Monday, July 31, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Inventory
People staying at my house all week: 4
Number of hours on a plane yesterday: 8
Number of times we've discussed chickens: countless
I have been playing hostess all week to my Southern Indiana clan -- Sally, my stepmom, Laura, my stepsister, Jessie -- the 12-year-old, and Kyle, the 11-year-old.
There are bodies everywhere at night. If you didn't know better, it might look like a sinister scene.
Quote of the week, at Joy Yee's:
Jessie: I'm ordering this pineapple chicken. IT COMES IN A HOLLOWED OUT PINEAPPLE.
Sally: Don't get that, that's gross. No one wants to eat that.
Jessie: If I have the opportunity to eat out of a pineapple, I'm taking it.
Motherfucking hell yeah, is all I have to say to that. I love a kid with a sense of adventure.
Friday, July 21, 2006
backward day 2
On the day we set out for Golden Gate Park it was brilliantly sunny in Union Square. We left the dim, moody hipster wood lobby of our hotel, squinting, temporarily blinded by the brilliant blue sky, crisp whitewashed buildings and sparkly concrete. The air was still cool in the shade, but the sun warmed our faces and forced us to peel off our outermost layers, jackets and sweaters stuffed in bags or tied around our waists for later.
We found a sweet European Café, we felt faux Parisian as we sat around small wooden tables amid stacks of German- and Italian-language newspapers and imported French fashion magazines. We drank rich lattes out of huge ceramic bowl-like cups and ate granola, fresh fruit, eggs and bacon.
(For the sake of keeping it idyllic and romantic, I’m leaving out the part where our waiter fouled up our order several times, bringing Maria scrambled eggs instead of fried, forgetting our coffee and orange juice, and double-charging us on our tab.)
We eavesdropped on our neighbors, a thin, nervous man with a shaved head, long, knotted fingers clutching French newspapers all turned to the sports section. A cycling enthusiast, perhaps, with high, sculpted calf muscles and lean, long thighs. He was explaining complicated concepts to his dining companion – things like “Sports Bars – they have lots of TVs.”
He was speaking to an Asian woman, young, slight, long, black hair and a hat perched jauntily on her head. She nods.
We read the paper, we relaxed, we caffeinated.
Then, we walked.
So much of San Francisco can be hoofed.
I love a city that requires layers. I love it that, any minute, we can be baking in the sun or buffeted by chilly wind. I love it that, as we walk, we enter into banks of fog that masquerade as cloudy days. Cloudy days that can be escaped by cab.
We went to Golden Gate Park, a massive oasis of vegetation that was shrouded in chilly fog.
We had tea in the Japanese tea garden, where young Japanese women serve tourists wrapped in cheesy kimonos, looking bored and resentful.
I was pleased that my fortune cookie, accompanied by some lovely crispy salty snacks, contained a socialite’s dream of a fortune.
Maria’s cookie didn’t contain a fortune.
We chose not to view that as a bad sign.
We found a sweet European Café, we felt faux Parisian as we sat around small wooden tables amid stacks of German- and Italian-language newspapers and imported French fashion magazines. We drank rich lattes out of huge ceramic bowl-like cups and ate granola, fresh fruit, eggs and bacon.
(For the sake of keeping it idyllic and romantic, I’m leaving out the part where our waiter fouled up our order several times, bringing Maria scrambled eggs instead of fried, forgetting our coffee and orange juice, and double-charging us on our tab.)
We eavesdropped on our neighbors, a thin, nervous man with a shaved head, long, knotted fingers clutching French newspapers all turned to the sports section. A cycling enthusiast, perhaps, with high, sculpted calf muscles and lean, long thighs. He was explaining complicated concepts to his dining companion – things like “Sports Bars – they have lots of TVs.”
He was speaking to an Asian woman, young, slight, long, black hair and a hat perched jauntily on her head. She nods.
We read the paper, we relaxed, we caffeinated.
Then, we walked.
So much of San Francisco can be hoofed.
