more exciting than ours, in which case, I definitely want to hear about it, if only to live vicariously. And if it wasn’t, and didn’t even involve a requisite trip to Home Depot, then I ABSOLUTELY need to hear about it, because boy howdy, will it make me feel better about the Sally Homemaker existence I’m rocking over here. (The highlight of my evening will be slicing avocados for a salad. Pity me.)
And with that, I’m off to write about Keiko Mecheri for a freelance project. If you haven’t sniffed her Patchoulissme, then you haven’t smelled patchouli, and probably think it’s only for dirty hippies. And how very wrong you would be!
Happy Monday!
*Josh Ritter
October 7th, 2007
I have an irrational fear of a home invasion. I don’t know why this is — I mean, other than an attempted break-in more than a year ago, when we may or may not have been home, no one knows — nothing’s happened, although that’s probably enough. And I’m certain that I’ve mentioned this before, but just a friendly reminder that the police officer who came to our house and freaked us out with his overall lewd and lascivious demeanor? He’s in prison right now awaiting ruling on child porn charges. I feel safe, is what I’m saying.
That being said, it’s still utterly ridiculous that I live like this, and honestly, I don’t know what I’m terrified of more — actually being broken into and tied to a radiator like that awful scene in “Unbreakable,” or becoming one of those women who has to wander around the house three times, completing a set of completely meaningless-but-comforting rituals like a designated hitter with OCD.
This is unrelated to anything other than the fact that I’ve freaked myself out while walking the dog almost every night this week, convinced that someone — maybe Michael Myers — is lurking behind the bushes to force his way inside my home and do that radiator thing.
So here’s something funny — or shall I say hurtful and extremely disappointing — only one alert reader asked about the toe jam radish recipe, which I’d clearly (CLEARLY) mis-typed, and I’m wondering, do you all have something against food that smells like rotting feet mixed with dog farts? For shame.
And hey, I meant to tell you: I say bathing suit, too! Swimsuit is for people who use Bain de Soleil tanning lotion (for that St. Tropez tan!) and wear big sunglasses. Big white sunglasses, maybe with excessive rhinestones, paired with very pale frosted lipstick. Those are swimsuit people. Bathing suit people are the practical sort who use Coppertone — Banana Boat, if they’re feeling sassy. Bathing suit people know how to make good cookies, maybe a nice rib roast, and have raunchy senses of humor. Bathing suit people are okay with fart jokes — no, no, they are great with fart jokes. Or maybe we’re just old-fashioned and learned the wrong way from our mothers. That’s my excuse.
Hey, and while we’re on the topic of language, I must know: do you say sherbet or sherbert? I am firmly — OH SO FIRMLY — in the sherbet camp, and am intensely distressed by the use of sherbert. This whole language-as-dynamic-entity thing? Sometimes it really pisses me off. But sometimes it can be really fascinating, like, for example, did you know that normalcy was considered a malapropism by Warren G. Harding, when he used it in his campaign, but really, it was merely improper, at worst? It’s been the topic of conversation in our home many times this week, I’m not sure why, except that Adam is still on his American history kick, and tomorrow we could be talking about the Iran-Contra Affair over falafels.
But anyway, don’t get me wrong — I’m thankful that spit-and-image has evolved to spitting image, really, I am, although who uses that phrase anymore? Do you? But I will never, ever be okay with sherbert. Never.
And um, oh, hello, did you not realize you bought a ticket for the Language Dork Picnic 2007? Oboe players welcome.
Wrapping it up with as few exclamation points as possible, today turned out to be a surprisingly decent day, despite the fact that it started with my husband angrily — and rather sleepily — flipping me off, as I’d allegedly kept him up all night with the first snores of the dry allergy season. There’s nothing like an angry chewed cuticle in your face at 7 a.m.
Happy Friday to you. I hope you have a wonderful weekend full of shiny happy things. Ours will be full of fried whole belly clams! WHOLE BELLIES! I even hear they’re flown in from Ipswich. Oh yes.
*Arcade Fire
October 4th, 2007
“I couldn’t understand some parts of this article, but it sounds interesting.”
Does this phrase sound familiar to anyone else? Does it make you want to poke your eyes out with the tines of a razor-sharp lobster fork or maybe, I don’t know, a BADLY COOKED PORK BELLY as much as it does me, because THE SPAM. THE NEVERENDING SPAM.
Mmmm … Spam. Spam sounds oddly delicious right now, and there might be a few hormones roiling to make such a pork product seem appealing, and certainly the only way that could be worse is if it was potted meat food product or creamed chipped beef in a can. And the thing with potted meat is that honestly, it’s no worse than Slim Jims, and while I could eat an entire container of jumbo-size Slim Jims in one sitting, I am spooked by the potted meat food product. Truly though, I am entirely unafraid of mechanically separated chicken, and beef jerky of any kind is your friend. And if you haven’t had Damn Good Beef Jerky, why not? Get a trick or treat jerky basket! Personally, I placed an order for three pounds a few days ago, which means that you’ll see a very bloated me in a matter of days. My eyes are very dark brown and I have a chicken pox scar between my eyes — just peel back the folds of fluid-filled skin to check if it’s me.
Hey! My dad sounds great, thank you for all of your help. He already sounded downright giddy, but frankly, I’m blaming the painkillers, for I’ve never heard him so chatty. It’s more than safe to say that I did not draw my effusiveness from my father, for if there is a more reserved man, I don’t know that I’ve met him. My father can go entire conversations without saying a word, choosing instead to sit back and watch my stepmom and I talk our faces off, occasionally throwing out the perfect pithy comment like a handful of diamonds. Except tonight? OH HELLO DID YOU KNOW MY HIP FEELS GREAT AND THE DOCTORS ARE GREAT AND WOW, I FEEL GREAT! GREAT! HOW ARE YOU? GREAT! LOOK AT ME WITH MY SHINY NEW HIP I FEEL GREAT OH MY GOD HOW ARE YOU HONEY I HOPE YOU ARE GREAT?
