Archive for May, 2008
Harvey Weinstein might win the award of Most Disgusting Human Being 2008. Oh don’t mind him! He’s just trying to BULLY Nancy Pelosi into doing what he wants. He is, after all, very rich, didn’t you know? He can buy and sell the Democrats! If he pulls his money WE WILL ALL VOTE FOR JOHN MCCAIIIIINNNNN. (There are worse things, Harvey. Like your nose. There, I said it.) My point, however, is this: where are the cries for Hillary to denounce Harvey Weinstein because he’s a flaccid douchebag?
I’m going to start that battle cry. Because it would be FUN to scream “FLACCID DOUCHEBAG” in the streets, wouldn’t it? Douchebag is remarkably satisfying as a standalone curse word anyway. Terribly offensive and horribly disgusting — honestly, visualize it for a moment, if you will — but one of my favorites nonetheless.
This reminds me of a conversation I had with my sister over the weekend, wherein we discussed our secret lifelong desires to be nurses and she told me that while she’s considering nursing school, she doesn’t want to do anything gross, ever. Like vaginal ultrasounds. Or drawing blood. Or changing bedpans. At which point we agreed that perhaps a secret yearning to wear scrubs is not the best reason to be a nurse? (I am not grossed out by anything, ever. Which is why I do think someday I will be an excellent nurse, among other reasons.)
Well! Shall we take the debate on to safer topics? Because I have a confession: I don’t like homemade whipped cream. I like it from a can, as in Reddi-Wip. Or even … well, I like Cool Whip, transfats be damned. Yesterday I dropped by the local co-op — natural food store, to you and me — and was completely taken with a pint of organic heavy cream. It called to me, truly it did. It was that luscious, creamy yellow — the color of butter, not cream — that screams “For the love of Jesus, put me on ice cream!” I’ve never seen cream like it before. Rich, creamy smears of butterfat lined the curves of the jar, and it was so thick that it hung for a moment when shaken. Just gazing at it was transcendent. I simply had to have it, despite the fact that my ass has had plenty, thank you, and cream isn’t something I ever buy.
In its raw form, it is everything I thought it would be and more. Rich and creamy and simply divine. I poured a dollop into my coffee this morning and moaned in ecstasy. So good.
And then I had to go and whip it. To its credit, it whipped to soft, creamy peaks in approximately 11 seconds. It whipped so fast, in fact, that I was about three whisk turns from sugared butter, which isn’t something I intended and is not necessarily something one wants to eat atop ice cream. But still: it looked delicious.
It wasn’t. I don’t like it. I wanted Reddi-Wip. I’m making butter with the rest of it tomorrow night. The Ben & Jerry’s Cheesecake Brownie ice cream, however, was heavenly, though I don’t recommend it to anyone who isn’t in the throes of some sort of hormonal twist, because it lists cream cheese as the fourth ingredient. CREAM CHEESE. IN ICE CREAM.
(YUM)
This reminds me, too, that there’s something irreparably broken in our society that Extra — Extra GUM, that is — is suddenly being billed as a “five-calorie snack that lasts.”
Gum as a SNACK. A SNACK. It’s NOT A SNACK. That kind of talk just smacks of unhealthy eating and binging, and I’m sorry: shame on you, Extra. A healthy snack is a BANANA. Not a PIECE OF GUM. And to talk about it in the context of DIETING makes me so angry I can hardly see straight. “Go from nice gut to nice butt!”
WITH GUM. Oh, and try not to eat more than twelve grapes a day, fatso. Chew gum instead, say the Extra gum people. And stick your head in the oven while you’re at it!
Tomorrow, by the way, is Gynecologist Day. I’m a little excited. What I am not excited about, however, is that the nurse I spoke with said there might be … tubal flushing? With dye? That, according to my friend Erica’s friends, involves … UTERINE CLAMPING. I don’t know why, I just imagine a giant vise wrapped around my exposed uterus while some dude wearing a woodworking apron cranks it into place. “You’re all set!” he’ll say. “Send in the dye!” And then the Oompa Loompas will show up with tubes of orange dye ready to be pumped into my fallopian tubes.
