Archive for January, 2008
Ah, Facebook. I finally ponied up and got an account for no real good reason other than Adam convinced me because of its vast time-wasting properties. (“But you like to waste time on the Internet!” Maybe I should just sneeze in his ear for all of eternity. I can waste time that way, too.) Anyway, it’s been enlightening, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that I am clearly old, because the whole format and networking aspect to it kind of makes my eyes bleed out a little. Again, I AM OLD. And also slightly uninterested in any of its time-wasting properties other than ogling former friends, classmates and flames.
I haven’t even touched MySpace, and mark my words, I never will! I refuse!
The whole point of this is that I discovered that one of my college boyfriends (was he a boyfriend? I don’t know, it was college) is now an Evangelical pastor at one of those super-churches with a campus the size of Saskatchewan. I mean, JESUS. I didn’t see that coming. Maybe it’s … maybe it’s my fault. And another one of my former boyfriends is a smarmy sales rep in New York and STILL ANOTHER is an owner of a Jewish girl’s camp in the wilds of New England, which I know I’ve mentioned before, because it’s so SPECIFIC. Incidentally, one of the reasons I broke up with the last was not only that I wasn’t Jewish enough for his family, but I didn’t want to spend my life picking pebbles out of my ass at a remote camp. My summers would be spent in pink tents! PINK TENTS!
I KNOW I’ve brought this up before, but have you ever had those Sliding Doors moments? Those moments where you look at what could have been, had things been just a teeny bit different? If you didn’t take that train, make that choice, live in that city, go to that school, break up with that guy? I can’t help myself, once in a while, it’s fun to think about, especially when faced with life choices or any kind of crossroads. When you see something like that — the fact that, dude, I could have been a preacher’s wife or a CAMP DIRECTOR, oh my stinking heck — it makes you realize that yes, sometimes things really do always work out exactly as they’re supposed to. I mean, certainly I’m being rather presumptuous that anyone would WANT me as a preacher’s wife (my sense is that I’d have been dumped or run off before I reached that point), and that also, as alert commenter Kristin H. pointed out, sometimes when you’re in the world, you look back and see it only one way. Ergo, everything “always works out” because in a weird way, it does — at least for the life you ended up with.
I know I certainly ended up with who I was meant to be with, if not where. And I like to think that isn’t just because I couldn’t see it any other way, although it’s damn true. I often reflect that Adam is as much a life choice as he is a romantic one — I loved him instantly, for sure, and I always thought he was adorable (still do, for he IS), but the fact that we want exactly the same things out of life, consistently, has been just as important. There’s room for change, yes, but it’s not like we differ on some broad aspect of our lifestyle. Too often, I think that is overlooked. You need lots and lots sparks, sure, but I also needed someone who would love me in the every day life that isn’t as romantic. I know that’s unromantic in theory, but in execution, oh it is. I married my best friend, and thank God.
Facebook: making unfashionable thirty-somethings take a dip in the lamely philosophical every day.
Another way that I am pathetically old for my age: I spied ASS CRACK on a Bluefly commercial and it nearly sent me into fits. Crack! BUTT CRACK! On basic cable! Interestingly, it reminded me of the wave of brief nudity that washed over network TV about 10 years ago. Before Janet Jackson’s Nipplegate, there was Sela Ward and “Once and Again” when I swear, they flashed her nipple for a full four seconds, and it remains one of the thousands of reasons why I am mystified that anyone cared about Janet Jackson’s star-clad wardrobe malfunction.
I’d also like to say that I am waiting to watch Lost until Adam gets back on Saturday, because I have, as I always do, occupied myself with every trashy magazine under the sun, and between OK! US Weekly, People, Project Runway and a glass of Target wine in a box, I’m a little too busy for Lost. I’m sorry. Plus, he’ll watch it with me when he gets back, where as the Project Runway/OK!/US Weekly not so much.
January 30th, 2008
We got an angry letter from our homeowner’s association this morning because we violated a rule. A rule! A very important RULE!
Apparently we left our garbage cans out until 7 a.m. the day after garbage day and the deadline is 6 p.m. on garbage day, you see. And that Waste Management bin is an eyesore! A BLOODY EYESORE! And if we do it again we’ll be fined. FINED! Angrily fined!
Seriously, who the hell turned us in for that, is what I want to know. What complete lunatic with way too much time on his hands — time that could be spent eating pudding or making pickled carrots or something — actually watched with his little mouthbreathing knuckle head out his window and REPORTED that our garbage bin — our single, green, totally benign garbage bin — was out 13 hours past deadline.
