Posts filed under 'General jackassery'
I’ve taken a bit of a television hiatus, in terms of finding new shows, anyway, because it’s summer, we’ve been busy, and whatever, there’s Big Brother, mock me if you will. But every night before we went to bed, Adam would watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and shake the damn bed with laughter while I glared at him in an obnoxious highbrow manner over the top of my book.
He finally broke me down, and PEOPLE. I CANNOT STOP. It’s easily the funniest, most wildly inappropriate show I’ve seen in years. I’m howling! I’m crying! I’m feeling terribly dirty because I’m laughing uproariously at the absurd pleasure the characters are taking in finding — and trying on — a Nazi uniform, and that sounds worse than it is, kind of, but you must trust me: HILARITY ENSUED. I … oh, it’s terrible and hilarious and so offensive, while at the same time smartly acknowledging its offensiveness, and, well, I feel like everyone should go get it and watch it. Unless you’re very sensitive, in which case, I don’t know what to tell you, because it’s possible you’re reading the wrong blog, maybe? I’m not sure.
Anyway. I have failed to mention that Sunny once again continues to be the bane of our existence, while also managing to be the primary sleep-stealer, making up for all those months that a squalling baby kept her from her deep puggy slumber. While I was at BlogHer, she was overcome with such a disastrous stomach ailment that Adam was up every two hours (like a NEWBORN) to take her outside to either barf or poop, and to be honest, the majority of the baby wipes in this house were being used to WIPE THE DOG’S BUM.
THE DOG’S BUM.
THE DOG’S BUM.
This is how, upon my return, I ended up waiting in a 24-hour pharmacy for a prescription to be filled for my dog. A dog whose prescription was borked (barked?) on four separate occasions because the pharmacist not only could not find my dog as an existing patient in the insurance database (BECAUSE SHE IS A DOG), but was consistently trying to fill a prescription for a human named — wait for it:
Funny Rubin.
FUNNY RUBIN.
After waiting and calling and waiting and calling, and talking and waiting and mass confusion, the pharmacist, who to my knowledge has a DEGREE and everything, stopped and said, “Wait: are you Funny Rubin? I’ve been trying to call you!”
Aaaand, scene.
She finished her last pill today. This is her third round of this flora-encouraging antibiotic (a paradox if I ever heard one) and if I wake up in the middle of the night tonight to wipe her bum, I will seriously consider selling her to the highest bidder. Or perhaps the first person willing to buy me a jumbo pack of Starburst. Whichever.
In other housekeeping-y news, a few of us are in the process of putting together a Boston blogger (and the readers who love them) meet-up. As a result, would you kindly let me know, either in the comments, or via email (the contact form above does go to my email, swearsies), so that we can keep you in the loop, as the kids say?
Also, HA HA, embarrassing fun fact: A reader recognized me in Barnes & Noble a few weeks ago, and she was adorable and funny and a mom! A mom of two! Who lives kind of near me! And I loved her, even though I was shocked and sort of stammer-y, for it happens so rarely to begin with, but it happens even MORE rarely that someone recognizes MY DAUGHTER before they realize who I am. And yes, I had to ask her name TWICE because I was so flustered and … well, so I said we should get together sometime! And she should email me her contact information!
No email. Sad panda. Which goes to show you that apparently there are times — quite a few of them, I reckon — that I translate very poorly in person. So attend the meet-up at your own risk.
(CALL ME, JOANNA. NOT TO SOUND DESPERATE OR ANYTHING.)
(Ha ha?)
Happy Wednesday!
*Biz Markie. Who is coming with DJ Lance and the Yo Gabba Gabba clan to Boston, and I’m totally considering buying tickets and … oh dear. They are not cheap. This is not rational, right? I mean, she might freak out! She might not make it! AND YET. DJ LANCE IN THE FLIZESH. *fans self*
August 24th, 2010
So, many years ago, I had to fire someone. In retrospect, this is ridiculous, because I swear to you, I was MAYBE 25, had zero experience doing such things, and was counseled to do so in a way that was as close to asking for a lawsuit as one can get without filing the paperwork and suing yourself. Granted, this person should not have retained her job — she was terrible, unreliable, sometimes willfully defiant and yet (YET!) consistently asked for a promotion. It was a lethal combination, as you can imagine, and after first counseling her to look for another job through the power of gentle suggestion (she didn’t get it, or refused — not sure which), I had to fire her.
It was hideous. Hideous! She bawled! She was shocked! I was frozen, basically reading off of a piece of paper like an idiot so that we WOULDN’T get sued, when all I wanted to do was hug her. And again, why the eff HR wasn’t doing this was beyond me, but there I was, a totally incompetent 25-year-old manager who had no business managing, firing someone under the guise of a one-person layoff.
It was one of the worst things I’d ever had to do.
A few hours after she’d left, her mom called me to yell at me. Her mother called me! HER MOTHER. And she called me a dumb low-life and all kinds of things that were probably true at the time (seriously, I was only a manager because I brought in a piece of business that was a lot of money, end of story). Now, her mom and I had tangled previously, when Marla (yes, let’s call her that), called in sick, but didn’t leave information where some VERY IMPORTANT MISSION-CRITICAL documents that had been due the previous day were kept, so I had to call her at home and … well, she wasn’t home, she was in NYC visiting her boyfriend and THAT was awkward and awful, and yes, her mother yelled at me for invading her privacy, when … well, it was Marla who blew off the deadline AND was busy porking on a futon in the Upper West Side, so who’s really at fault here?