Then again, this might not happen. Either way, I’m uh, ready? I guess?
Oh, the weekend is here! Almost! Happy happy!
*Keane
May 8th, 2008
So there are a few things going on, but can we just start for a moment with the fact that I got an e-mail from Suzanne Finnamore thanking me for loving her books and for writing about them? And then she said some very nice things which were totally only to be polite, but I do not care, because I was still all googly because dude, SUZANNE FINNAMORE, and then I died. The end. And then I sent a lot of ALL CAPS E-MAILS to Swistle, who loves her as I do, and who responded appropriately and in ALL CAPS as well.
Totally beats the pants off of the time I wrote about Ben Folds in a less-than-complimentary way and one of my longtime readers announced that her husband was his bassist. Yes, this is much better.
In other, SIGNIFICANTLY less exciting news, my dish towels have all disappeared and I imagine they’re having a party somewhere together, celebrating their freedom from a life of dishpan fibers that no amount of fabric softener can cure. I’ve devoted an inordinate amount of time to thinking about their disappearance, and wondering why the left me. Was I that bad? Did I mistreat them? Are their feelings hurt? WHERE ART THOU, DISHTOWELS?
Still feeling faint, by the way, which means that all I can do is write about DRIVEL.
In pop culture land, I have, once again, picked up the People’s “Most Beautiful” issue — it is like crack to me — and have, once again, become increasingly irritated by the whole thing as the pages wear on. For example, I nearly shot myself in the face when I saw Raquel Welch held up as some sort of paragon for older women, and can I just tell you how frustrating this is? Because don’t TELL me that Raquel Welch hasn’t been scalpeled and Restylane’d within an INCH of her (very long) life and it’s just … well. It’s also interesting to me that Jennifer Lopez said that a young woman has the face she was born with, while an older woman gets the face she deserves, and can I be honest in that my first thought after reading that was that she deserved a face that had been hit by a SHOVEL after the whole “I just knew I could” thing re: her “totally natural” pregnancy that Julie articulates better than me? Honestly, that infuriated me. Infuriated.
You’d think that honestly, after getting a few e-mails from people I’ve written about (why, TODAY, in fact!) after something I wrote here, that I would LEARN, because I now know that it’s totally possible for Raquel Welch to send me a nastygram denying all Botox and insisting she is just naturally wrinkle-free, despite having one foot in the grave. And yet I press on! Because look! I am about to talk about …
Scarlett Johansson. Have you, um, heard the single? Because is she serious? Is she actually seriously SINGING, or is that … well. I don’t even know what else to say, but I just don’t know what sycophant told her yes, YES, Scarlett! CUT AN ALBUM. YOU ROCK, sister. (She doesn’t. At all. What IS that?)
All of this is put into remarkable context after talking with an acquaintance of ours who used to do celebrity publicity. She affirmed that yes, celebrities ARE that insane and self-absorbed and …well, everything awful you read about them is true. Stars, it seems, are not like us. Unless we are the type to throw hissy fits because we don’t have the alternating orange and white candle scheme we SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED. (True! Contract riders! ALL TRUE and DEMANDED by the celebrities! I KNOW!)
I meant to write more. I did. And then I got tired and also goofily authory starstruck.
Happy Wednesday! Is it me, or is this week flying?
*Kate Nash
May 6th, 2008
Honest to Pete, I don’t MEAN to be a negative nelly about everything I read, and I don’t want to turn this into a book blog or anything, it’s just that I am on a horribly bad streak lately. I’m desperate for the new Jen Lancaster (coming out tomorrow or, you know, today, if you’re reading this Tuesday, like most people will be) if only so I can read a FAMILIAR voice of someone I know I’ll like. “Split” was divine, but I followed it with a comfortable, if disappointing, Marian Keyes and then … and then Chris Bohjalian’s “The Double Bind” which was SO HILARIOUSLY BAD that I am actually ANGRY about it. Who edited this? Who thought that “dowager” should be used OVER AND OVER again, like it’s a word people use in everyday conversation? Who allowed “epoxied” to be used in place of “glued” three times on three consecutive pages?