Incidentally, out of nowhere, Adam just screamed “POOOOOOOOO!” in the loudest, highest voice he could muster. I was understandably piqued, as it scared the crap out of me, and he simply replied with:
“That’s what it’s like when you sneeze. Knock it off.”
I am, it seems, instructed to “learn a new sneeze,” as mine is too jarring.
Not that I want to assume that everyone is as dorky as I am, but I have to admit, whatever your politics, it’s a rather bright day — one that honestly gives me the chills every time I think about it — when a black man and a woman are vying for a major party nomination in the presidential race. Forget the individuals and politics themselves — everyone has strong feelings about that one way or the other, surely — but their demographics alone make me very … well, proud is kind of the wrong word, because REALLY, it’s about damn time, but gets me all verklempt, really it does.
(Also, shame on Bill Clinton for making it all about race. I hope Teddy Kennedy eats you for breakfast. And I used to LIKE you.)
Also, random, equally dorky aside: Am I the only one who noticed that during the State of Union, Nancy Pelosi seemed to be reading … well, it looked like a copy of “Tuesdays with Morrie,” to be honest with you. And as of right this second, she’s totally still reading it. Hey Nancy! It was cheesy and a little contrived! Don’t waste your time!
Maybe she can help me get out of the garbage can conundrum I seem to have found myself in. I should have told her about it before she went into the event. I could have given her something to think about. (A GARBAGE CAN. I’m still seething. I’ve been cited for a GARBAGE CAN, when people’s dogs are leaving GIANT, MEATLOAF-SIZED POOPS all OVER THE PLACE. And also, my other neighbor bought her second — no no, THIRD — ATV and proceeds to ride it around in her UNDERPANTS on Saturday mornings. But no. My garbage can is totally more offensive than a giant mucusy DOG STEAMER AND A FLABBY PANTLESS NEIGHBOR ON AN ATV. I totally get it. Totally.)
(Also, Bob Dole? Looks peaked. Jesus, I honestly didn’t know he was still alive.)
And on a final note, my heart goes out to the Ryan family. I’ve read and watched Bob Ryan for years, ever since I got my first Boston Globe subscription many moons ago. As with all good columnists, I’ve always felt like we’re intimate, old friends, and my heart breaks for him, and for his son’s wife and children.
And with that, I hope you have an outstanding Tuesday. Life is too short!
*Garbage. Oh ho ho HO! THE EFFING GARBAGE.
January 28th, 2008
It’s like Parade of Homes around here. Oh hi, would you like to tour my house for rent? Yes, there IS a pool included, but no, it’s not on my property and look! The water pressure is awesome!
:: turns on shower and smiles like Vanna ::
I think I’m doing the tours all wrong, because ultimately, we end up having the final, “So, what do you think?” conversation in my bedroom, and that feels just a little too creepily intimate, like we’re negotiating some kind of party, and I mean that in the Moonlite BunnyRanch sense. The good news is that it’s looking up, and we have a family super-interested, but they’re not PERFECT-perfect, but no one is, so it’s all just a crapshoot, really. Like, who do I trust enough to pay down my mortgage without peeing on my carpet or skipping town and leaving me holding the bag? The family with the dog and two cats, or the guy with a Harley who offered up that he spent a weekend in jail for getting in a fight with his girlfriend’s ex-husband?
Oh, real estate market. I love you so. Incidentally, I’m leaning towards the family. I like them, and maybe my gut is wrong here, but I hope not. Plus, you know, there’s that whole JAIL thing. (Would you ever offer that during a house interview? EVER? HONESTLY.)
All of this is compounded by the fact that I am eye-searingly busy at work, as per usual lately, but before I even tell you why it seems sort of futile, first, I have to come to some sort of resolution on the parade of farking homes and I haven’t even STARTED on the no-shows, I mean look, if you say you’re coming by to look at the house, please call. I’m there, I’m waiting for you, I’m EXPECTING YOU, for chrissake, and believe it or not, I would like to get on with my life and get out of this house.
Ahem. Honestly, that’s all that’s been going on, and it never ends. If I’m not showing the place to someone, I’m calling someone about a new place or I’m cleaning the paw prints from my slobby, slobby dog who leaks all OVER the place when she drinks (the water gets stuck in her wrinkles. How gross is that?) or I’m doing laundry for Adam’s trip to Vermont this week and OH LORD, there is so much to do, so little time, which is why I’m everywhere but here. In fact, if you need me, I am very likely on Craig’s List, surfing around in vain and trying to make my posting look fresh, despite the fact that I posted it YESTERDAY. And I know Craig’s List hates that, but come ON, it gets buried under piles of ************* ALL CAPS LISTINGS OMG!!! ALL NEW APPLIANCES ************* if you don’t.