Fast forward to Saturday, and I’m in line at Gourmet India at the mall food court, because that’s what you DO when you have a kid who hates sitting still at a restaurant and you have no food in the house and you just want to EAT without it being a HUGE PRODUCTION, and dear Jesus, people, SHE WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.
GAH GAH GAH. I kept silent and just sort of quietly panicked at the memory, and my only consolation is that she looked fabulous and didn’t bear any visible scars from the horrid, no-good awful faux layoff I inflicted upon her in my youth.
And whatever, don’t mock me for my food court Indian selection, because while I know it’s kind of gross, seeing as not only are you in a FOOD COURT, but everything meat-like is draped in some kind of heavy sauce that could be masking the remains of Max and Ruby’s doubtlessly deceased parents up in there, let me tell you something: I lived without decent Indian for FIVE YEARS. The last Indian place near us in Vermont featured a very old Indian matriarch, all wizened-like, who sat behind the hostess desk and SHAVED THE SKIN OFF HER FEET WITH A RAZOR THE ENTIRE MEAL.
I can handle Gourmet India, is what I’m saying. And besides, I would very likely eat the asshole of any animal anywhere (I grew up in Pennsylvania Dutch country! I ate scrapple!), provided it was done with the right sauce and plenty of cilantro. I’ve always wanted to be Indian, if only so I could learn to cook their food. Not to denigrate my own cultural heritage — I’m Hungarian and Italian, which, while no gastronomic slouches, have cuisines I like to sum up as follows:
Hungarians: Throw some paprika and sour cream on it. Extra points if there’s cabbage. You think I’m kidding, but if you’ve ever had eastern European haluski, you know that I’m not.
Italians: Do we have tomatoes and basil? Excellent. Here’s dinner.
And of course, there’s the Pennsylvania Dutch: Can we pickle it? What if we throw some hard-boiled eggs in there? Excellent! What if we fry up a pig’s stomach to go along with it? EVEN EFFING BETTER.
(Side note: pickled beets and eggs is one of my favorite things, ever, and my dad made some DELICIOUS ones last week)
(Side side note: Shoo fly pie is just SILLINESS in a pie crust and yet people go BONKERS for it. Basically it’s molasses and crumbs. BARF.)
But Indians! Such spices! Beans! Cilantro! Coriander seed! (Same thing, different form) THINGS THAT HAVE FLAVOR. AND LACK ENTRAILS, MAYBE.
Well, this went to a place I wasn’t planning. Sorry about that. A few housekeeping tidbits, yes?
- I’m reviving the Book Lushes after a summer hiatus. Stay tuned!
- Speaking of books, I’ve started reading Alexa’s, (yes, this Alexa) and cannot stop. I can’t stop. I’m not one to blow smoke in this area, so when I tell you that this is exceptional — that SHE is exceptional, both as a person and as a writer — you must believe me. And you must go out and get it for yourself, and then report back to me how big of a genius you think she is, because you will. She is. It’s SO GOOD, you guys. It’s like, LAUGH OUT LOUD good, and funny and poignant and heartbreaking … IT IS SO GOOD. IT IS SO GOOD. SO GOOD. SHE IS SO GOOD.
She is also a friend, and I am really proud to say that, and proud of her. But that does not mean she hasn’t earned my respect as a hugely talented writer with the first chapter alone. Holyshit.
- While an odd segue, I wrote a few things other places on the internet, both kind of pulled from my ass and thrown on the table like a lump of something unpleasant, yet strangely … compelling? Or maybe just unpleasant and confusing. One at Polite Fictions, the other is a recap of this past week’s True Blood for my bosses at Smart Pop. (And a reminder that you can buy my essay for less than a buck AND the entire book is still available!) To those recappers who do this on a regular basis, I salute you. It was great fun, but it was also so much freakin’ work, and hours and hours of rewinding and pausing and note-taking and DING DONG, I HAD A CRAMP, that I have no idea how you do it on a regular basis.
Happy Wednesday!
*Feist
August 17th, 2010
Ah, Facebook. It’s such a strange cocktail of misery and usefulness, that I hardly know where to turn. Lunatics and Facebook Moms and crazy political nutballs and high school friends and coworkers and LOOK, WE ALL KNOW THE PERILS.
However, I’ve just made the best discovery that I can’t seem to get over. A guy I know has a Photograph Face, which is probably also his Mirror Face. And although I’ve seen this person many times — recently, even — seeing his Mirror-slash-Photograph Face is weirdly intimate, as Sex Face feels not that far behind and JUST GROSS, MAKE IT STOP. Mind you, many women I know have Mirror and Photograph faces, but men! This is new. And worse, Mirror Faces are never — okay, RARELY — the most flattering face on a person! And yet, people THINK they are, because that’s the face they perpetually see in the mirror and … oh dear. When Mirror Faces become Photograph Faces, it’s never good.
One of my dearest friends (NO I AM NOT TELLING, but no, it’s not you, I promise) has a Mirror Face, and for decades (literally, DECADES), it has mystified me, for she is beautiful, but her Mirror Face is … well, not. It’s awkward and funny-looking, if I’m being honest, and yet there she is, fixing her lip gloss with Awkward Mirror Face, and it remains one of life’s greatest mysteries for me. The second she resumes life without Mirror Face, and steps away from the mirror, she is once again beautiful. Fortunately for all of us, Mirror Face is not Photograph Face.
