Archive for June, 2008
So hey, here’s a scintillating topic: Anybody use Zicam recently? Or ever? Because for starters, Adam’s a little addicted to it, so we have an astonishing amount of it in the house. The gel swabs, specifically, and if there’s anything grosser than those gel swabs, I don’t know what it could possibly be. For those unfamiliar with the gel swabs, they are these creepy little Q-tip-esque things that come in a tiny plastic tube. It comes pre-gelled, and after smearing the (totally gross) swab into your nostril, you then dip the swab BACK INTO THE TUBE, where it makes this awful sound akin to someone mixing meatloaf in a bowl, before smearing it into your OTHER nostril.
It’s disgusting, in other words. Yet I willingly swabbed my nostrils today because I’ve had allergies that sort of kind of turned into a cold (air conditioning will do this to a girl sometimes. Like EVERY YEAR) that has the terrible side effect of leaving me totally anosmic. This also means I can’t TASTE anything, which has left me in the fortunate position of not wanting to eat anything unless it has a pleasing texture. Oh and also, some frantic Googling led me to believe that I had destroyed my nasal receptors with that stupid Zicam and OMG THE PANIC that I would NEVER SMELL AGAIN. And I might not! Exhibit A: Adam just brought curry chicken salad into the room, and I can’t smell it. Curry! CURRY SMELLS.
Do you have bad bowels? Would you like to let loose around someone who won’t notice, much less care? I’m your woman. Come over and fart! Hell, POOP ON THE FLOOR if you want to! I WILL NOT SMELL IT.
(Incidentally, I’m hopeful that this will … I don’t know, reduce the severity of my cold symptoms? Stop this from turning into a green snot-fest?)
In unrelated and random news, it bothers me that so many stars become LA Lakers fans, because COME ON. You can’t tell me that these stars never had a hometown, and if they are sports fans now, why weren’t they sports fans THEN? I’m all for them attending the game(s) — especially now, I mean, it’s the NBA Finals, but to see them all decked out on LA gear is so … disingenuous. Not that I had high hopes for stars’ integrity to anything, much less a sports team. Although in fairness, I DESPISE the Lakers (and Phil Jackson!), so perhaps I’m not the best person to judge.
Finally, we’ve been dealing with tornado watches all evening, along with thunderstorms that I’ve heard have the potential to drop “windshield-smashing hail” which, combined with heat that could easily sear a piece of brisket, is making me think that I never left Florida. Perhaps I’m cursed, doomed to live in some sort of weather warp, where tornadoes and thunderstorms exist only for me, while the rest of the world has normal weather. Because honestly, tornadoes? In Vermont? We have MOUNTAINS. How is that even POSSIBLE?
And with that, I’m going to go, because I had no business writing anything today, given that the last two days have been miserably devoid of anything except hiding out in my bedroom, because HOT DAMN it’s hot out there. And if I’m honest, it’s making me a little (OKAY A LOT) fucking nuts, because there’s nowhere for me to go except here. All of the coffee shops in town that have WiFi are sadly sans air conditioning — hell, Adam’s OFFICE doesn’t even have air conditioning (LET ME REMIND YOU WE ARE IN VERMONT) — which leaves me stranded in our very blue bedroom with blue shades and low windows, giving the illusion of being stuck in an endless loop of that Finding Nemo ride at Epcot. And since I actually have to work, it’s not like I can go anywhere else, and OH MY GOD I AM TRAPPED.
Everyone thinks working from home is such a breeze! I’d LOVE to work in my bedroom, they squeal in jealousy. And all I’m saying is that I’ll give my left PINKY TOE to head into an office right now, preferably one with powerful air conditioning and free Diet Coke — no, no, FRESCA.
Save me.
*No Doubt
TRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPEEEED.