I love a city that requires layers. I love it that, any minute, we can be baking in the sun or buffeted by chilly wind. I love it that, as we walk, we enter into banks of fog that masquerade as cloudy days. Cloudy days that can be escaped by cab.
We went to Golden Gate Park, a massive oasis of vegetation that was shrouded in chilly fog.
We had tea in the Japanese tea garden, where young Japanese women serve tourists wrapped in cheesy kimonos, looking bored and resentful.
I was pleased that my fortune cookie, accompanied by some lovely crispy salty snacks, contained a socialite’s dream of a fortune.
Maria’s cookie didn’t contain a fortune.
We chose not to view that as a bad sign.
airport cuisine
I think, given this particular arrangement, we've made progress. Now, past security, you can get real forks, real spoons, but the ever-dangerous knife remains plastic.
And, yet? In Evansville? I still can't carry on cuticle scissors.
And, yet? In Evansville? I still can't carry on cuticle scissors.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Dear Sarah:
Look what I found! On the street! No efing kidding!
I figure that someone stole your pink hummer when you got out to plan your wedding.
Love,
RJ
I figure that someone stole your pink hummer when you got out to plan your wedding.
Love,
RJ
Instructions
Just a little more on the rented chariot we tooled around it. It was as charming as a child with a British accent asking directions to the loo.
I've already assigned it a gender (female), style (classic, tending toward tweeds and vintage handbags but with a penchant for stiletto heels), and a cigarette addiciton.
I've already mentioned the handy, ultra-addictive temperature gauge on the dash, fascinating when you're in a place with microclimates -- where the same gauge can vary 40 degrees or more in the same hour.
My favorite part, though, is this glow-in-the dark doohickey -- I imagine it as a collaboration between engineers ("let's make a latch that opens the trunk FROM THE INSIDE!", lawyers ("let's minimize our risk of accidental death by trunk trappage") and marketers ("let's make it glow-in-the-dark, so kidnapping victims can easily see it, and graphic, so even the illiterate can easily follow directions!).
I just adore the fact that the little stick-figure kidnapping victim is clearly running to the nearest farmhouse to call the police. Go little man! GO!
I've already assigned it a gender (female), style (classic, tending toward tweeds and vintage handbags but with a penchant for stiletto heels), and a cigarette addiciton.
I've already mentioned the handy, ultra-addictive temperature gauge on the dash, fascinating when you're in a place with microclimates -- where the same gauge can vary 40 degrees or more in the same hour.
My favorite part, though, is this glow-in-the dark doohickey -- I imagine it as a collaboration between engineers ("let's make a latch that opens the trunk FROM THE INSIDE!", lawyers ("let's minimize our risk of accidental death by trunk trappage") and marketers ("let's make it glow-in-the-dark, so kidnapping victims can easily see it, and graphic, so even the illiterate can easily follow directions!).
I just adore the fact that the little stick-figure kidnapping victim is clearly running to the nearest farmhouse to call the police. Go little man! GO!
Back-to-full-frontal vacation
So, on the last day of my vacation, I spent the day driving around with the top down in a rented convertible with a handy temperature gauge that said "It's a fiery 105 degrees out here, bitches," in what I imagine to be a sultry, husky, too-many-cigarettes voice.
Maria and I tasted many, many wines and swooned in the heat and bought ourselves lovely, floppy sun-hats. I was more happy than one should be about my sun hat. But it's made out of ribbons! And it is so very oversized and SPF 50!
This was key, as we refused to put the top up on our convertible. Because, bitches, we had a convertible!
Okay, anyhow, I started this entry with the fetching photograph above, wherein AnneVan is enjoying the dinner show at the crazy restaurant we pilgrimaged to in the middle of the Redwoods.
Those crazy kids up there are doing a barely-choreographed dance to "Take it to tha House" . It involved a lot of fake-slapping-your-own-butt moves and looks of concentration as they counted one-two-three-four moving their lips and twirling about. It was super loud.
AnneVan showed up after work in my hotel room, me fresh from the shower washing off the grime from a day of being buffeted by the hot winds of Sonoma, sipping my eightieth glass of wine. I've noticed that when you drink wine steadily for many many hours, you stop being drunk and start being something else. More Italian, maybe. Expansive in gesture and generous in spirit.