****
You know, another helpful tidbit, now that more than a few of you will be meeting me in person, is that I have attention deficit disorder, and not in the cute way of being all, I have ADD! I can’t find the pretzels! No, I actually have ADHD in a kind of not-fun way sometimes, although I’m not really sure what to do about it, if anything. On the one hand, it makes me quirky and fun, and it is, in large part, why my life takes the strangest of turns — I forget things, I zone out, I trip, I fall, I end up with six dozen donuts instead of one because I got distracted by the new pockets in my jean jacket. You know.
I mean, I was in Target the other day with Kate, and I got distracted because I couldn’t find my BJ’s card, which led to a few other thoughts about where that card might be, and how I’d given it to Sam in Land’s End Canvas and then, OOH! Land’s End Canvas! I wonder if those pants will fit like these shorts! Let’s see how these shorts fit! And I’m pulling the tag out of the back of my shorts and realize that the reason — the original reason, for God’s sake — I wondered about my BJ’s card was because I was supposed to be getting out my debit card to pay. I had FORGOTTEN that I was in TARGET in LINE and ABOUT TO PAY. I’m not exaggerating. Like, I got lost in this crazy Other Place and … well, that happens a lot.
And while I realize that’s kind of a lame example, there are others where things have been more, uh, dire. Nothing life or death, but sometimes, HOO BOY, things take me longer than they should, because I get distracted and carried away and oh look! There’s that phone bill. In the freezer. Right. (Sadly, not kidding.) In a way, it was easier when I worked as a full-time professional, because I could organize my day to work around it — by setting time limits, and tasks and small deadlines throughout the day, I was able to do what needed to be done without it impacting my work too much. Being busy and on heavy deadline in a job like journalism is actually helpful for people like me, although you’d think it would be the opposite.
But with an unpredictable toddler? OH HEAVENS. Coping is kind of hard sometimes, because I’m all over the place, and even people who DON’T have ADHD can become distracted and lose their minds.
I was medicated once, a long long time ago, and frankly, it sucked. I didn’t feel like myself; I felt like all of the things that made me, me, were kind of gone. Creatively, I wasn’t the same, because distraction is a good thing for a creative person — one thought tumbles to the next, and before you know it, you’re in a place you never expected.
I think I just answered my own question, which is to go back to behavioral therapy basics and not even think about meds again. At all. Like, ever. But! If I seem spazzy or you think you suddenly lost me in a conversation or I say I’ll be right back and hours later, you’re wondering what the EFF happened to me, that would be why.
Good times!
Happy Friday! Have a great weekend!
*Lady Gaga
July 29th, 2010
If you’d told me before I had kids that one of the highlights of my day would be watching a chain reaction of toddlers melting the eff DOWN, screaming in succession, one after the other, complete with whining, I’d have told you that you were crazy. Because it IS crazy, but when they lose their shit like that, I’m sorry, it’s FUNNY. One of Sam’s playgroup buddies (a playgroup Megan and I actually took an active part in starting, which, who are we?) was tired, Sam was playing with the mom’s keys — keys she obviously needed to drive home, and when they were taken from her, RUN, JOEY, RUN; Lila was all done with all of it and just wanted to go to bed, and there we were, screaming and whining kids being lugged out the door like wild turkeys.
Toddlers, I’m sorry, are ridiculous, irrational creatures with no respect for those around them, and no clue about the havoc they cause. It’s a little like living with an infant in terms of cognitive reasoning, but they’re mobile, with the ability to move around and stuff, and it’s just absurd, the way biology allows this to happen. Yet it’s kind of hilarious, because who these kids think they are is beyond me. Every day is a push-pull of “I can do it myself! I don’t need you!” followed by, “WAIT! Where are you going? I NEED YOU, FOR THE LOVE! GET BACK HERE! DID I TELL YOU THAT YOU COULD LEAVE?” and so on.
Incidentally, part of the reason the playgroup happened is because I sort of fell in love with one of the moms after she dropped an F-bomb in My Gym. You can’t be an uptight sanctimonious douche of a mom if you’re going to let it rip like that during separation time, and I liked what I saw there, friends. I LIKED IT.
So! Since now seems to be the time to talk about it, I should once again mention that I’m going to BlogHer, so if you’re going, and you see me, please say hello. I’ll post more pictures next week so that you know precisely what I look like, if you don’t already, but for now, I’ll tell you that I have short hair, sometimes (but not always!) wear glasses and will likely be wearing pink Chuck Taylors during the daylight hours.
I will also tell you that I’m a mixture of amused and horrified by all the panic and prep going on — honestly, I’ve been nervous about precisely none of it, save for what I was going to wear (and uhh, leaving my kid for the first time, but I CANNOT EVEN GO THERE). If you saw my regular wardrobe, by the way, you would know why this is. I mean, I look reasonably put together (are we laughing yet?) during the day, but we’re talking bermuda shorts, Ts and flip flops. This is because I do things like take my kid to farms (blech!) and splash parks and swim lessons and not, say, jaunting around New York with people who will not squeeze their fruit pouch all over my chest and into my bra.
