Posts filed under 'General jackassery'
Oh let’s kick it old-school with some bullet points that have nothing to do with one another, so holla!
- Because we were out trick or treating for far longer than we anticipated, and hell if either of us was going to miss taking Sam, we missed the hosting part of trick or treating and received approximately five kids over the course of the remaining hour. This is fine, although my sister warned me in a dire tone that this is generally bad form and we will eventually pay for it with, I don’t know, teenagers with eggs or angry parents or something that involves toilet paper. I don’t know. What is not fine is the amount of Twix, Snickers and miscellaneous Reese’s products I have in my possession, and is why, for the last two three days, my lunch has consisted of two mini Twix, a Snickers and a small bowl of canned beets (for fiber and vitamins and … I don’t know).
Speaking of Twix, there is only one way to eat it, which is to gnaw of the caramel, then eat the cookie separately, and I will not be told otherwise. What I will NOT tolerate, however, is the Reese’s Fast Break, which is seriously lacking in crunchy texture (WHY SO MUCH NOUGAT?), and I am terribly disappointed, for I got them mixed up with the Take 5, featuring delightfully crunchy, salty pretzels and you know what, Reese’s? I call bullshit on your variety bag, for there were no Take 5 bars. Bull. Shit.
I will also say that Adam worked from home today, and around 3 p.m., very gently asked how much candy, exactly, I was consuming, because it sure seemed like he heard the crinkle of a wrapper approximately every five minutes. Which: busted. It’s not really lunch if it lasts all day and involves nothing more than chocolate and beets.
- In the vein of Stuff No One Told Me About Birthing A Child, I’ll tell you that since having Samantha, I’ve had zero menstrual cramps. NOT A ONE. Okay, fine maybe half a one, but it wasn’t even worth getting off my duff to get some Tylenol, much less anything with punch. This is a tremendous contrast to the backbreaking, debilitating cramps I experienced before getting pregnant, and that includes after my thyroid levels were regulated (hypothyroidism can cause HORRID menstrual cramps) and I tell you this only because I’m constantly regaling you with tales of horror about THE VAGINA THAT ATE MANHATTAN, but really, there are upsides, for some of us, from this whole birthing kids thing. Besides the actual kid, I mean.
- The new TV fall lineup is truly wretched. Nothing new has piqued my interest. NOTHING. I’ve got three episodes of The Event on my DVR, and I’ve had ZERO motivation to watch any of them, and it just … well, it makes me sad.
- Did I tell you guys I live ten minutes from Shaq? And that in an effort to show Jennie and Mike his house, we ended up FULLY IN HIS DRIVEWAY, which is not something you expect when arriving to spy at a celebrity’s house?
- Did I tell you guys Jennie and I (and a bunch of kickass writers) are now doing Food Lush? Well, if I didn’t, I failed. It’s great, and is designed to be recipes and food-related stuff for normal people who don’t feel like making bastilla from scratch and sure as SHIT don’t have the budget or time to agonize over every little thing. I will say with a mixture of pride and bitterness that this post from Sarah is the reason why I spent the majority of naptime wrestling with an eleven-pound PORK LOIN purchased for $18 a BJ’s, but let me tell you, I got four big tenderloin cuts, four thick pork chops and a giant pile of bits to use for the Crock Pot, and it all works out to less than $1 per serving, including lunches and leftovers and holy cow, you guys, I RIPPED THE SHIT OUT OF THAT PORK LIKE I THOUGHT I WAS ON TOP CHEF OR SOMETHING.
That’s all I got. Pork, chocolate and menstruation.
Happy Thursday!
*Yeah Yeah Yeahs
November 3rd, 2010
Do you know what I did last night? DO YOU KNOW?
I watched ants crawl in and out of Terro traps. For hours. I was completely and sickeningly unable to focus on anything but the ants crawling in and out of the pool of boric acid, watching their bellies swell to the point of impeding their ability to walk, and I just sat back, procrastinating on a shit-ton of work with a glass of wine. I mean I sat on the goddamn OTTOMAN, which isn’t even COMFORTABLE. And worse! I was reporting on their progress to, um, Twitter! And Adam! OH LOOK, BABY, THE ANTS ARE EATING THE TRAPS! I was rubbing my hands together and cackling in an unironic fashion, over and over again.