Save yourselves. Run. Run away.
My boob is fine, thank you all for your concern. I wasn’t too stressed about it, I just didn’t want to have a NEEDLE in it and hey ho! I didn’t have to. Two doctors, thirty minutes of ultrasound and three people hovering over my boob and everyone declared and agreed that there was nothing to aspirate, and that it was merely an “island of [boob] tissue” and not a cyst. Just lots o’ boob in one place. Which explains, PS, why my left boob is uh, significantly larger than the right. And you know, I’m not a particularly modest person, but there’s something very disconcerting about having three people hovering over your boob, and three — THREE — sets of hands digging around in there at once. That’s six hands and three faces dangling perilously close to my sisters. Someone could have lost an eyeball.
Incidentally, I’m currently working on a proposal for a new freelance client and the process has gotten a little … well, a little ridiculous. I feel like I’m one request away from being asked to submit my design ideas for how greeting cards can be improved with the resurgence of Kajagoogoo and the creative use of faux fur. And it reminds me of the time I was sent by a headhunter friend of mine on a ruse interview to discover precisely why no one wanted to work at one of the companies in his roster. Within minutes, it was painfully obvious, after the director of marketing lamented that my portfolio — like every other writer’s he’d received — was sadly devoid of creative pieces to SELL the person. Like self-portraits festooned with glitter and puffy paint and videos of them kayaking or something. (“When I was interviewing, I put together an entire PowerPoint presentation about myself, including my favorite books, pictures and extra-curricular activities! I even put together a movie with my favorite marketing vehicles and how I would market MYSELF with a direct mail piece! I haven’t gotten ANYTHING like that!”) Yeah, that’s why uh, no one wanted to work there. Dude’s NUTS.
Honestly, this week seems pretty pointless, as I finally have an appointment with a new gynecologist on Friday and it’s possible — just maybe — that I have my hopes up just a little too high, like I’m going to walk out of there nine months’ pregnant. I have a host of feelings on the topic of the situation — good thoughts, bad thoughts, confusing thoughts and at times, destructive thoughts that lead me to do things like Google Things That Should Not Be Googled (Hello, have I not TOLD EVERYONE I KNOW to stay off of Google at times like these? And yet no no, there I am in full-throttle foolish Googling and getting myself worked up that not only are things really broken down there, but I may also be hosting a tumor the size of San Francisco in my abdominal cavity, along with a small herd of sheep. And dying. Did I mention the dying?).
In the meantime, I’m really okay — truly, I’m just ANNOYED with myself, like WHAT THE HELL, BODY. HOP TO. What is not okay, however, is the fact that I just got my, er, special lady time (Surprise! For me? How LOVELY!) and have just devoured a four-pack of chocolate peanut butter Twix and am seriously considering what else might be in the house that I can shove into my gaping maw. I have some pickled asparagus down there (Edited: I MEAN DOWNSTAIRS, NOT DOWN IN THE SPECIAL LADY AREA OMG SADIE), and some oil-cured olives. AND I AM SO GOING TO GET THEM RIGHT NOW.
Happy Tuesday!
*Glen Hansard
May 5th, 2008
Woodstock is one of the most beautiful towns in the entire state of Vermont. It’s quaint, it’s perfect for antiquing and it’s … well, it’s idyllic. It is. You should go there.