June 10th, 2008
It’s 89 degrees in my house right now, as I’m sure it is in yours, at least if you live in the Northeast, and to that, I simply say: WHAT. THE. HELL. I live in VERMONT. Which is CLOSE TO CANADA. It will be snowing here by Sept. 30, and yet I’m sitting here sweating through my clothes — seriously, my shirt is TRANSPARENT right now. You know those music videos where all the women are scantily clad and coated in a thin veneer of sexy sweat? Picture that, except sans sexiness. Oh, and imagine the veneer to be less of a light sheen than a heavy faucet dumping sweat everywhere, kind of like Kevin Garnett looks after cleaning up two wins against the Lakers. (Oh, what? Did I say that Y and Suebob? OH YES I DID, SUCKAHS.)
The whole point of this is to tell you that the only cold beverage we have in the house is a bottle of Cote de Champlain from a local winery and as a result, I’ve sucked down more than half of it since 8:30 p.m. and … well, I’ll tell you that I’m feeling pretty good right about now, so if I say anything inappropriate, forgive me, because I’ve had wine. A lot of wine, and in a very short period of time. But it was COLD wine, and God, did I need cold, because the thermostat inside our house reads a cool 90 degrees (it’s up a degree! HOW LOVELY). Yes, that’s right. It’s NINETY DEGREES. INSIDE THE HOUSE. Yes, yes, we have a window unit in our bedroom, but that only brings it down to 85, because the door won’t shut all the way and OMFG. THE HEAT. THE SWEATY, DRUNK HEAT.
And worse? Adam is talking through a very complex problem right now, and I am merely nodding silently, a sweaty vestige of my usual semi-aware self.
(In other words? DRUUUUNK. And no one knows it except you! I am NODDING like I am TOTALLY FOLLOWING ALONG.)
In other, incongruous (but still UN-SOBER) news, my trip to NYC was so gloriously uneventful that I arrived at Mer’s apartment ahead of schedule, as she hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes (darling shoes. DARLING.), and I felt like some kind of INVETERATE traveler, the kind of person who doesn’t even break a sweat during takeoff (but not the kind who falls ASLEEP before takeoff. Who ARE those people?). I became complacent in my traveling abilities, and coming from a person who used to have to be DRUGGED to fly, this is something, let me tell you.
And then I attempted to come home — never mind the fact that my cab driver was THE WORST DRIVER I’d ever ridden with (seriously, at one point, we legitimately almost crashed into a bus. I screamed, “OH MY GOD A BUS!” which was THE ONLY reason the driver realized that the bus was there. Swerving ensued). This was followed by a flight home where we flew through what the pilot referred to as “some weather” when really, WE ALWAYS HAVE WEATHER. CALL IT A THUNDERSTORM. WE ARE NOT STUPID. And because traffic out of JFK was insane and because it’s only an hour flight, we flew through weather the entire time, never climbing out of the cloud cover, and LET ME TELL YOU, I almost threw up from the turbulence. Oh, and all I could think about was that if I died, Lawyerish would think it was her fault because I was traveling for her baby shower and it would ruin her life and I DO NOT WANT MY DEATH TO RUIN HER LIFE. LIVE, MEREDITH, LIIIIIIVVVE. (I sound like Derek in Grey’s Anatomy, but really, I’m talking about a REAL PERSON.)
(Also, flying in and out of Burlington airport is kind of … well. The mountains kind of creep up on you, and for several moments, you think you are going to FLY INTO THE MOUNTAINS. AND DIE. And then you don’t. Surprise!)
And for one last abrupt change of gears, is it ever surprising to you when someone you like or even LOVE really likes or even LOVES someone you really can’t stand? And isn’t this so SURPRISING? I worked with a guy once — who I loved — who talked so highly of one of my colleagues who was an intrepid dolt with what I perceived as the personality of a weasel, and I could NOT figure out why he liked her so. Every so often, I encounter this phenomenon again and again and it never fails to mystify me. Do you know what I mean? Like, CLEARLY the world must know that so-and-so is an idiot and yet, they are beloved by people you know and love. MYSTIFYING.