It was very sad. And I’ve done it before. The Terro traps are like ANT TEEVEE.
Anyway. A few things, almost entirely unrelated:
- The last few days with Sam have been almost magical. The snuggling! The laughing! Oh, it’s been a never-ending funbag of giggles and independent play and yes, an odd attachment to our refrigerator magnets and plastic pieces of mail, but still! So enjoyable. And then, as quickly as it began, it all melted down like a nickel on the floor of Chernobyl, and today she wouldn’t leave my side, and by my side, I mean, she had to be ATTACHED TO MY HIP in the most literal fashion, and God, it’s like a constant YO YO up in here, I tell you.
- Yes, it’s true, I thought the Hell’s Angels were a philanthropic organization and that the concept of organized crime in motorcycle gangs was a total myth. This came out via a conversation as I was viewing Sons of Anarchy with Adam, which he watches regularly, though I don’t. He was attempting to catch me up, and the conversation went something like this:
So, that woman became a surgeon, then she realized that this whole biking thing is who she is, and she wants to be an Old Lady.
An Old Lady? Like the Old Spice Lady?
No, like a biker’s chick kind of thing.
Oooh! I get it! Like the Pink Ladies in Grease! Well, Grease 2, actually.
Not really like that at all.
Well, yeah, but Stephanie couldn’t be a Pink Lady after she broke up with Johnny, because it means they’re T-Bird chicks and –
No.
It turns out, after the conversation progressed, that Hell’s Angels are kind of scary — okay, fine SOME, or whatever, I don’t know, really, I just learned about this whole One Percenter thing — and on the FBI’s list of organized crime … somethings? And that they are not, in fact, like the Guardian Angels, which is what I thought they were, and I think I thought — no, seriously — that the Hell’s Angels wore berets under their helmets, and … well, that’s probably enough.
This is almost worse than the time I thought that Russell Simmons was famous because he was the founder of Russell Athletic. You know, the sweatshirt people.
I hastily add that I thought this because ADAM TOLD ME THAT, thinking that the joke was obvious, and no. No, it wasn’t. In fact, it was so far from obvious to me that the way I discovered that this was, indeed, not true was because I TOLD SOMEONE ELSE, and was all, Oh yeah! Russell Simmons! The sweatshirt guy! Which, um, ha ha, no.
Ahem.
Moving on.
– So yesterday, I was driving somewhere with Sam (back in happier moments, before she decided she hated me), and the Bee Gees came on the radio (OLD LADY RADIO AHOY), and … you guys, have you HEARD the Bee Gees recently? Have you realized how AWFUL they are? You guys! It was WORSE THAN THE CHIPMUNKS. How did they ever make it? How were they not laughed out of the recording studio? HOW AND WHY ARE THEY DOING FALSETTOS ON PURPOSE, ALL THE TIME?
It was as if I heard them anew, truly, and I was more appalled than I can accurately convey here. It was horrifying, and I was retroactively embarrassed for them, even Maurice, God rest his soul. I say this even though Andy Gibb was my first crush ever, thanks to Xanadu, which I realize he was not in, but at the time he bore a striking resemblance to Michael Beck and when you’re five, it all blends together, because all you want to do is be Olivia Newton-John on roller skates singing about magic and then getting sucked into a mural with Gene Kelly. Or something. Either way, hand to God, one of the first memories I have is of sitting on the toilet, calling for my mom and then when she popped her head in, announcing, “Mom, I love Andy Gibb. LIKE A GIRL.”
(She remembers this. Neither one of us are sure why I insisted on telling her while still seated on the toilet. I mean, I was FIVE.)
(Random aside: did you know Maurice Gibb died of something called VOLVULUS, where your intestine just sort of flips over itself and gets all twisty? OOH LOOK, something new to be afraid of! I shall now panic every time I’m constipated!)
Well, this turned into a hot mess of Old Ladies, Pink Ladies and Volvulus Panic. I hope you have a great Thursday.
*A BEE GEES REFERENCE.
October 13th, 2010
We went to Ikea on Saturday, which seems counterintuitive to a family on a new budget, but apparently you are allowed to spend within your allotted budget line items, so there we were, driving to Stoughton for some Swedish inspiration and fabulous family-friendly parking. Did you know about this family parking at Ikea? It’s right up front! And you don’t have to be elderly, infirm or — gasp! — pregnant.