But OMG, YOU GUYS. It is also home to a Mobil gas station where I witnessed an employee named Tanya exit the restroom after a lengthy stay (I was waiting desperately. Thanks, Tanya!) with an US Weekly in her hand, all wrinkly and pored over and dog eared. And then … and then she PUT IT BACK ON THE SHELF. Leah warned us of this behavior in bookstores a while back, where it’s bad enough, but at a GAS STATION ON ROUTE 4. NO. NO, TANYA. EW.
Also, why is Tanya wanting to take that much time in the gas station bathroom? I know she works there, but OMG, TANYA. SO GROSS. POOP AND RUN, TANYA.
Anyway, High School Musical was as advertised: Confusing, hilarious, a little bad and all around wonderful. I’m pulling an auntie and swearing that my nephews were the best actors in the whole bunch (THEY TOTALLY WERE) (AM NOT BIASED). Granted, it was a bit uncomfortable even for the brief hour we sat there, because we were crammed into seats designed for elementary schoolers. I guess I should be grateful that I didn’t have my dad’s seat, however, for apparently he was stuck next to a kindergartener with a flatulence problem.
“Her legs were up on the seat for maximum dispersion,” he shook his head sadly. “It got worse every time she sang along and I think the guy in front of us thought it was me.”
Nothing is worse than being accused of a fart you didn’t commit, I agree.
My dad also, by the way, in a futile effort to prove that he is still hip, defended against our assaults and announced Sunday morning that he knows PRECISELY who Angelina Jolie is, he just “can’t think of any of her songs right now, but I’ve heard her on the radio!”
For a few brief hours Saturday, my ATM card was AWOL, and I had absolutely no idea where I’d left it. Despite retracing my steps, I could NOT figure out where it could be (Trader Joe’s? The play?), and every second that I paused to think about it to say, tear apart my purse and/or car, my mother stood in the background piping up, “Ka-CHING! That’s someone using your card for illegal porn! CANCEL IT NOW! KA-CHING!” which resulted in my sister and me whining “Mo-OM! Sto-OP!” in tandem for the first time since we all lived under the same roof.
(“Ka-CHING!”)
(ARGH! Mo-OM!)
Incidentally, I’d left it at the Taco Bell drive-thru, a trip for post-baseball tacos for the kids that I’d forgotten I’d even MADE. Also, the manager almost didn’t give me the card back when I insisted that my name was Jonna R-, and he had a card for JOANNA R-, which of course he didn’t, he was simply reading it wrong. And what are the chances, Mr. Taco Bell Manager, that TWO Jonna/Joannas with the same not-totally-common last name left their Citizen’s Gold Mastercard CheckCard at the Taco Bell Drive-Thru that day? SERIOUSLY.
And with that, I’m exhausted and it’s almost time for bed. I like road-tripping by myself, if only so that I can stop to pee without any argument (“But you JUST WENT!”) and have the entire bag of Combos (Pizzeria Pretzel is my flavor) to myself. I can also blast whatever music I want, and play a little game with myself, wherein I refuse to skip any tracks unless they are TRULY abysmal, which meant I listened to the entire Pet Shop Boys’ album, Please, along with some ancient New Order and yes … John Cougar Mellencamp. I also wished more than once for a bullhorn so that I could announce “Yes, I have Florida plates, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to drive in Massachusetts! SO BACK OFF, ASSHOLE!”
(I still totally have Florida plates. And license. I have to fix it, I know.)
I hope you had a great weekend. Happy new week to you! Who’s excited for a week of boob-stabbing and (new!) gynecologists (who might have drugs and tests and help!)? WHOOO?
*PSB. From Please!
May 4th, 2008
Well! We have a sort-of winner, for now, in that I went to the drugstore tonight and picked up Night of Olay (Swistle’s rec) because she has great skin and how do I know this? I AM TOTALLY WINNING her contest because dude, I knew her face within seconds and she DOES have great skin! YES. I AM SAYING IT RIGHT HERE AND NOW FOR THE FRILLIONTH TIME. Swistle = Photo H. Take that to the bank, Swistlers! (If I’m wrong, I will make and eat pad thai again. Okay?)