[Edited to add due to PROXIMITY ISSUES that I didn't think of: This is not remotely related to poor Lawyerish or her husband or friends, who I universally loved. Like, for real. JUST MAKING THAT CLEAR. HEH.]
I’m off to refill my wine glass with more merciful cold wine. Look for my prone, lifeless body in a bed near you.
Happy Tuesday!
*G-Love and Special Sauce
June 9th, 2008
Lawyerish and I may have been a bit portentous with our excessive anxiety, and in fact, I feel partially responsible for the toilet-slash-bathtub um, explosion-type thing that happened on Friday, less than 24 hours after I arrived in NYC. She explains it better than I could, so I will only add that at one point, Mer and her mom were both so hopeful, her mom announcing, “I think the worst of it is over! It sounds like he’s clearing up!” only to have me mournfully inform them that no, no, in fact, there is no way this is close to over, because I just saw a toilet — an entire, unattached TOILET — being moved from one bathroom to the next, as though the plumber wasn’t sure which one it came from and was desperate to reattach it somewhere — anywhere would do.
A loose toilet can never be a good sign, this I know, especially after the experience of watching our downstairs neighbors find theirs in the front yard while a team of men jackhammered the floor off to fix an errant leak. Meanwhile, our toilet, as of this very moment, is running like the wind, the drips becoming more and more aggressive as the moments fly by. This weekend, if nothing else, is a cautionary tale: love your toilets, lest they turn on you. They have great power to ruin your day. And for the love of Jesus, don’t flush paper towels in a pre-war NYC building’s plumbing, mmm-kay?
(For the record, and for Mer’s sake, I would like to say that I was not the least bit bothered by the toilet situation, nor her apartment at all. I am not bothered by plumbing fiascoes, being that I am prone to them myself. Her home is absolutely beautiful, M is the perfect hostess, and her mom is lovely. And I’m not just saying that because blog etiquette demands that I do so. I mean it, which is the best part. Also good: the toilet brouhaha gave us A LOT of time to sit and chat, which is my favorite thing to do ANYWAY. I mean, even if I was terrifyingly stinky, which I was.)
I would also like to now admit that I was completely tickled by the fact that M has a superintendent who cheerfully arrived to provide assistance on a fairly regular basis in a uniform-type shirt and everything. (New Yorkers are laughing at me. It’s okay.) For some reason, this was incredibly quaint, as though I were living in an urban “One Day At a Time” episode. I am not, by any stretch, a city girl — alas, I am the sad, uncultured poster child for the American Suburbs. Levitt Town, here I come! — although I love visiting and I absolutely understand why people love living it. So for me, simply being in the city — even a city apartment — is a delightful experience in Playing Tourist, even if it’s to marvel over the existence of a Real Live Super, complete with uniform-like shirt and basement apartment. I’ve lived all over Boston, and it’s just … well, it’s not the same. New York is an experience in city living all its own.
At any rate, the point is this: It was a lovely, wonderful weekend, and oh, Lawyerish. I love her so. I do. And her mom! Oh, her mom! And her HUSBAND. The problem with her husband is this: He is Adam, and Adam is him. Ergo, it becomes difficult not to laugh with (not at!) him, even in times of strife (toilet in hallway, downed cable during Belmont Stakes), because it’s like living with my own spouse, except of course, he does not know me nearly so well. I swear, you could swap out our husband’s minds and put them in each others’ skins and we would not notice who was who. This also had the odd effect of making me ache for my husband, whom I love beyond all reason, obviously, but it’s not like I’m in the habit of painfully missing him, especially when I’m having fun and the trip is only three days.
And hooray! Photos! The unflattering photos she refers to? I TOOK THEM. Note to all: do not ask me to be your staff photographer for ANYTHING. I own an accidentally pilfered speedlight (don’t ask) and yet I had no idea how to wield M’s. None. And there was lots of wild shooting into thin air, hoping that something good would be captured, which resulted in some truly hilarious outtakes that will never see the light of day, unless I’m feeling particularly malicious, which will never happen.