Do you know that I actually e-mailed a Realtor through Craig’s List and YELLED at him for his “egregious overuse of caps and asterisks”? I specifically said that to a person. For no other reason than it pissed me off.
And — and this is my favorite part — I threw my back out during a particularly hearty sneeze. A SNEEZE. I SNEEZED TOO HARD, and now my back is completely tweaked and it’s difficult to get out of the car without groaning and holding my lower back like a very pregnant lady, of which I remain only an aspiring one. Also, why is a pregnant woman always a pregnant “lady” to me? Always. I never use lady unless I’m referring to a pregnant one.
I am, however, still making pickles. Because they are a requirement in times of high stress, even if it’s good stress, which it is.
Incidentally, this whole situation is going to be exactly like my wedding in that everything requires plan plan PLANNING OMFG over and over again, like a second job, and then once it’s done — particularly in my case, for reasons I’ll go into later — I will literally have nothing to do, and there will be this giant emptiness that will be filled with nothing but fretting as I worry about whether my tenants are burning our house down with rogue pillar candles.
But in brighter news (oh hell, it’s ALL bright news, really it is, it’s just SHINING, seriously, despite my sardonic tone, it really is), Lost is on this week! LOST LOST LOST LOST LOST. And I can’t wait, for I haven’t watched television in ages and ages, and I’m pretty heartbroken that it’s only eight episodes and also been truncated due to the writer’s strike. Incidentally, am I the only one who remains MYSTIFIED by the fact that Friday Night Lights continues to soldier on? How do they have that many episodes? HOOOOW? And please God, let Tyra and Landry get back together. Thank you, and amen.
And finally, I figured out why, exactly, the whole Trista Sutter-US Magazine thing has me all atwitter. Aside from the fact that it’s Trista, who is inherently annoying (the baby voice! The toolly husband! The fact that she constantly refers to herself as a “girly-girl”!), what really grates my cheese about the whole thing is that she very obviously negotiated this package with US Weekly to not only keep herself in the celebrity spotlight, but for money. She PLANNED the whole thing! I’ll bet she even pitched it to them! “Hey, I’ll sell you my baby weight story if you put me on the cover!” I’m telling you, she did. It SMACKED of that, the whole article, and it really grosses me out. Because you know she used the money to hire another publicist for her handbag company, which is very likely going nowhere, as it very likely only has bags that are printed with giant calla lillies and maybe some hydrangeas.
And with that, I have to go to bed. Adam starts his official first day at a new job tomorrow, and is mandating a 9 p.m. lights out so that we can, for the love of God, wind down by 4 a.m. after the whirlwind that was this weekend. And also, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is on, and I’m off to grab my semi-regular dose of too-perky Ty Pennington and sob my face off at people who will very likely not be able to afford the taxes on their new home and will be homeless in a few short months.
Happy, happy Monday to you!
January 27th, 2008
Thing the First:
Oh HO, Juno was nominated for Best Picture, which confirms that I have shit for taste in movies, though I’ve gotta tell you, even if I LOVED it, it sort of pisses me off that it was nominated, if only for the ghosts of indieish films’ past that never had a chance. I mean, lovely and adorable as Juno was (forget my grandma reaction for a second), where was the academy for The Royal Tenenbaums? Thumbsucker?
Ah, Diablo Cody. Your journo-stripper buzz carried you right through to the Oscars! (Uh, not that there’s anything wrong with that! Wow, I really am coming off as a psycho right-wing Conservative in wing tips, aren’t I?)
Thing the Second:
I don’t know why I always get so upset when celebrities die young. I mean, people die young every DAY, and there’s really no reason to care about some more than others because they were in Brokeback Mountain. And yet … I remember being devastated for DAYS when Aaliyah died, even though I swear to God, I couldn’t tell you a single song she sang before the whole thing went down (ah, literally and figuratively). John Ritter was a crushing, embarrassing blow to the point where you’d think I knew him personally. I mean, no one wants to make light of death, but I hope it’s not inappropriate to make fun of myself here, because I can be a little ridiculous about it. And though I totally know you know where I’m going with this and it’s SO PAT at this point, dude, Heath Ledger! THE HELL. I’m seeing an entire River Phoenix-like montage on every evening show for days and days.