The point is, I was panicked about my wardrobe, not the people. Or the parties. Or the … what else are people panicking about? And people! I’m not even that SOCIAL! But reading all these tweets and exclusivity and private party angst, and I’m just like, DUDE. YO GABBA GABBA! Follow the rules of DJ Lance and we’ll be fine!
1) Do your own thing! When you want to play, but you get left out; When you want to go along, but get left behind; When you want to fit in, but there’s no more ROOOOOOOOOM. It’s better than to let it get you DOWN. (I think this was Foofa’s song and IT FITS)
So basically, if someone’s being assy and rubbing a private event in your face (and listen, they happen, but they happen EVERYWHERE, and no one is super-speshul for being invited to one vs. not), dust yourself off and, if you want to, come find me. I’m sure I’ll be lurking around somewhere awkwardly, probably holding Jennie’s hand. Or you could just go see New York, which is pretty awesome. Well, unless you’re me. I’ve been enough times to know that it just stresses me out, so if you’re that way, too, maybe we can hit the serenity suite. (What? I feel dirty! All those people! And there’s just NO END to the BUILDINGS! I NEED MY OCEAN. WHERE IS MY OCEAN?)
2) Everything is generally more fun when you include everyone! I can even sing this for you if you want to, in Toodee’s voice.
3) Don’t bite your friends. Or, more specifically, be nice. I mean … right? I’m really nice! And super-approachable. Yes, I get weird in large crowds, but that’s because I’m quietly panicking about all the people in the room and wondering where the fire exits are, and I’m not really kidding about that at all. If you approach me one on one, I AM SUPER-NICE, especially once I’ve found the exits and fire extiguishers. And also, a hugger. Oh, and I ask a lot of questions about you. I was a journalist. It happens. I WANT TO KNOW. Just a heads-up that I am super excited to meet you and will hug you. Unless you’re wearing a turban AND a romper, in which case I will probably just stare in abject confusion, but WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF THAT?
Happy Wednesday!
*Many people, but I like Ryan Adams’ the best.
July 27th, 2010
HA! Well, I don’t feel like such a dirty bird anymore. Truth is, I’ve washed my bathmats … twice? Three times? since we moved here, which was May 1. So … well, that’s less than some of you, more often than others, and honestly, I never spent much time thinking about DRIED PEE DUST, as so many of you have, and … dried pee dust? For real?
Now, I am sensitive to the pee molecule. I will never, and I mean NEVER, have a toilet seat made of anything that is not hard, non-porous, and able to be disinfected with a swipe of the product of your choice. This means nothing squashy, nothing fabric, and for the love of the baby Jesus, no FUR. Adam’s aunt has a squashy, furry toilet seat and I REFUSE to sit on it, because I AM SORRY. FUR HAS PEE. MUCH PEE. AND PROBABLY POOP TOO.
But bathmats … well, I don’t know. Mine are rubber-backed, and I just wash and dry them, which, I am told, could cause my entire house to either smell like rubber OR spontaneously combust, so if I disappear one day, it’s because I blew us all up washing out some stupid pee molecules in the damn machine. The news will simply report an explosion, but you’ll all know the real story.
ANYWAY, so yes, Sunny got her ass kicked by the neighbor’s dog on Friday night, and it was dark and stormy and we were on our FOURTH walk of the evening, because for a dog who likes to blow the contents of her but out on a semi-regular basis, sometimes she is just so goddamn PICKY about WHERE this assplosion happens, and I’m wondering how it’s possible that our floor is acceptable, but when she goes outside, it has to be in the PRECISE PIECE OF GRASS she’s been seeking for twentysomething minutes.
So there we are, trudging through a lightning storm, while I’m FREAKING OUT, because I am afraid of lightning and thunder, and I really believe that I’m going to be struck down and killed by my bra which is, for the record, the reason I no longer wear underwire, no matter HOW Braless African Villager these puppies get after nursing, and I’m sorry, where was I? OH YES — this … this THING just shot out of nowhere and ATE HER and SHOOK HER and AH! AH! AH! I was yelling AHHHHH! and then AHHHHH! and “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” and THAT was really helpful, all that yelling! Because YELLING peels a dog off of another dog! And right, of course RIGHT! I was just being punked! HA HA!
The dog’s … owner? handler? came shooting out, apologizing, claiming he got off the leash, when I’m sorry, THERE WAS NO LEASH ATTACHED and it is at this point that I do NOT need to tell you we’ve had two days of bloody diarrhea, right? RIGHT?
It turns out it was a pet sitter who let the dog escape, AND it turns out the owners are lovely people who are aware of their dog’s, uh, less than friendly feature, and I’d say all’s well that end’s well (uh, they want to be friends, it seems, and I LIKED THEM), except that I still have a dog who poops copious amounts of blood and (SORRY) mucus onto the floor, and no amount of friendly neighborhood barbecues are going to fix THAT little problem, let me tell you.
Speaking of mucus, did you know that mucous is adjectival, while mucus is a noun? This is something I, an actual no-shit professional editor, learned only recently, most likely because I can count on less than one hand the amount of documents I’ve edited that feature mucus, unless you count this here blog, which includes mucus more than anyone would like. As does my life.
Bottom line, Sunny’s on a low-dose antibiotic that supposedly heals up the freaky ulcers, and if that doesn’t work, she’s going on Prozac. Yes, Prozac. YES, MY DAMN DOG.