Look, I don’t mean to belittle the pregnant among us, but stork parking at Babies R Us is absolute bullshit designed to do nothing but make the pregnant ladies feel special, and I’m sorry, but I felt plenty special without toodling in and getting a front-row parking spot while some poor lady with a swollen vagina and a freaky-looking newborn tries desperately to maneuver her car seat out of its base. I can’t imagine anyone who’s ever had a child arguing that it’s more difficult to hoist a baby into a store while they are inside your body than outside in the world, where they either require 1,456,780 additional items clumsily shoved into a diaper bag, plus a car seat or baby carrier and/or are of the age where they’re resisting the stroller and threatening to launch themselves directly into traffic. I’m thinking at the very least it should be renamed “THIRD TRIMESTER PARKING ONLY,” or better yet, “ANYTIME PARKING FOR PREGNANT LADIES WITH OTHER CHILDREN.”
This reminds me of a comments section I read once — an adoption blog, I am assuming — wherein several commenters who were adopting announced that they, too, took advantage of the stork parking, and while I fully believe that adoptive parenting is equal to biological parenting, I cannot say that one who is not physically experiencing the anticipation of becoming a mother is quite at a level where they require up-front parking, for the love of all that is holy. It just goes to show you that stork parking is a terrible, no-good marginalizing idea that leaves plenty of people confused and strangely entitled, and of course, our Babies R Us has ELEVENTY MILLION of these godforsaken spots, and I am ALWAYS stuck parking in the back, near the carriage drops, which are always full of carriages that are (IRONY ALERT) broken and hazardous to children, but that’s a story for another day.
Anyway, back to Ikea, where we did what everyone does when they go to Ikea for the first time in a long time, which is tour the entire showroom, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over inexpensive furniture that they do not currently need and fantasizing about buying the entire room that costs only $899! For the whole room! And then, after hours of pointless shopping, finally hitting up the ONE section where they do need things, only to find they are too tired to deal and/or really only wanted the shit in the marketplace anyway. Well, that’s our Ikea story, at least, except for that time we got in a rip-roaring argument over coffee tables that lasted over an hour and kicked off a SIX-YEAR coffee table standoff, which didn’t actually end until we settled on a glass-topped children’s deathtrap at Haverty’s in 2007.
It goes without saying that we still have this coffee table.
(Btw, Holly talks about her recent experiences with Ikea here, and the best part is that all the commenters start sharing their Ikea-based spousal disagreements, and see? Ikea brings people together.)
So we toured the whole thing, ate some Swedish meatballs, walked out with an easel that didn’t come from a dumpster (which will show up today — well, Monday — on Style Lush), intended to get a table and chairs for Sam, but couldn’t find the actual items in the stupid self-service flatpack area, got frustrated, almost lost Sam in a pile of stuffed bunnies and vowed never to go to Ikea again.
The rest of the weekend was relatively uneventful, with the exception of a non-terrifying Sunny puking episode, wherein she ate a bone too fast, swallowed it, and proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach all over our area rug, couch and other surfaces. I, having just gotten over a sinus infection/cold/whatever, starting gagging and subsequently coughing, which resulted in me peeing directly through my pants in a way that I hadn’t done since I was pregnant. Like, I had to CHANGE THEM. God, why does no one TELL you these things?
I remember mentioning this to my OB at my six-week check-up, that things felt strangely … loose, down there, and she actually acted as though it was all temporary, and would return to normal, when what she should have said was, “Yes, why didn’t you know this? You will pee yourself until the end of time. Things are irrevocably broken down there. I’m sorry. Enjoy your baby!”
And finally, I realize that many people think Sam looks like me, but I’m sorry to say, she really doesn’t. Behold, a photo of my husband just past the toddler years — he’s the one in the middle — and if that isn’t my daughter, then my bladder has been restored to full, pre-pregnancy function.
(Click to embiggen.)
At least no one can say it’s the milkman’s baby.
Happy Monday to you!
*ABBA Viva la Sweden! And the Lyekeviksn collection! Or whatever.