Ah, drugs. Such a bad idea. And though this may warrant a Thing The Third title, as I don’t think our fine Aussie was on heroin, do you ever wonder, who in the Sam Hill tries heroin? I mean, there are PLENTY of drugs out there to get you high, really there are and though I don’t advocate any of them, heroin and crack continue to mystify me, because it seems as though you’re signing up for a sad death, very likely in a cardboard box. Ergo, I ask you: who sees heroin and thinks, wow, I should totally try that! What an AWESOME idea and a fun high!
Thing The Third:
After Swistle‘s post on the topic, I was unable to resist and picked up US Weekly for the bajillionth time, against my better judgment. And really, Trista, REALLY. Of all Things Celebrity that I am over, losing baby weight has to be at the top of the list, because first of all, I don’t believe that they’re all breastfeeding, sorry I don’t. I actually think that they SAY they are so that they avoid the Ire of La Leche, and while I can’t say that I blame them, what irks me more is that they leave people with the false impression that breastfeeding WHIPS off the pounds as good as four hours of cardio per day. And while dude, I think it helps, COME ON. And Trista, please, go eat a taco and put away the abs. Also, you’re not a celebrity.
Thing the Fourth:
My eyes are puffy and I’m carrying approximately 11 extra pounds of water weight. And while certainly part of it is period-related (sorry), I am more than a little certain that it can be directly traced back to the four, count ’em, FOUR, pounds of Smitten Kitchen’s pickled carrots I’ve made and consumed over the course of the last half-week or so. And if you haven’t made them yet, you’re missing out.
January 22nd, 2008
In addition to Internet woes and 16-hour work days and work ridiculousness the likes of which I’d never seen in my professional career (seriously, if I could tell you about it I would and you would be interested! Because it’s crazy! SO CRAZY! But I can’t now, obvs) last week was punctuated by blinding migraines that left me in bed by 8 p.m. at best, and puking to the wee hours at worst. It’s good to be back, in other words, and I’m confident that a fresh week will bring new opportunities and a brighter outlook! Hooray!
I have an uncontrollable urge to wax philosophical on the economy, and how interminably frustrating it is that people — many, many people — seem to lack any kind of common sense, and how the fact is that usually by the time people are talking about a recession, we are so deeply entrenched in it that any “stimulus” package is likely to have the effect of four tiny needles thrusting against Mount Everest in futility. Except I am going to control it because it’s incredibly boring, if fascinating only to me, and it’s frustrating! So frustrating!
I mean, I can’t help but consider that the country is largely occupied by idiots, and while that’s not exactly the note of positivity I was hoping to kick off this week with, I believe it is, sadly, true. I remember thinking in 1999, when we — a high-tech PR agency — were turning away business by the truckload, including, I think, a company that sold little more than light bulbs online, that maybe this whole thing was an unsustainable bubble. Personally, I had four clients, all of the dot-com variety, all promising to revolutionize something or other and it was RIDICULOUS, oh so effing ridiculous and even I, at the tender age of 23, could see that it was absurd. At one point I was a paper millionaire, my bonus tendered to me in vaporous stock options now worth approximately $0.0005 total. It crashed, suckers, and so many people acted SURPRISED.
And then the housing boom, with piles and piles of fools standing in line (I saw them! STANDING IN LINE) to pick up their fourth, fifth and in many cases, TWENTIETH cheaply made pre-construction deal, very likely with an ARM (and I’m sorry, look, if you have an ARM, I don’t mean to be insulting, it’s just … well, I hope you thought the whole thing through, because Jesus, a lot of people didn’t). And again, this was a total no-shitter, because really, who was going to live in them? There weren’t enough people to sustain the homes being built, for Christ’s sake — who on earth thought it would be a good idea to pick up ELEVEN? And I know — oh, I do — that a lot of people profited quite nicely, but far too many didn’t, and they are now in foreclosure.
This is all a long way of saying that because of these fools I — a perfectly normal citizen who did not overpay for my totally normal house, of which I own exactly one, not thirty — cannot sell my house and am now in a miserably annoying quagmire involving renting it out and determining precisely how much money I can afford to suck up each month to ride this market out or take a mild short sale. Thank you, idiots of America. I appreciate your business and forethought. Also, please enjoy your nine homes with granite countertops and stainless appliances. Go forth and make nine pot roasts for imaginary guests!
And people are … surprised that we’re heading into a recession? That’s what HAPPENS after a bubble!