(Late-day edit: VICTORY IS MINE, Y’ALL.)
I’m sorry what was I saying? Oh yes. I bought Night of Olay because iI am painfully impatient and it was the only recommended one I could find at my local drugstore other than Cetaphil, which was my original first choice, but then I read the ingredients and saw that petrolatum was the second ingredient and it sort of grossed me out. Plus, it was six bucks, yo. But I ALSO plan to fill out the survey on Mario Badescu and am going to try their seaweed night cream, too. Because Holly was very convincing and I TOO would like porcelain skin.
So um, hey! What are your thoughts on sharing toothbrushes and/or razors? I mean among loved ones, that is. Not with fellow subway riders or anything. Because I accidentally used Adam’s toothbrush last night and ZOMG THE AWFUL AWFULNESS. He always acts as though I had just spit directly in his mouth, which I suppose I sort of did. And while it’s not the most PLEASANT thing in the world, to think that I just swept away my plaque with something that probably still contained the remnants of his the moment prior, I maintain that by the very fact that we are married people who like each other, we DO on occasion swap bodily fluid-type things. And plaque, really, is is THAT bad? I mean, I wouldn’t do it by CHOICE, but in a pinch, I’d use his like if, say, it was midnight in a new destination and I forgot to bring mine. But I realize this is not true for everyone, and it’s most definitely not true of my husband.
He compares it to sharing a razor, which I disagree with, because a razor involves BLOOD and for some reason that bothers me more. This is paradoxical, yes, plus if you have, say, gingivitis, your toothbrush will be bloody and … oh forget it. But it’s my fluid policy and I’m sticking to it. And I am NOT OKAY with sharing a razor with anyone, ever. I won’t even use Adam’s OR my sister’s. Ever.
I’m off to Boston tomorrow afternoon again, by the way, for my nephews’ High School Musical fest and time with my parents and then MONDAY I get to have my boob ultrasounded and stabbed and I gotta tell you, I’m dreading it like nothing I’ve ever dreaded before. I have a cyst the size of a quail egg in my left boob (too much info?) and I’ve had it for … well, about a year, I guess, and I’ve had tons of doctors look at it, and mammograms so no, I am not particularly worried about it.
In fact, at this point, I feel like I should just offer it up to anyone I meet, like hi, have you seen my boob cyst? It hurts! Which it does. A lot. Pretty often, in fact, as I have hormonal fluctuations like you read about (hence likely future of fertility drugs!) and it’s not my favorite thing in the world, this boob cyst, because it hurts all the time, like right now, when I think it’s trying to move out of my boob and into its own apartment, such is the URGENT NATURE OF ITS COMPLAINT. It would like better plumbing, I think. I would, too. You’re not alone, boob.
And it’s becoming my LEAST FAVORITE THING EVER knowing that people are going to STAB IT and drain stuff from it, because my thyroid biopsy was one of the worst experiences of my whole life. Like, it was EPIC in its awfulness, with giant (GIANT) needles ripping through my neck like a hurricane. Pain I was totally unprepared for, by the way, as I was all, this is going to be so easy! Easy! Like, it totally won’t hurt at all!
It did. A lot.
So there’s that. I will be thinking of THAT while I suffer through High School Musical. Suffering upon suffering. I might as well imagine the side effects of Clomid and eat a carton of prunes while I’m in there to really make the experience TRULY EXCITING IN ITS OVERWHELMING PAIN. (I kid! I love those little boys and I’m sure it will be … loving in its pain.)
And finally, I went to the post office to mail something at lunch today — it was an envelope being sent to a PO box WITHIN THE VERY POST OFFICE THAT I WAS STANDING. And yet, I had to pay postage. For them to WALK IT over to the box. Fair? I THINK NOT.
Have a great weekend.
*House of Pain. HA. Am killing myself here. Before my boob does, that is.
May 1st, 2008
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