And with that, let’s all go to our happy places, which for me is a tiny person giving me a cheesy fake smile (SHE DOES THIS FOR THE CAMERA) while playing in her plastic pool. Wearing pajamas.
Happy Tuesday! Kate’s coming today! KATE!
*Depeche Mode
July 19th, 2010
Although it is old news by now, I kind of can’t believe I neglected to mention here that I fell in the pool WHILE CARRYING SAM at last week’s swim class. Oh yes. It was … well, it was what it was. The sad thing was that she was acting rather excited, and kept strolling towards the pool as though she was looking forward to dipping her wee toes in, and then! It was time to get in! I was gingerly walking down the stairs and talking her through the entry process, saying, “The water is friendly! The water is going to be a little col–” BAM! SLIP! SLIDE!
DOWN THE STAIRS. SPLASH!
SCREAMING.
Of course. The kid clung to me like a monkey for the remainder of class, her low-grade pathetic whimper a horrible constant for an entire half-hour, rising and falling with the water level over her legs. She calmed down only when presented with a tiny plastic octopus, which she clung to with the desperation of … well, a terrified child in the pool, frankly.
But you know what the worst part of it all? The fact that NO ONE IN CLASS WOULD MEET MY EYES. I have a very thick skin and am not easily offended or embarrassed, and I realize not everyone would react the same way, but if *I* was laughing about it (because what can you do?), it was supremely uncool of those to act as though they were too horrified by my behavior to even look at me because COME ON. I FELL IN THE POOL. IS RIDICULOUS. NO ONE WAS INJURED.
Megan was on vacation and Erin (the only other person I know in class) missed the whole damn thing, as she was securing a floaty on her son. She later told me she heard a splash followed by several voices of, “ARE YOU OKAY?” and I was ALONE in my absurdity. ALONE.
When someone falls, my go-to reaction is to laugh, which sometimes gets me in trouble, but again, COME ON. FALLING IS FUNNY. Entire comedy sketches are built around falling! So unless you are seriously injured, just LET YOURSELF LAUGH AT THE FALLING. A bruised ego is no reason to act like it’s so stupidly serious. IT IS NOT SERIOUS.
May this week’s class be better. I hope. For the love.
And with that, I’m off for more summer fun. I hope you guys are having as much fun as we are! You know, FALLING IN POOLS and whatnot.
Happy Thursday!
*Peter Gabriel and … someone else, I can’t remember who, and I am TOO LAZY to even OPEN iTUNES, that’s how much summer fun I’m having! AM RELAXED. LEAVE ME BE.
July 14th, 2010
Kibbles and bits, per usual, but this time with a giveaway! Of a book that I contributed to! Go team! Well, not really on the team part. But on the dinner part? Yes, GO TEAM!
1) The other day, I tasted Sam’s (white) grape juice and thought it tasted a little off. I wrote it off initially, because my allergies are HORRENDOUS right now, and this plus a recent cold means I’ve been stuffy/sickly for weeks on end. No, literally: WEEKS. Anyway, I gave it another taste this morning and, um, no. It was actually teetering towards flat-out rotten, and I’m fairly shocked she hasn’t been wasted, because that shit HAD to be well on its way to wine.
2) The June book for The Book Lushes is The Red Tent, and I’ve literally put off reading this bad boy for TEN YEARS. It’s … interesting. I’m enjoying, but not loving, it. Mostly, and you best believe I’ll be discussing this in the forums, I’m irritated by the writing style, but I can’t put my finger on why.
Also irritating? The fact that Diamant has to remind us somewhere in the range of every ten seconds that men and boys used to get it on with sheep and goats in the fields. Yes, Anita, we get it. I was shocked the first time, annoyed the second, and FULL-ON ROLLING MY EYES by the third. What a shame Christianity has already been sent up too many times, otherwise you’d have the next Satanic Verses on your hands! Or not.
The real point of this is that if you aren’t a member, you should be. Honestly, all the books we’ve picked have been good, if not great, and I’m really, really glad I read them, even if I didn’t like them. It made for a richer experience, too, to know that dozens, if not hundreds, of others were reading it at the same time. You can join and discuss at any time — although it is well into June, I haven’t fully formed my opinion on Olive yet, so that discussion is still happening.
(For those not playing along, the books thus far have been The Help, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Year of Magical Thinking, Olive Kitteridge and now, The Red Tent)
3) Dinner. OH DINNER. You guys! YOU GUYS. SUCCESS. We’re on Day Three of awesome fast dinners — the sausage pasta was a huge hit, as I mentioned, and since then, I’ve done two more meals that rocked and were fast and easy.
First, I made a Mexican rice mish-mash with lean ground meat of your choice (I used beef, but I would totally use ground turkey, chicken or buffalo), browned and then mixed with veggies of your choice (I used TJ’s fire-roasted corn and bell pepper mix, both frozen) and then mixed with rice (um, again, TJ’s chimichurri frozen rice mix — SO GOOD). I threw some taco seasoning on top of it all (cumin, chili powder, coriander, etc. or you can use a pre-mix) and stirred some low-fat cheese and salsa in and VOILA! Mexican mix! We ate this in either taco or burrito shells with light sour cream and jalapenos. So good. So fast — like, ten minutes, TOPS.