And all this before I even dipped into the ridiculousness that is outsourcing vital entry level work overseas, which is another topic I can’t stop thinking about. God, I really didn’t control that at all, did I? Perhaps I shall regale you with that analysis another time, but for now, I’ll tell you that I saw Juno this weekend, and while I liked it fine — I think, I’m honestly not sure, actually, now that I ponder it further — there were bits that made me feel like an 80-year-old Republican with a penchant for Strom Thurmond’s politics. Is it weird that it crossed my mind that it was glamorizing teenage pregnancy a tad? I mean, it made it look so EASY! So easy! Oh, look! Get knocked up and your parents will be totally cool with it, and you will find the perfect (well, almost) family and you will even find love! And have no emotional consequences! I know it wasn’t quite that simple, but it was … well, a little simple, and though I realize that’s not the POINT, it did cross my mind, which makes me old and very uncool. Also, I was unable to garner a shred of sympathy for Jennifer Garner’s character because it was a bit … well, was it overacted to anyone else?
I also can’t help but make the observation that all of the uncool girls in films are actually always cool in that Janeane Garofalo way, which, as a lifelong uncool chick, I can tell you is not how it really is. I mean, I was smart and geeky, but it’s not like I had any kind of in-depth knowledge of Sonic Youth or Mott the Hoople to buoy me, and dude, I wasn’t nearly as hot as Ellen Page or Rachael Leigh Cook (who, by the way, totally looks like Melissa from Sarcomical — is it me?) And let’s all remember that I played the oboe and wore a band uniform and I had not yet discovered the ironic T-shirt, though I think I did have a brief flirtation with horizontally striped tights.
And look, I KNOW, I sound like an old cranky fuddy-duddy, I know, I totally know, and I’m sorry. Would it help if I told you that each and every time I see Michael Cera, I wonder aloud if 19 is too young for a 32-year-old? (Except in the case of Hayden Panettiere and Milo Ventimiglia, it totally is and it kind of grosses me out, because Milo, SERIOUSLY.) (Am old and gross and wear granny panties, apparently. See?)
Happy Tuesday! I hope you had a great long weekend!
*Mott the Hoople, of course. Worst name for a band ever, honestly.
January 21st, 2008
I had to be to a work thing by 7 a.m. this morning, which meant a 5:30 a.m. wake up call, WHICH, as you can likely imagine, made for an early bedtime. And you know how stressful that is, because all you can think about is that OMG I am going to oversleep and the majority of the evening is spent tossing and turning and checking the clock, because is it 5:30 yet? IS IT IS IT HUH HUH HUH?
So you can imagine how pleased I was, in theory, when I crashed out at 10 p.m., completely out cold with nary a thought to the Celtics game or the Michigan primary. I was just out! Asleep! And then it happened …
MONCH MONCH MONCH MONCH
**rustle rustle rustle**
Someone, and that someone would be my HUSBAND, thought that eating Cheez-It Party Mix in bed would be the PERFECT way to while away a few late-night hours while shaking the bed with laughter at what I can only imagine was The Daily Show. MONCH MONCH MONCH went his lips, including a light little crunch as he relished each little garlic puff (THE GARLIC PUFF, JESUS).
And with that, I was up and then I was hot! SO HOT! And I ripped my pants off like Abigail Breslin in Little Miss Sunshine because apparently the seams, they had had enough, and I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I must be wearing pants when I sleep, which meant I had to dig up a new pair of pants from the laundry to have on call for when this ridiculous pantless heat wave passed. And I believe it was at that point that Adam lost it and was in absolute hysterics, because all he could think about was that Family Guy episode where Peter exposes Anne Frank to the Nazis with an ill-chosen crunch of a Lay’s salt ‘n vinegar potato chip.
And at this point, it’s midnight, my legs are clammy and naked (PANTLESS SLEEP NO NO) and we were both nearly wetting our pants, we were laughing so hard, because have you seen that episode? The potato chip! THE PARTY MIX! OMG THE EFFING GARLIC PUFFS.
Is anyone still with me at this point?
Anyway. I promised myself that I would, under no circumstances, EVER watch American Idol again EVER EVER EVER and yet when I made that promise, there was no writer’s strike on the horizon. Ergo, here I am, suffering through another season and wondering why Randy Jackson continues to change up his look, when none of them are working. Dude, I kept wanting to say JOHNSON, and it would be much, much better if the Big Unit were judging because although he’d be a clueless douchebag, he’d be spitting into a cup, which would be a welcome distraction from the vapidity that emanates from the group at every turn. Simon, he could use a new schtick and the whole thing is so old! So old! And yet, so compelling.