Anne said, "Let's take a drive, go get some food at this yummy place in the Redwoods."
We got in the car, put the top down, and got on the highway, blasting music and barely talking. Anne marveled at the fact that it's so open! And exposed! And Ohmigod!
The wind worked its way around our shoulders and necks, it tousled our hair with invisible fingers and batted us around the head with a pleasing, soft violence.
We felt ourselves leaving the cool cocoon of San Francisco, out into the warmer, dry air of the mountains. We smelled lavender, sweet hay, crisp green scent of pines. We sang pop songs and consulted maps.
Eventually, we found ourselves winding through massive redwood trunks, ears popping from a long, slow climb into the mountains. I leaned forward and gripped the wheel, squinting and accelerating into tight curves. Anne sat up straighter next to me, leaning into each turn as if she could help me steer.
She said, "We're entering Ben Lomand, it's a town with only one stoplight."
I said, "Ben Lomand, that sounds like the name of a kid maybe you went to grade school with. Remember Ben Lomand? Skinny, pale kid? Mop of blonde hair in a bowl cut? Did he have braces? Anyway, he used to shoot rubberbands at me during math class. Jerk."
We passed the single stoplight in Ben Lomand and we ended up here. She hadn't warned me we'd be going to an amusement park/restaurant in the midst of absolutely nowhere, but I should have known. This is Annevan we're talking about. My partner in spontaneous absurdity.
I said, "Anne, there's a powerpuff girl on the roof! point to her and I'll take a picture!"
She's so accommodating.
We were entertained by the entertainment, and later, serenaded in a striking karaoke rendition of "Ring of Fire" by our twenty-nothing hipster/surf boy waiter.
We drank wine and ate pasta and finished with cappuccinos.
Then we got back in the car and wound our way down to Santa Cruz, where we hit the boardwalk. I felt like I had just stepped onto the set of the Lost Boys. Suddenly, everyone around us seemed as if they had been hairsprayed back into the late eighties, dressed in bright colors, slightly seedy and possibly hiding knives under their windbreakers.
I made Annevan ride this rollercoaster, even though she doesn't like roller coasters. Luckily, she bends to peer pressure, and we stood in line with all the teeny boppers and whispered, "we're the oldest ones here," to each other.
Riding roller coasters is best at night, when any menace seems more pronounced, even the ones we inflict on ourselves for fun. We thrilled ourselves, laughing and screaming at the same time.
We wanted to ride the pirate ship, but by then it was midnight, and the boardwalk was shutting down as we walked its length. Lights shut themselves off behind us, taffy stands and hot dog vendors rattled their cages shut, locked for a few more hours before they would sell sugar and sulfites under the sun the next day.
We returned to the car, fighting sleepiness, and drove through the night back to the city. Anne sat with her head on the headrest, staring up at the huge canopy of stars while we blasted Sleater Kinney, screaming along to the IMAGE OF CORIN!! Cause we gotta rock!
And I went back to my cozy hotel bed to sleep a few hours before my long flight and bleary airport day.
Maria and I tasted many, many wines and swooned in the heat and bought ourselves lovely, floppy sun-hats. I was more happy than one should be about my sun hat. But it's made out of ribbons! And it is so very oversized and SPF 50!
This was key, as we refused to put the top up on our convertible. Because, bitches, we had a convertible!
Okay, anyhow, I started this entry with the fetching photograph above, wherein AnneVan is enjoying the dinner show at the crazy restaurant we pilgrimaged to in the middle of the Redwoods.
Those crazy kids up there are doing a barely-choreographed dance to "Take it to tha House" . It involved a lot of fake-slapping-your-own-butt moves and looks of concentration as they counted one-two-three-four moving their lips and twirling about. It was super loud.
AnneVan showed up after work in my hotel room, me fresh from the shower washing off the grime from a day of being buffeted by the hot winds of Sonoma, sipping my eightieth glass of wine. I've noticed that when you drink wine steadily for many many hours, you stop being drunk and start being something else. More Italian, maybe. Expansive in gesture and generous in spirit.