September 26th, 2010
We’re on a new! improved! totally Draconian! budget to save for some life-goal type stuff, brought to you by the letter S for Screwed and F for Florida and let’s just throw in H for House!, and I think I’ve mentioned this before, but the truth is, I love budgeting, and I say that with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. In my head, it kind of sounds like Plex from Yo Gabba Gabba. “I’m thinking of a budget! It’s flexible and painful!”
I! Love! TO BUDGET!
And of COURSE I love to budget. Budgeting is fun! Budgeting makes it seem like you have all! this! extra! money! Assuming, of course, that you stick to it, tracking every blasted cent and this — this is where things usually go horribly awry, and it’s kind of like being on a diet, where suddenly you want to run right out and eat an entire chocolate cake, then spend the entirety of your bank account on hookers and blow. HOOKERS AND BLOW! And maybe a pizza or some new jeans. Or a pedicure. Man, I would love a pedicure, but under the new regime, I’d have to save and account for said pedicure and decide if I want the pedicure or something else with my allotted monthly fun money and OH BLERGH, the growing bank account is satisfying, but I’m not sure it’s as satisfying as sitting in a spa chair, you know what I’m saying?
Screw responsibility, man. Sometimes adulthood blows.
At any rate, this whole hot mess is how I found myself doing things like buying a $5 toy kitchen at a yard sale, followed by (and this is really terrifying, just TERRIFYING), coming to a screeching halt in front of a house on a busy street because they had a giant kid’s easel out front marked “FREE!”
You guys, I loaded this giant, awful plastic easel into the back of my car on a busy street and it’s awful! It’s awful and large and unwieldy, and I’m not even sure what I was thinking! I just LOADED THIS BIG-ASS THING IN THE CAR AND DROVE AWAY. And it’s awful! And now *I* am going to have to be the assface who leaves it outside MY house saying, FREE TO GOOD HOME. PLEASE TAKE THIS PLASTIC MONSTROSITY AWAY FROM ME.
And let us talk about the total savings theoretically achieved by my drive-by easeling: $14. Yes, friends, the easel I’ve been meaning to get Sam is $14. Is $14 going to make or break our budget? HA HA. NO. Especially when I’ve budgeted for Sam and Sam-related items and activities, and FOR GOD’S SAKE.
This is why I tend to be an insane stop-and-start person. I go whole effing HOG on something, and the next thing you know I’m irrationally weeping into my generic K-cups about how life is UNFAAAAAIR and I’m DUMPSTER DIVING and before you can say “THROW THE EASEL!” I’m going to be like Frank and Charlie, pushing carts through the streets of Boston and hollering about how, THIS RADIO IS STILL GOOD, DAMMIT. Put a plastic bag on it and jam out in the shower! That EASEL IS STILL GOOD! PAINT! PAINT PAINT!
And then, in a fit of frustration, I’ll decide that I will … I WILL SHOW MYSELF WHO’S BOSS. And then I will have a commissioned, artist-approved easel embossed with the work of Van Gogh himself, to the tune of thousands of dollars, all for an 18-month-old who just wants to COLOR, dammit, with the COLOR OF BANANAS. THE ONE SHE WAS THINKING OF! I! LOVE! TO COLOR!
(My mind often goes Plex on me. Why? Because sometimes I find myself watching Yo Gabba Gabba ALONE. WITHOUT A CHILD. This, by the way, brings me to a tangent when a few months ago, Adam came home with a Backyardigans DVD for Sam for an upcoming car trip. Me: “The Backyardigans? We never watch the Backyardigans!” Adam: “Shut up! Of course we do! Every night!” Me: “This is because we leave Nick Jr. on after Sam goes to bed. SAM does not watch the Backyardigans. WE DO.”)
In other news, the Book Lushes are back in action, and our book this month is going to be a young adult selection. I know! YOUNG ADULT! Finally! Please join us here, and vote in the poll, which should be up by Thursday morning is now live, bishes! And then read with us! Join us! 500 people can’t be wrong! (Except that I hated our last book but that is not their fault! Apparently I have Red Tent issues!)
Also, I post at Highchair Critics on Thursdays. Just a heads-up.
Hey, I hope you have a great Thursday!
*I’m going with Jesca Hoop on this one.
September 22nd, 2010
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
Next Posts
Previous Posts