And all this being said, despite working and American Idol and lack of sleep, I have been in an extraordinarily good mood lately, so please, don’t let my pantless Cheez-It or sticky shower bum lead you astray. Whoo to the Cheez-It hoo. I’d also like to add for no other reason than I can, that I have begun snorting when I laugh too hard, and if that‘s not the most attractive habit to pick up, I really don’t know what is.
With that, I’ve got a Democratic debate TiVo’d with my boyfriends Tim Russert and Brian Williams and I’m pretty darn excited. Is it … well, is it THAT nerdy that we have a TiVo wish list set up to look for anything with “debate” in it?
*Gene Loves Jezebel. Because sometimes I’m stuck in 1980. Also! Random aside: Internet is still friggin’ spotty, so if I owe you an e-mail, it’s not just because I suck, it’s because I have like three whole seconds before it decides to take a big ole dump. I wrote this in Word, not that anyone is BURNING to hear from me.
January 15th, 2008
In the grand scheme of stupid things, perhaps the most idiotic was the fact that it didn’t occur to me until Saturday that I could have just gone to the gym to shower on Thursday. The gym, by the way, is a three-minute walk from my house and if forced, I could have done it in my bathrobe.
We’ve been sans-Internet for much of the weekend, which is a bit freeing, really, but doesn’t lend itself to non-stop refreshing to see if anyone responded to our advertisements to rent our house out. On the other hand, I don’t think it’s particularly healthy to do nothing other than hitting REFRESHREFRESHREFRESHOMGREFRESH for days and days on end.
I had to work this weekend, and so did Adam, so we did little else other than work and wait desperately for the Internet to come back on. I may be paying $24.95 a month as long as I have Embarq, but even that is too high a price for three minutes of Internets a day. However, in those few free moments I DID have, I made pickled carrots, and I have to tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve had these delicious, delicious pickled carrots from Smitten Kitchen. And – AND! – I say that before they’ve even fully cured, as I’ve only had them in the fridge for a couple hours, yet I’ve already eaten almost a full half-pound. Go forth and brine, for they are wonderful. I fully understand SmittenDeb’s desire to hoard all of the vegetables from Alex’s roving eye, because I actually wondered if I could pickle the bag of clementines in the crisper drawer. I’m still thinking about it.
Do you ever stop and think about what your eating habits would be if you were single? I mean, assuming you’re otherwise spoken for, of course. Personally, I know — and this is sad — that I would be a lot skinnier, for I would eat little else other than fruit and brined vegetables. Truth be told, my eating habits are outstanding, at least when left to my own devices, though it’s safe to say that I would be perpetually bloated and puffy-eyed from too much salt. Anyway, it’s not that Adam is keeping me down or anything, but his insistence on three square meals and a pantry full of things that don’t come packed in vinegar does keep my waistline a little beyond waif-like proportions.
Anyway, we’re at the point in our show where I realize that I’ve done exactly nothing of note other than work and brine this weekend, and it’s … well, that’s even sadder than vacuuming. I also sort of feel like I should throw this up there before Embarq decides to take away the Internet again.
Hey, and in addition, I spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating the fact that Lindsay Lohan *constantly* wears the wrong shade of lipstick. Is no one talking to her about this? Why does she insist on nudes, when they do nothing but wash her out?
So tell me, did you do something better? Eat anything brined? (MMMM … PICKLES)
January 13th, 2008
Holy hell, A LOT GOING ON HERE, OMG. Work is insane — it’s 10 p.m., and I just got home and I’m … well, I’m tired, as you can imagine.
I’ve been waking up too early and going to bed far too late for comfort, and wow, there’s something about lack of sleep that really improves your skin, doesn’t it? I particularly love the thin veneer of oil that graces every inch of my face, turning it into something reminiscent of the aftermath of the Exxon Valdez spill. And yet, as exhausted as I am at 3 p.m., my eyelids delicately drooping into my oatmeal, at 9 p.m., I perk up like I’ve knocked back a doubleshot, and I’m up! I’m UP! Anyone need anything? Coffee? Tea? ME?
A large part of the reason that I worked so late tonight was my morning, and OH MY MORNING, I don’t even know where to begin, because the ridiculousness, it is astonishingly ridiculous and may actually beat all ridiculous mornings in the history of UTTERLY RIDICULOUS MORNINGS. Did I mention it was ridiculous?