The mama herself.
I hate going back to work after a fun weekend, but I’m finding that it is PARTICULARLY dreadful going back to work from HOME after a fun weekend. No one is here to distract me, and instead, I’m looking forward to an absurdly full day of … exciting alone time, with nothing but me and a Chicago Manual of Style and his brother, the AP Style Book. Oh, man.
I hope your weekend was as delightful. I, for one, am going to play with my beefcake of a dog who seems fat and unwieldy after spending time with M & J’s wee little Italian greyhound. A pug, in comparison, is like dealing with an anvil. A farting anvil.
Happy Monday!
*Regina Spektor
June 8th, 2008
This weekend is the second weekend in a string of three consecutive Active Weekends, which are something I am not accustomed to, but enjoy greatly nonetheless. Next week, I’m headed to New Hampshire to hang with my friend Erica, and tomorrow, I head to NYC for a baby shower of epic unplanned proportions and ha HA, I AM THE PSEUDO-PLANNER. I am slowly having a heart attack as I realize that yes, I’m hosting a baby shower in a place where I AM NOT, and it’s killing me. KILLING ME. But I will be there tomorrow, and it will be OKAY.
*rocks back and forth*
(Fear not, the subject of this shower already knows my fears. SHE KNOWS.)
(Also, I am in desperate need of a run to Ann Taylor or something before the airport, as I have neither jack nor shit to wear, since everything I own makes me look the size of the Titanic. Who knew five pounds could be so damaging to what is apparently a very fragile wardrobe? I actually got so angry at my girth that I threw a pair of pants across the room and yelled, “FUCK YOU, PANTS! I HATE YOU!” Nope. Not making that up. I actually did that. My pants are understandably hurt and trying to understand how this is THEIR fault, when in fact, it is the lemon bars’, and we all know it. Oh, also there was that white chocolate lemon thing that I ate on Sunday night and I’m just not sure it was WORTH it, you know?)
(I don’t crave chocolatey desserts much. Give me lemon or vanilla or GIVE ME DEATH. Or, you know, fat pants. Whichever comes first.)
Anyway. I never knew so many people had such strong opinions on Sarah Jessica Parker OR cilantro. And I’m truly sad for you non-cilantro lovers out there, because done properly, it’s TRANSCENDENT. I would eat cilantro as salad greens if I could, and I am happy to see that there are others like me. And maybe I’ll send you my cilantro if it won’t wilt.
Since my parents left, I’ve been a state of utter malaise, where I lay in bed all day working and watching Charmed. Until today, no lie, I hadn’t showered since SUNDAY and was reluctant to do so, because eh? Who needs showers when you can work from bed with a warm puppy in your pajamas? This is understandably a very unhealthy habit, and Adam pointed out that I was starting to smell like “stinky person” but I said GODDAMN, I was so very tired, and moving my fingers to work was the best I could do.
Also, season one of Charmed is down, although I barely paid attention to it, and we are into season two — I CRIED when Andy died, because HE AND PRUE WERE SOULMATES I KNOW IT. And can I just TELL you that I am upset that Shannen Doherty leaves, because I LIKE her, off-center eyes and all? And that suddenly, I have decided that after Charmed, I am moving on to Buffy, because I want more campy fantasy. Then I’m doing Veronica Mars, if only because Jennie is forcing me at virtual gunpoint by threatening to send piles of DVDs unannounced.
We do, at some point, have to talk about the strange phenomenon in the late ’90s to wear high-waisted pants with a cropped shirt. Oh my hell, that’s bad. Like, you end up with this eerie little sliver of stomach that looks like a Buddha belly because the pants you’re wearing give you a gunt and come up to your armpits. And Shannen Doherty DOESN’T have a gunt, and yet it appears that she does, and don’t you then wonder what the rest of us who DID have one, actually looked like? Oh dear crap, it couldn’t have been good.