Tuesday, we had Greek cous cous and also, DELICIOUS. I used nap time to roast some veggies (onions and red peppers at 425 for 20 minutes), then boiled up some Israeli cous cous and mixed with the veggies and some pre-cooked grilled chicken (I love you, Trader Joe’s!). I made a quick Greek dressing with lemon juice, olive oil, lots of oregano, salt, pepper and feta and threw it on top, plus a little extra crumbled feta on each serving and again, dude, VOILA. I finished it all in a half-hour, and just heated it up a bit at dinnertime. The whole shebang was over and done with by 7 p.m. (Adam got home super-early.)
I feel like I’m winning some kind of BATTLE up in here. For the record, Sam ate the cous cous, but not the Mexican rice. Again, I made it a little too spicy for her delicate little tongue. Adam loved it, but requested that next time I make it with the tiny regular cous cous, as the Israeli version reminded him of spider eggs. However, he’s still gnawing on some leftovers as I type this, so whatever. Awesome.
4) This won’t make sense to many people, but longtime reader Suki? I owe you a thank you. For Kate, you know. And congratulations on your pregnancy! I think about you all the time! (See? This is how I draw you out.)
5) Speaking of books, here we go! A Taste of True Blood is coming out on June 21 and I’ve got two copies to give away. Honestly, my chapter aside, there’s some crazy-ass analysis up in this thing, and it includes pieces by writers who are much smarter and more thoughtful than me. (My chapter is about how Bill Compton used to be hot, but now he’s … well, not. I never said I was an intellectual, okay?)
So! I’ll pick a winner at random, but I realize that some of you might not be into this, so if you want to comment AND you want to be entered, just write BOOK ME! somewhere in the comment, and I’ll include you in the, um, drawing. Which will happen electronically using one of those random generator things, which means that no one of the younger generations will even know what a drawing is.
I’ll be closing comments Thursday at 5 p.m. EST, and announcing a winner sometime Friday. Woot.
(Sadly, residents of the United States and Canada are the only ones who are eligible. Sorry, international friends!)
Happy trails! Happy Wednesday!
*KIng Britt and Sister Gertrude Morgan, from the True Blood soundtrack.
June 8th, 2010
Let’s see, let’s see … let’s do quick takes, shall we? Because it’s all just bouncing around my head up in here, and there are so! many! things! I want to talk about, none of which are particularly interesting or post-worthy. How’s that for a fun set up?
1) I can’t believe I’m the mom who takes her 15-month-old to, um, gym class, but there you go. The truth is, I do kind of hate myself when I’m sitting in a circle singing some inane song about CIRCLE TIME! WITH FRIENDS! but dude, it’s with Megan & Lila (love!), it’s out of the house at the PERFECT time of the morning, and it’s cheaper than spending my life savings on cheap jewelry I’ll never wear at Target. And she’s faceplant-caliber exhausted after class (HA HA CLASS, like they learn anything), which is worth every penny right there, although honest to God, I feel SO RIDICULOUS when I’m cheering as my wee child is careening down a makeshift zipline in a plastic swing. Yes, that’s right, a zipline. I don’t know, either.
(A ZIPLINE)
(It was kind of awesome.)
2) At said gym, the one thing that makes me NUTSO is that they never refer to the moms by their names, nor do they even ASK WHAT OUR NAMES ARE. There’s this singsongy introduction, and we all share our kids’ names, but since the age group only goes to 22 months, aren’t … well, aren’t the moms more important? For God’s sake, this is really about US, let’s be honest. It’s OUR sanity on the line here, not the babies’.
We had some shifting of our gym days, and when they called to confirm, they were sure to point out to me that “Lila’s mom” agreed to the other day as well. And though obviously I know Lila’s mom, I was like, WHO? WHO IS THAT? And when they told Lila’s mom that they were switching, they said they were going to talk to “Samantha’s mom,” too, and I’m like, GYM LADIES. MEGAN AND I HAVE NAMES. OR SHOULD I JUST CALL YOU GYM LADY?
3) I do believe that I have finally, and for real this time, given up on Grey’s Anatomy. I didn’t see the season finale, nor did I TiVo it, and after hearing of the horror of horrors and what a totally stressful scene it was, I’m just like, really? Really, Shonda? I’m done. I don’t care about Mer, Der, Christina, Owen, Teddy or whoever the eff the next stupidly-named doctor who joins the scene is. I don’t care. I’m finished with you! FINISHED! FINISHED.
4) I am also all set with bathing my child. ALL SET, PLEASE. AND THANK YOU. We’re going through what is very clearly A Phase, but it is an UNPLEASANT phase, one that involves a refusal to have any water on top of her head, which means I can just barely wash it, but conditioning and combing it out? OH PLEASE. At this point, the back of her hair very clearly resembles a NEST of some sort, and isn’t that something we say to be funny? My hair looks like a rat’s nest? HA HA. Hers actually does. The back of it is all tangled and screwy and like, STUFF GETS STUCK IN IT back there. I pull lint out of it on an hourly basis, and I am not kidding, this morning I had a very frustrating moment removing the Velcro arm of a very tiny monkey. There are MONKEYS in my kid’s hair, for crying out loud. MONKEYS.