Let’s recap: I was aiming to be at work somewhere in the range of 7:30 a.m. so that I could get a jump start on my day and NOT have to be there at 10 p.m. and maybe get started on tomorrow’s work. Oh, I had such high hopes. I was in the shower and fully lathered from head to toe, oh-so-literally. My hair, it was full of shampoo, and before I rinsed it, for reasons unknown, I lathered by body up. While lathered (let’s say lathered one more time, shall we? LATHERED. Ew. Say it out loud, right now, three times. LATHERED. LATHERED. LATHERED. Gross. Doesn’t it sound kind of like a form of torture? “Serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer was taken into custody this morning for lathering his victims…”)
Anyway, it was at peak lathering when the water was shut off, oh ho ho HO! Water! Off! Nothing to rinse the mad lathering! NOTHING! Nothing to rinse the shampoo! Or the left leg that was half shaved and — you guessed it — LATHERED with shaving cream!
I can’t even go into the ridiculousness that was the mix-up, as it involved us paying my father-in-law’s water bills instead of our own (same last name!), and I can’t even talk about the crustiness that was my soapy, dry body after waiting in vain for two hours to get it turned back on, I just can’t (CRUSTY SOAPY SKIN OMG)
I eventually rinsed with water from our lame-ass bubbler — you know those five-gallon jugs full of spring water? I actually dragged pots, pans and large pitchers of water up the stairs to rinse my hair and nethers (brrr! FREEEEZING!), and brush my teeth. And yet I still went to work reeking of Bath & Body Works Fresh Pineapple shower gel, likely because I was carting around large chunks of it in my armpits and behind my knees. Mmm … PINEAPPLEY.
Y’all, do you know how itchy I was all day? The soap, it was gathered in my elbows! My legs! My bum! I was so itchy! And soapy! AND ITCHY OMG.
Also, I totally arrived at work at 9:50, which was NOT MY PLAN, oh no, it was not.
The water came on at 4:30 p.m., and as luck would have it, I left all of the faucets and showers on, because I didn’t believe that our water was shut off, I just DID NOT BELIEVE IT. Adam was treated to a lovely Bellagio-like fountain in the middle of a business call, complete with moaning sound effects and also, um, hot water spewing from the unprotected shower.
In the interest of full disclosure, I should also tell you that my first reaction after finding no water was to storm outside, all soapy and bathrobed, to find out of there was some sort of Armageddon-like situation that caused such strife. I don’t know why I thought that others would have the same immediate reaction, if so — I mean, who goes storming out into the streets with no clothes on and hair looking like a Q-Tip thinking that there MUST be some sort of logical explanation and it’s TOTALLY IN MY DRIVEWAY I KNOW IT IS?
It was only when I spied my neighbor washing his car (at 6:40 a.m. WTF?) that I realized that the water situation was unique to us and maybe I should take my white-lathered hair back inside.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to collapse into a heap, because today… Well, today was tiring. And itchy.
Happy Friday! Wooo!
*Dee-Lite featuring Q-Tip, which is totally what my hair looked like. Get it, Q-Tip? HAR HAR!
January 10th, 2008
Two leftover wedding dress tidbits:
1) Can I really donate it if it’s streaked with thick black grease marks? I can’t help but feel like that might be an insult to someone. And ha HA, have I ever mentioned that we’re functioning agnostics? So a baptismal/Christening gown is out of the question, I think, although I love the idea. I wish we were religious (no, really, I do), but we’re just not.
2) I didn’t wear a veil: what you see in the picture below is precisely what I looked like the whole day. I HATE veils. Hate. I mean, I’m sure you looked lovely in yours, for they are perfect on other people but I couldn’t bring myself to wear anything that smacked of Wedding Tradition — having a wedding at all was an exercise in miserable dread, though marriage was appealing. HOWEVER, in hypocritical news, I did have a train, and let me tell you, it enrages me to this day. I lobbied — hard — to have the train lopped off, and everyone managed to talk me out of it. My stepmother, my mother, my friends, my seamstress. Everyone lectured me that I had to have something that was “bridal”, but Jesus Christ, I wore a CREAM VERA WANG, for God’s sake. Isn’t that bridal enough? So, a word to all would-be brides: if you feel strongly about something that YOU are going to wear, don’t give in, for it will still piss you off five years later. I have no doubt that in 25 years, I am STILL going to hoot and holler about the damn train that everyone refused to let me cut off. Seriously, it aggravates me like you wouldn’t believe.