Oh, it was so nice. I mean, I can’t really wish this for the long-term, of course, but a little morphine seems to do him good.
And hey, I know I’ve mentioned this hundreds of times before, but let me briefly (ha HA!) ask: Has underwear evolved THAT much in recent years, or have I been living under a pile of Hanes Her Ways? The tanga! The boyshort! The hipster! Are these new inventions, or are they merely undiscovered gems I’ve let languish, opting for such comfy little numbers such as as Jockey for Her: The Panty Line Maker! Now, for the first time in my adult life, I am fully pleased with my underwear selection and have had seven solid days without riding up or panicking about my choice. It’s … it’s one of those things you don’t realize you needed until it arrives, like a filling after a months-long toothache or a good dose of ibuprofen and a lie down with a headache. And I can also vouch for these, just in case you want a second source, although if they’ve been on Sundry’s bum, it’s a safe bet that they’re top shelf.
Aaaand, without giving anything away, Adam just interrupted my ranting and announced, “Seriously, Jonna? SERIOUSLY? It’s not worth screaming at the television for Top Chef. It’s TOP CHEF! TOP FREAKING CHEF. RELAX.”
I just … I think I’m going to be sick. I really do. I THINK I AM GOING TO BE SICK. I, TOO, AM SPEECHLESS.
And the thing is, I can’t stop. There is no relaxing when it comes to the end of Top Chef. THE HELL? Or should I say, THE PORK BELLY?
I hope y’all have a great Thursday.
*Snow Patrol
October 3rd, 2007
First of all, it’s October, and do you know what that means? The penis ghost is coming! The penis ghost is coming! Also, whatever, I’m totally finding a costume for Sunny, I don’t care who mocks us. She will wear something festive. SHE WILL.
We’re digging through the garage now in search of our rogue Halloween decorations — the one holiday we decorate for, every year, as it’s the only one we’re ever here for in its entirety — and oh my God, there are dead! roaches! everywhere! There was lots of screaming, squealing and running away from the dead bodies, because EW ROACHES, and also, does this mean they’re in my house? I’ve never seen one, but the BODIES. THE ROACHY CARNAGE. Heaven help us.
As part of the hunt, I also threw away a purse in the garage that once held a snake that was trapped in our garage, and clearly, it was a doomed purse, because would YOU ever use a purse that once contained a black snake? I think not. Also, do you say purse, pocketbook, handbag or bag? Pocketbook is extremely old-ladyish, and hey, do you know there is an entire LEGION of people who get extremely offended if you use the term “old ladyish,” because it implies that old women are BAD BAD creatures who are no longer viable members of society? Personally, I find the whole notion of semantics to be a little bit ridiculous, because honestly, my mother IS an old lady by some standards, and yet she would not flinch to ask me if something was “old ladyish,” and not in a good way.
I’m not saying that makes it right, I’m just saying … well, I don’t know. I think I’m saying I have better things to do than debate the semantics of the term and what harm it brings to feminism. I might as well use the term “patriarchy” in a sentence with a straight face. I’m sorry. I know this makes me a bad feminist, but seriously, sometimes? I wish we’d focus on more substantive issues, rather than becoming distracted by linguistic signs (oh my God, do we want to talk about Saussure? Ooh ooh — how about Derrida?). (Actually, you know what? TwoBusy LOVES to talk about literary theory. You can discuss further with him!)
Anyway! Hey look, my dad is having hip replacement surgery tomorrow, and I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much. Yes, I’m worried about him, you know, because it’s surgery, and he’s going under and the last time he went under it was because he had cancer, which he thankfully survived. It’s also that it’s hip surgery, and it seems like that stands for some sort of foray into having old parents, and my dad, though no longer invincible (having a dad with colon cancer will do wonders to shatter that image), is barely old enough for hip replacement surgery. That’s for ladies who fall and can’t get up and need buttons to alert the authorities of their mere existence. It’s not for my dad, you know?
And on a lighter — or shall I say doughy– note, I went running one too many times with my wedding rings on, and I developed a (oh my God) yeast infection under my wedding ring and my left finger is branded with a red, flaky crust that won’t go away. The sweat trapped in a moist (OMG) wedding ring with little exposure to the air apparently created the ideal environment for yeast, which means that yeast infections are no longer just for cooches. And guess who’s been smearing Monistat cream all over her fingers? GO ON, GUESS.
And with that, I’m off to ponder Saussure and Derrida (ha HA! Not really, but could you imagine? I shall unlock the mysteries of the sign and the signifier! With illustrations! And I Heart Huckabees! Wait — that’s exisentialism. I mean Adaptation!) and uselessly fret about my dad’s ailing hip and also maybe think about the hotness that is Peter Petrelli and also ask, that chick who plays the Spanish-speaking woman with the creepy eye-bleeding power — is that the same chick who played AJ’s slightly slutty girlfriend Blanca on the Sopranos?
P.S. I just brought a bowl of stinky radishes into bed. Guess who’s not getting any tonight, what with the yeasty finger and toe jam radishes? YUMMAY.
Happy Hip Tuesday! It’s going to be fine. *breathes into paper bag*
*Wilco. Two days in a row.
October 1st, 2007
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