5) GUESS WHAT STARTS ON SUNDAY? Oh that’s right. TRUE BLOOD. Guess what comes out shortly? MY TRUE BLOOD BOOK. I’m giving away copies this week, so stay tuned! WHOO. Also, I’ll be writing updates throughout the season on Smart Pop’s site, so keep your eyes peeled this season. For my part, I hear that Eric has a new love interest, and while the prospect of more Naked Eric is very appealing, I am strangely possessive over Naked Eric (what?) and am really only interested in Naked Eric with Naked Sookie, even though I don’t even LIKE Sookie that much. How do you even explain this? You don’t.
I also hope Bill is eaten by wolves. Which, given the trajectory of the novels, is not entirely outside of the realm of possibility. (Oh stop, that’s not a spoiler. I only WISH he was EATEN by them.)
6) OH YOU GUYS, WITH THE DINNER SUGGESTIONS. I want to hug and kiss and love on each and every one of you. I have taken them all to deep, deep culinary heart, and have implemented a few of your ideas already. And, in fact, this week is Ground Zero for testing, and I’ll update you as we go. I should also add that explaining the many nuances of Adam’s culinary tolerances is sort of impossible, but that “saucy” does not apply to things that are supposed to have sauce, like pasta.
Ergo, tonight’s meal was pasta with sausage, peppers and onions and it was DELICIOUS, if I do say so. I picked up two links of hot Italian chicken sausage at Whole Foods, chopped it up and sauteed it with some onions and red/yellow peppers, topped off with Trader Joe’s puttanesca sauce in a jar, served over whole wheat rotini. SO GOOD. I sauteed the sausage/veggies during naptime, threw the sauce over it, and just left it on low until dinner, when I boiled the pasta and baked a take n’ bake loaf from TJ’s as accompaniment.
Not that you need any tips from me, much less the Food Douche kind, as YOU are the culinary geniuses, but I almost never make my own tomato sauce anymore, since every blasted can of tomatoes has BPA in it, and I’m also kind of freakish about which jarred sauces I’ll use, because an alarming number of sauces have HFCS in them, which, I’m sorry, what? Tomato sauce and corn syrup, what? GROSS. And also, WHY? Plus Trader Joe’s sauces are almost always delicious and superinexpensive and … oh yum. It was great, and we all ate together at 5:30. Only downside: It was a bit too spicy for Sam, as a lot of our meals are, so she had rotini with butter and cheese, plus fruit.
And yet: highly recommend. Also? Leftovers out the ying yang. WIN.
Happy Monday, y’all!
*MGMT
June 6th, 2010
So! Facebook. Is it not the worst thing to hit the internet? Am I not at the cutting edge of internet wisdom with that statement? God. The flame wars! The crazy political posts! The parents who post pictures of their children’s poop and worse, photos of their children on the toilet whilst potty training! UNSEE UNSEE UNSEE. And, just yesterday, some TOTALLY CRAZYPANTS comments from a woman (an adult who, as far as I know, is not special needs in any way) I know only tangentially, but am mysteriously friends with on Facebook involving … the death of her goldfish.
This woman, oh my lands, people, described how she “knew true love” because of this goldfish (named, appropriately, Girlfishi) and how an unfortunate Sophie’s Choice-like scenario (YES, REALLY, SHE SAID THOSE EXACT WORDS), left her having to move the goldfish from one apartment to another, causing Girlfishi horrible trauma and leading to her untimely death. She then left an indecipherable rant as her status about how some people aren’t properly respecting her mourning and how she’s learned who her real friends are by how they respond to the death of her, ahem, GOLDFISH, and how Girlfishi was a special fish and she is beyond heartbroken and … well, folks, I’ve got nothing here.
Wait, that’s not true, because I think I’ve got a solid OH COME ON, LADY, in there somewhere. Also, I think what freaked me out more was all the commenters who leaped to her defense on the mourning post with how deeply sorry they were for her loss and how losing a pet IS like losing a child, yes, yes, it is, and all I keep thinking is, SERIOUSLY, A GOLDFISH. I mean, for some people losing a pet is like losing a child, yes, and I can go with it to a point, but no, I’m sorry, you can’t compare your goldfish to my kid. It just won’t work.
No disrespect to goldfish everywhere.
In other news, and this is going to sound very spoiled, and believe me, I know, I KNOW! I was totally spoiled, I KNOW!, but we used to live two minutes away from Adam’s office — for Sam’s whole life — and then (THEN!) we had two glorious months while Adam was between jobs, and honestly, I got used to having him around. He was home for dinner every night, save for the days when he traveled, because even if he had to work late, he came home to eat before heading back in. And in those two months, he was home every day. Every day! And now he’s got a commute, and working late and missing Sam in the evenings and it’s … it’s very sad. We miss him, although I also know that he’s enjoying what he’s doing. (He likes to work. He always has.)
It is also turning me into a bit of a crazy housewife, and I’m not proud of it. The combination of moving, (my) work deadlines, instant houseguests and suddenly being home alone for 14 hours a day has left me feeling completely overwhelmed with the status of how MESSY everything is and how! much! there is to be done and some nights he gets home and I’m standing there with my hand on my hip all but SCREECHING about all the shit that has to be done! And it’s GARBAGE NIGHT and while yes, I realize you just walked in the door, WE HAVE A LOT OF GARBAGE. HOP TO IT. I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY DAY IS LIKE AROUND HERE?