Anne said, "Let's take a drive, go get some food at this yummy place in the Redwoods."
We got in the car, put the top down, and got on the highway, blasting music and barely talking. Anne marveled at the fact that it's so open! And exposed! And Ohmigod!
The wind worked its way around our shoulders and necks, it tousled our hair with invisible fingers and batted us around the head with a pleasing, soft violence.
We felt ourselves leaving the cool cocoon of San Francisco, out into the warmer, dry air of the mountains. We smelled lavender, sweet hay, crisp green scent of pines. We sang pop songs and consulted maps.
Eventually, we found ourselves winding through massive redwood trunks, ears popping from a long, slow climb into the mountains. I leaned forward and gripped the wheel, squinting and accelerating into tight curves. Anne sat up straighter next to me, leaning into each turn as if she could help me steer.
She said, "We're entering Ben Lomand, it's a town with only one stoplight."
I said, "Ben Lomand, that sounds like the name of a kid maybe you went to grade school with. Remember Ben Lomand? Skinny, pale kid? Mop of blonde hair in a bowl cut? Did he have braces? Anyway, he used to shoot rubberbands at me during math class. Jerk."
We passed the single stoplight in Ben Lomand and we ended up here. She hadn't warned me we'd be going to an amusement park/restaurant in the midst of absolutely nowhere, but I should have known. This is Annevan we're talking about. My partner in spontaneous absurdity.
I said, "Anne, there's a powerpuff girl on the roof! point to her and I'll take a picture!"
She's so accommodating.
We were entertained by the entertainment, and later, serenaded in a striking karaoke rendition of "Ring of Fire" by our twenty-nothing hipster/surf boy waiter.
We drank wine and ate pasta and finished with cappuccinos.
Then we got back in the car and wound our way down to Santa Cruz, where we hit the boardwalk. I felt like I had just stepped onto the set of the Lost Boys. Suddenly, everyone around us seemed as if they had been hairsprayed back into the late eighties, dressed in bright colors, slightly seedy and possibly hiding knives under their windbreakers.
I made Annevan ride this rollercoaster, even though she doesn't like roller coasters. Luckily, she bends to peer pressure, and we stood in line with all the teeny boppers and whispered, "we're the oldest ones here," to each other.
Riding roller coasters is best at night, when any menace seems more pronounced, even the ones we inflict on ourselves for fun. We thrilled ourselves, laughing and screaming at the same time.
We wanted to ride the pirate ship, but by then it was midnight, and the boardwalk was shutting down as we walked its length. Lights shut themselves off behind us, taffy stands and hot dog vendors rattled their cages shut, locked for a few more hours before they would sell sugar and sulfites under the sun the next day.
We returned to the car, fighting sleepiness, and drove through the night back to the city. Anne sat with her head on the headrest, staring up at the huge canopy of stars while we blasted Sleater Kinney, screaming along to the IMAGE OF CORIN!! Cause we gotta rock!
And I went back to my cozy hotel bed to sleep a few hours before my long flight and bleary airport day.
Soon, my loves
I will write all about my nocal adventure. Until that time, if you're so inclined, check out the pics, here
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Hello
My name is Cayden, and I just learned how to scream. It totally kicks ass. I'm trying to grow teeth and I will gum the fuck out of your finger if you give me the chance. Then I will scream at you.
I am freaking cute as hell. Look into my eyes.
They're soooo brown.
You love me, don't you?
Huh? Don't make me scream at you.
I am freaking cute as hell. Look into my eyes.
They're soooo brown.
You love me, don't you?
Huh? Don't make me scream at you.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
OMG, Internet! You Dirty Old Man!
The Internet recently showed me something unbelievable.
It's called flirty fishing.
It's all about being a fucking HOOKER for JESUS.
Jesus is a PIMP.
Stupid AIDS wrecked the whole scheme. But not before producing lots of Jesus Babies, who were taught of their amazing heritage using this handy booklet, named, creepily enough, Life With Grandpa.
It's called flirty fishing.