< end wedding rant >
I am in such desperate, sad need of a cut and color that I’m almost embarrassed to go out of the house, and my hairdresser isn’t picking up the phone. My neck is reaching Neanderthal proportions (it’s cut short: she Flickr for details) and I have white-trash roots of dingy gunmetal clashing with red and blonde that erase any shred of doubt that my natural hair color is truly hideous. But the thing that’s really getting me is the neck hair, and Adam refuses to assist, just flat-out REFUSES, saying that it’s unromantic or something. It’s normal! It’s baby hair! But it’s THERE, and I can’t stand it. It’s not like I’m asking him to work out a blackhead on my back, I’m asking him to TRIM MY INCESSANT NECK HAIR THAT IS TOTALLY NORMAL.
Onward! My dog is trying to kill me, or is at the very least conspiring against me, for my lip is now bloody and beaten-looking with a nice purple swell to it. I opted to help the little bugger onto the bed last night at the same moment that she thought she’d try to jump (she’s too little to make it on her own) and her rock-hard skull collided with my lip, which collided with my teeth and OMFG, I thought I lost a tooth, and today, a coworker asked if I’d been in a fight.
This little gem was followed up this evening with her falling asleep on my pillow and leaking her anal glands all OVER my pillowcase and then licking up the remains, leaving me to wonder aloud, “Adam, why does it smell like fish in here?”
Oh dogs. What joys they bring. I think we’re overdue for a butt-squeezin’, is what I’m saying, and there’s nothing worse than THAT all over your pillow and that’s two references to a fishy odor in as many days, and I’m kind of freaking myself out and I’m sorry, look, I AM SORRY.
And finally, since it’s a slow day, I’ll tell you that our waitress this weekend actually asked me, completely seriously, “I can has more Diet Pepsi?”
I mean, clearly English wasn’t her forte, and I’m sympathetic, really I am, but HAHAHAHA, LOLWaitress, I can’t help myself.
*Lily Allen. I really love Lily Allen a whole lot, and I owe Schnozz a big thank you for mentioning her way back in the day.
January 7th, 2008
So, here’s a question: what did you do with your wedding dress, if you have one? I’m loathe to admit that mine is resting comfortably in our spare bedroom closet, barely shrouded in the plastic it came in and ah, I never had it dry cleaned, which means it is rendered useless and essentially ruined, given that I fell on my wedding day (surprise surprise) into something large and greasy — I can’t remember what. All I know is that somewhere, there is a black stain of something oily, and I was too lazy/did not care/totally not sentimental enough to do anything about it.
I bring this up because we were cleaning the closet out today, and realized we have to make a decision about it one way or another, and I’m sure as shit not moving that thing to another house. But throwing it away? Doesn’t that seem … wrong? I mean, I never harbored any illusions that I would foist it upon my daughter to wear on her wedding day, because although I’d like to think it was simple and classic (It was! It was Vera Wang, and I only mention it because while I am not a label whore by any means, I have always loved Vera Wang’s wedding dresses for their simplicity and BESIDES, I got it at a sample sale), what is simple and classic today may be the equivalent of the high-necked monstrosity that was popular in the early 1980s in a few short years. And besides the obvious fact that I may have a family of little boys, storing it for my daughter puts so much pressure on her — I remember how awful I felt when I didn’t wear my step-mother’s wedding … hat? Shoes? Jesus, I can’t even remember what it is I bailed on, besides her mother’s pearls that I forgot to put on after one too many bloody marys at 9 a.m.
And lo, hey, look! Turns out I have a photo of said dress with my mom, which honestly, I didn’t think I had. And ah, memories are all we’ll have of this dress, I’m afraid. God, was my make-up ghostly, or what? I’m pretty sure she was whispering something snarky and inappropriate about my photographer who was competent, but a bit of a douchebag.
Almost five years ago! I can hardly believe it, truly.
Anyway, on to the weekend recap! Are you ready? It can be summed up in two words:
Hooray! Honestly, we are among the laziest couples in existence, and nothing pleases me more than a weekend spent indoors working on domestic projects and maybe some crafting, if I were the crafty sort. Except it wasn’t all fun and games — I did vacuum after all, and though I’ve been told that canister vacuum cleaners are the work of the devil and that bags aren’t obsolete, I maintain that there is nothing more satisfying than emptying out a full canister of pet hair into the garbage. In fact, it makes the top three list of things that are unexpectedly satisfying, which includes popping zits (shut up, it is SO SATISFYING), power washing mold off of the driveway and now, vacuuming until the canister nearly bursts. I’m sure I’ll add more riveting activities if I think about it hard enough.
Happy Monday. I’m mostly dreading the work week because it promises to be miserably busy, as last week was.
*Emily Wells. Also known as The Artist Who Led Me To Jesca Hoop.
January 6th, 2008