My face is all contorted and wrinkled in disgust just reading that, but there you have it. Last night I poured a rare glass of wine (booze used to be a lot more fun; now it just makes me want to go to sleep IMMEDIATELY after the first sip), plopped myself in front of Glee and told myself to get over it, because really, Jonna, REALLY. The next thing you know I’m going to be getting myself into a state over ring around the collar and dishpan hands! How WILL we ever go on?
Speaking of Glee, can I admit to you all what happens when Jesse St. James appears on the screen? My heart beats faster. No exaggeration. Gross, right? Gross. I’m THIRTY FOUR YEARS OLD. And also? Just now I found myself lost in a comment thread of teenagers who really believe Jesse is a real person, and they’re fighting about it. Like, seriously fighting about it. I witnessed apologies to the group and some kind of crazy statement about how they probably HURT JESSE’S FEELINGS and sorry, Jesse! I LUV U. And they were serious. Yes, very serious.
I don’t see me and my quickening heartbeat too much above that, to be honest. I mean, a) it’s a fictional character, eclipsed only by the crush I had on Fred from Scooby Doo. Yes, a CARTOON; b) the kid is like, 22 in real life, IF THAT; c) HE IS ALSO GAY, not that it matters, because let’s be honest, an unavailable cougar with a kid is hardly his ideal mate, even if he were straight as an arrow.
How many times am I going to talk about this? MANY, IT SEEMS. Well, I would, if the season wasn’t ending. Boy, you’re all glad about that. I’m one step away from talking about how a goldfish taught me love.
Speaking of seasons ending, I still haven’t seen the Lost finale. I KNOW.
Happy weekend! Ooh! Memorial Day!
*Madonna. And also, um, Jesse St. James in the Very Special Madonna Episode. What?
May 27th, 2010
Aw, hell, you guys, I am really going to spend all of our money if I keep this up. I *am* like the Beverly Hillbillies up in here, because today was positively ENTRANCED by a Staples. A fucking STAPLES. I was perusing the aisles like some kind of caveman, marveling at all the fancy office supplies. I must have spent ten minutes in the highlighter section alone, and frankly, I have always found highlighters to be irritating and sort of stupid, not to mention blinding. I don’t LIKE highlighters, but I suddenly had the urge to buy every highlighter they made! I need to highlight important clauses on my freelance contracts before I send them back! I need to highlight my bank statements! Credit card bills! In hundreds of beautiful shades! OOH LOOK, CHARTREUSE.
I have this uncontrollable reaction when I’m near any kind of retail –like I have to gobble it all up instantly, planning not just for right now, but for a future that may not include access to fancy filing folders with flowers on them in case I want to pretty up my tax filing for 2010. I’m like the college kid who grew up in a strict household who’s suddenly like, HEY! BEER. Let me drink it all — every last beer in sight — TONIGHT.
I feel kind of barfy and purgey, as if such a thing was possible when referring to material goods. Except that I swear — swear! — we need most of this stuff. Because, if you recall, I have a husband who refuses to move mashed potatoes, much less something like extra Swiffer pads or sponges or anything useful. And besides, I needed new shirts! And Sam only had Robeez and oh, look! Cute sandals!
Erm. You see? You see where this is going? You see why although I saved money by purchasing a dress for $20, I then proceeded to accessorize it with more than $100 of add-ons? I might as well just have bought the $150 dress to begin with. Sick. I’m sick. Help me.
(Mom and Dad, please don’t worry, I’m really not going to spend Sam’s college fund on sparkly earrings from Target, I swear.)
The other issue I’m running into — will always run into, I fear — is road rage. I have it. Not the kind that makes people run random drivers off the road to beat the bag out of them for an erroneous directional or anything, but if you cut me off or fail to use a courtesy wave or–or!–have your turn signal on and are not turning or vice versa? I wave my arms and yell. I can’t help it. And people, they are AWFUL THINGS I’m yelling, and I’m amazed at how quickly I can come up with them, as though they are so ingrained in some dark, hidden corner of my twisty little mind. Douchenozzle! Taint face! (Oh, I know PRECISELY where I got that one, thanks to my friend Anna, and her douchey commenter!) Terribly, awfully offensive iterations of fuck!
But still! No one should be able to conjure–much less actually USE–those terms while driving in a motor vehicle with their impressionable toddler in the backseat.
Do you think … do you think when Sam is saying “shoosh!” for juice that she is actually saying … douche? OH M’LANDS.
Although really, that will be the last thing we need to worry about, as Adam quite accurately points out that someone might shoot me. I saw a BULLET HOLE in a car the other day, and in Vermont, when you saw a bullet hole, you knew it was because it was they just MISSED THE DEER.
Anyway, I know this is lame–getting back on the writing horse is HARD–but look, allow me to go on about my kid for a minute, if I may. She is, in a word, amazing. I know she’s just like most other kids, and that all moms feel this way, I know. I know this. But the progression of watching a little blob turn into a person? I never, ever expected it to be so cool. I never thought I’d have this much fun. She’s Frankensteining around like a little drunkard, and if I pay close enough attention, I can actually decipher what she wants. It’s INSANE.
It’s the most fun I’ve ever had. True story. I can’t believe I waited so long. I wonder … will I feel the same about the second? Because that doesn’t seem POSSIBLE. It seems like two would kind of SUCK and yet I want two–at least two. AND YET AND YET.
Happy Wednesday!
*Queen. And others. Also? FROM MYSELF.
May 25th, 2010
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