It's all about being a fucking HOOKER for JESUS.
Jesus is a PIMP.
Stupid AIDS wrecked the whole scheme. But not before producing lots of Jesus Babies, who were taught of their amazing heritage using this handy booklet, named, creepily enough, Life With Grandpa.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Things I Have Been Doing Other Than Posting In My Blog
- Fauxinca is leaving the agency. No one should be surprised, as she is the smartest girl in the office, and therefore has been an inevitable flight risk from day one. While I will miss the two-hour shopping lunches, I am pretty sure I am more likely to be able to retire without her coaxing me into making unwise handbag purchases. Not to mention the health and financial benefits of not having a thrice-daily Starbucks partner.
- Speaking of unwise handbag purchases, I have chosen to return the Marc Jacobs. The heady feeling of Italian Leather is probably not quite as thrilling as being able to pay my mortgage. Plus, then I can faux justify spending far more dollars on trendy cute shoes like this. And this.
- Spending an inordinate amount of time in Southern Indiana.
Sarah: I love how whenever you talk about going home, you say “Southern Indiana” instead of just Indiana. Like it’s another state all in itself.
Me: Sarah, should you, at some point, have an opportunity to visit southern indiana, you'll know that it is another place altogether. For example, Northern Indiana is half an hour away. I go SIX HOURS SOUTH. On the border with Kentucky. It IS different.
This from a girl who grew up on the North Shore -- to a girl with a dad who owns two pick up trucks. One for everyday and one for special ocassions.
The biggest difference is in the airport security teams. I fly out of O'Hare a lot. There, the security people stare at you with flat eyes, waving you through the metal detector and scanning your bags with a bored indifference. There, you're just one person closer to a cigarette break.
In contrast, Security people at rural airports, while the least likely people ever to run into a terrorist threat, are totally bored and yet heady with their own power. Therefore they tend to get all up in your face -- like the time the guy at the Evansville Dress Regional Airport took away my cuticle scissors --
me: seriously? they're a quarter inch long. what damage could be done with that?
him: Brandishing el cheapo cuticle scissors: I'll be happy to SHOW YOU what kind of DAMAGE can be done with this blade!
me: . . .
me: (more incredulous, less Taxi Driver confrontational) are you threatening me?
his colleague: CALM DOWN EVERYONE! MA'AM!! MOVE ALONG!
Move along, people. Nothing to see here.
- Speaking of unwise handbag purchases, I have chosen to return the Marc Jacobs. The heady feeling of Italian Leather is probably not quite as thrilling as being able to pay my mortgage. Plus, then I can faux justify spending far more dollars on trendy cute shoes like this. And this.
- Spending an inordinate amount of time in Southern Indiana.
Sarah: I love how whenever you talk about going home, you say “Southern Indiana” instead of just Indiana. Like it’s another state all in itself.
Me: Sarah, should you, at some point, have an opportunity to visit southern indiana, you'll know that it is another place altogether. For example, Northern Indiana is half an hour away. I go SIX HOURS SOUTH. On the border with Kentucky. It IS different.
This from a girl who grew up on the North Shore -- to a girl with a dad who owns two pick up trucks. One for everyday and one for special ocassions.
The biggest difference is in the airport security teams. I fly out of O'Hare a lot. There, the security people stare at you with flat eyes, waving you through the metal detector and scanning your bags with a bored indifference. There, you're just one person closer to a cigarette break.
In contrast, Security people at rural airports, while the least likely people ever to run into a terrorist threat, are totally bored and yet heady with their own power. Therefore they tend to get all up in your face -- like the time the guy at the Evansville Dress Regional Airport took away my cuticle scissors --
me: seriously? they're a quarter inch long. what damage could be done with that?
him: Brandishing el cheapo cuticle scissors: I'll be happy to SHOW YOU what kind of DAMAGE can be done with this blade!
me: . . .
me: (more incredulous, less Taxi Driver confrontational) are you threatening me?
his colleague: CALM DOWN EVERYONE! MA'AM!! MOVE ALONG!
Move along, people. Nothing to see here.
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