Have a great weekend, y’all. I know I will. You know, if my plane gets there in one piece (GAH GAH GAH)
*Pet Shop Boys
June 4th, 2008
Of all of my annoying habits/tics, probably the worst is that I scratch my head somewhat compulsively, especially when thinking (It’s a real headscratcher!) (I kill me!).I know it’s sort icky, and I recognize that it isn’t the most attractive thing in the world, but what I always find amusing is that whenever I’m around my family, my sister and/or my two mothers are always trying to break me of it in the brief time we’re together. As though a daily habit is going to dissipate over the course of a day or so because they periodically whispered, “Jonna, stop scratching your head!” This, of course, only makes me want to scratch my head MORE, and therefore, the entire time I’m with them, my head is practically scratched raw and may start bleeding at any time.
This afternoon, a tiny drop of blood came down my forehead, coming to a halt just short of my eye. A sure sign I spent extended time with my family that makes it seem so much worse than it is. I mean, there was BLOOD-LETTING, and yet, it was fun! It was such an awesome visit, and I cried when they left, despite the fact that honest to God, I feel like I got my ass HANDED to me, such is the depth of my exhaustion. I walked around all day today in a massive daze, including a client call that likely made me sound like a blithering idiot, because although he was speaking English, I was not able to follow his words, like he was talking underwater.
Not that I’ve given this that much thought (okay, that’s a lie, because for some odd reason, I HAVE), but in light of the recent Sarah Larson/George Clooney breakup, I’m wondering: How do you go back to dating normal dudes after George? Or any celebrity? I mean, one minute you’re a cocktail waitress wearing satin hotpants and serving slippery nipples to drunken gamblers, and the next, you’re decked out in YSL and grinning your way through the red carpet. Oh, and there’s that whole Lake Como house thing, and I’m honestly curious how one reacts when the next guy asks you to hit The Cheesecake Factory for a big night out with Bang-Bang Chicken and Shrimp, you know? I’ve actually brought this up to Adam, such is the depth of my curiosity, and it’s pathetic, I know it’s pathetic, and his steadfast eyeroll reminded me of how sad this conjecture truly is, especially given the fact that I always ask him this in a stained T-shirt and ratty sweater. I mean, I’m not even going OUT for a Factory Burger, who am I to criticize?
Also, not that anyone asked, but I am mystified by the whole Sex and the City phenomenon, despite having friends who ADORED it, and aside from not be able to identify with a single character, being both a suburban/country girl at heart and also a giant nerd, the reason I could never get into is that Sarah Jessica Parker is, in my opinion, a TERRIBLE actress. Awful. I … well, I hated her portrayal of Carrie, and found her to be a ridiculous caricature of herself. Is it … is it me? (It is. I know this. I do.)
(Also, OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA OMFG OBAMA. I’m sorry, I had to get that out there. DUDE. OBAMA. Ahem. I’m sorry, I truly am, for the outburst, I AM SORRY. BUT YES.)
(But also very excited! Except that Hillary needs to … something impolite, I’m sorry. Also, FWIW, I was a Florida voter and I DO NOT FEEL DISENFRANCHISED.)
And finally, two things:
1) When describing being without clothing, do you prefer “nude” or “naked”? I used nude in conversation this evening and almost threw up. NUDE. How awful is that? NUDE. GAH. Reminds me of nudie films, which sounds so juvenile and makes me think of pedophilia. Yes, the word nude is apparently many-layered for me. NOOD. GRAH.
2) Cilantro: love it or hate it? Because I planted approximately 11 plants of it in my garden (which is growing, yay!) only to discover, after 10 years of living together, that Adam thinks it tastes like soap. I understand this is a known phenomenon, but I didn’t know I lived with it. And if it tastes good to you, would you like a few bundles of it? Because HA HA, hoo boy, did I ever plant a lot of it.
Happy Wednesday!
*Jennifer Love Hewitt. I love her. I can’t help it. I mean, not the music, obviously, but I have a certain affection for her that can’t be denied, and as I explained here, involves BOOBS. And even though she spells barenaked as one word, she didn’t use NUDE, which is love-worthy.
June 3rd, 2008
Not to state the obvious, but the entire concept of The Bachelor(ette) is just. so. ridiculous that I can’t even tolerate it for a second anymore. I don’t know how I — a person who watches “Charmed” and TiVos “The Mole” — reached this place, but I saw a mere moment of it this evening, and I was overcome with annoyance, because COME ON. “I only get one husband.” What a load of SHIT, DeAnna. WHAT A LOAD OF SHIT. You won’t FIND your ACTUAL HUSBAND ON TELEVISION LIKE THIS.
I think if someone told me I had to pick my husband out of a pool of 25 too-pretty men competing for me on television that I … well, I would shoot them all with a giant pellet gun while wearing overalls and brandishing a pitchfork. And PLEASE, do not get me started on the too-pretty man. Extra-pretty men do not make good husbands, this I know. Neither do men who wear cream suits unless it is for a SPECIFIC PURPOSE, and The Bachelorette doesn’t count. Handsome husbands are fine; I’m talking about straight-up PRETTY ones, you know what I mean?
Also, hey! I’ve been with my parents for four days, and I’m tired. I’m not sure how two people almost twice my age manage to run me into a state of exhaustion, but they do, in a good way. And it was awesome, except for the fact that my mom brought lemon bars, which I cannot resist, and my thighs are looking a little thicker for the wear. I froze the remainder of them tonight so that I wouldn’t inhale the entire tray in the middle of the night, because MMMMM LEMONY BUTTERY COOKIES.
One of the unexpected pleasures of my parents’ visits — this was my dad and step-mom, as my step-parents are also my parents as I was so little — is how much they love Adam. They adore him, and I know of all the things I’ve done, they see my marriage as one of the best, and I know that I do, too, but it’s always nice to see it through someone else’s eyes, even if they’re your parents’ biased ones.
ANYWAY, after they left, I spent the entire day — literally, from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., plus an hour each way — at the hospital having my boob looked at by a boob specialist and some interns — it’s a teaching hospital which, while lovely, is just like Grey’s Anatomy in that while one doctor had his fingers in my boob, he was asking aloud, “Now, when you feel this next, notice how the lump is round? And movable?” They all nodded vigorously, as if to say, “I see the roundness of the boob. I SEE IT.” And then one of the interns (there were two!) stepped forward and felt my boob while telling the other how it feels, “It’s a mobile, detached cyst! Neat!” And then THE OTHER had to have a turn feeling me up, and saying, “Yes! It IS mobile!”
HA HA NEAT.
It was like an all-around sensory experience, and kind of a little creepy as one doctor ultrasounded my right boob while the other awkwardly (and I do mean awkwardly) wiped down my left like she was cleaning a windshield at an intersection for spare quarters. Also, why are the doctors always so surprised that boobs are TENDER when palpated, particularly when they’ve just been hand-cranked into a mammography machine? Note: boobs are fine and not harboring anything murderous.
Added note: It took all day, and involved walking between hospital facilities in one of the hottest days northern Vermont has ever seen. And guess who wasn’t allowed to wear deodorant at all? And sweat through her shirt? GO ON, GUESS. I mopped my underarms down with PURELL before my appointment. GROOOOSSSSS.
This all-day affair is also why, when I met Alert Reader Regina and her bf for a beer while they were in town (Hey readers! Come to my tiny town and I will drink with you, I promise!), I realized at the end of it that I hadn’t eaten anything all day (it was 4:30 p.m. ) and I almost passed RIGHT OUT and was maybe a little out of it during said beer. Sorry, R & M! You’re lovely! It’s NOT YOU, IT’S ME. Also, for some reason, I was surprised that Regina recognized me instantly when I walked in, though I shouldn’t have been.
Have a great Tuesday! Am wildly behind on your blogs and e-mails. Will do that, stat!
*Rufus Wainwright
June 2nd, 2008
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