So, first off.
I was pulling together the linky goodness for this post and I did this google search, which proved immediately that Amazon has EVERYTHING. Then, because I am currently under the influence of two and a half happy-making vodka and sodas, I immediately added this vibrator to my Amazon wishlist. Not just because it will make my mother, aunts, and assorted other matriarchal figures feel extremely uncomfortable, but because I totally do want it.
Hint, hint, people.
Anyway.
Speaking of making people uncomfortable, my sister called me this evening and we had this conversation:
Sister: What are you doing?
Me: Watching the notebook and crying hysterically. I've realized the Notebook is like the rabbit vibrator of chick flicks. Except instead of orgasms, it makes you cry.
Sister: . .. .
Me: Am I making you uncomortable?
Sister: No. But you did make me uncomofortable when we were talking to our gay cousin after thanksgiving dinner.
Me: Uh.
Sister: You don't remember?
Me: Um, No.
Sister: Yeah, the topic was anal sex.
Me: Um. Was I speaking?
Sister: Yeah.
Me: Well, right! So, anyway! Nothing to be ashamed of!
Stupid alcohol.
Anyhow.
The topic of today's post is The Notebook -- the ultimate in girl porn.
It is seriously perfectly formulated for hysterical melancholy self-indulgent crying. Which is so great.
If I had the ability, I would mock up an Amazon page that showed the vibrator and proclaimed BUY THIS WITH THE NOTEBOOK TODAY!
Because they're both perfectly designed to please a woman.
I feel empowered to declare this because I am not a typical girly girl -- I tend to be the sarcastic, cynical one in the crowd. Despite my intense affection for shoes and handbags, I also have a very sensitive bullshit detector.
But this movie? It hits all the right notes. It has the following features specially-formulated for her pleasure!
- Ryan Gosling provides the ideal combination of stoic manliness and tender sensitivity!
- There's a war scene where E bites it dramatically!
- Rachel McAdams has the perfect lipstick!
- Alzheimer's! It's seriously sad!
- James Garner has perfected the most intensely grief-striken tearful look anyone has ever seen! (warning, it could blind you)
- Kissing! In the rain! First love! More kissing! WHY CAN'T I HAVE PERFECT LOVE?
OH YEAH! THAT'S THE TICKET! OoooooOOOOoOooOoooooHHHH!
ahhhhh. . . .
Thank you, Nicholas Sparks, you little bitch.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
What's Up, Old-School Emo?
This morning Lisa Labuz was playing the long, emotive instrumental intros to all the songs from Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me as interstitial music after Abby Ryan's traffic reports and before the latest reports of chaos from the Middle East.
My alarm clock was all, "Wake up! It's the late eighties! You've got a lot of work to do to get your bangs to their proper super-stiff height before first period!"
My alarm clock was all, "Wake up! It's the late eighties! You've got a lot of work to do to get your bangs to their proper super-stiff height before first period!"
Sunday, November 26, 2006
I can't wait to go to work and stuff.
DeeP has one of these annoying therapist phrases he trots out this time of year: "One trip home can undo years of therapy."
I cannot take this literally, but I can say that four fucking days in Southern Indiana does leave me crawling out of my goddamned skin. I cannot leave town fast enough. I'm such an asshole, my plane doesn't leave until five, and AAAARRRRHHHGHGHGH!
I love my mom, I would love it if my sister lived in my same town, but constant, twenty-four seven family time is, I think, unnatural.
We spend a lot of time reliving childhood nightmares that you really just can't write about on your public, Internet forum without creating full-on adult-type nightmares, like hurting your mom's feelings. Jeeze, mom, I'M SORRY!
Some amusing bits:
I cannot take this literally, but I can say that four fucking days in Southern Indiana does leave me crawling out of my goddamned skin. I cannot leave town fast enough. I'm such an asshole, my plane doesn't leave until five, and AAAARRRRHHHGHGHGH!
I love my mom, I would love it if my sister lived in my same town, but constant, twenty-four seven family time is, I think, unnatural.
We spend a lot of time reliving childhood nightmares that you really just can't write about on your public, Internet forum without creating full-on adult-type nightmares, like hurting your mom's feelings. Jeeze, mom, I'M SORRY!
Some amusing bits:
- Conducting a vewing of Battlestar Galactica DVDs, Dad says, "I wonder how much it would cost to get one of those chips implanted in your head?
- Dad brings his dog to the airport to pick up my sister. (Not as bad as when he took the dog to my cousin's wedding, but, still.) The security guard says, "Is this a service dog?" Dad really hesitates before saying, "no." Then refuses to leave the dog in the car, instead waiting outside for my sister. Later, he declares that he may just train the dog to be a service dog! Then he can take the dog everywhere. My sister's stroke of level-headed brilliance: "You could. But you won't. That would involve discipline, and you're not willing to do that."
- My cousin stole my cell phone last night during an intense drunken catchphrase tournament and did some rampant evil text messaging. (Sorry, Susan.) I woke up this morning feeling more wine-logged than I have in months. Stupid alcoholic tendencies in the family.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
I Heart Internet Crazies!
Okay, real quick.
Dear Anonymous Commenter:
I have this tool called "sitemeter," and it reveals you to be some person from Plano, Texas, who found this post by searching for "Smelly Stewardesses."
I'm not sure why my post has irked you so, but you're cracking me up right now.
Love,
RJ
Dear Anonymous Commenter:
I have this tool called "sitemeter," and it reveals you to be some person from Plano, Texas, who found this post by searching for "Smelly Stewardesses."
I'm not sure why my post has irked you so, but you're cracking me up right now.
Love,
RJ
Commie Condo
Sunday, I was super productive. Like some a carpenter ant or a bee. Or some sort of insect that is known for its industry.
Anyhow, I was doing laundry, roasting some chicken breasts for soup, and feeling virtuous. I went to take out the garbage, grabbed my newfangled garbage gate key, and walked out the door in my sweatpants and short sleeves. I grabbed the door handle, locked the knob, closed the door behind me, and realized -- I just locked myself out of my own motherfucking house.
It was as if I were watching the door close in slow motion -- watching my own hand reach to undo the mistake I just made -- and the awful click of the door mirroring the awful click my mind made as it registered the fact that I was now underdressed and completely locked out. In thirty degree, windy weather. Wearing pseudo-pajamas and a crazy green headband.
With the oven on.
I walked around to the front of the building, got one of my neighbors to let me into the lobby, and found my front door securely deadbolted.
I saw that a neighbor was hosting an open house, so I went over to seek warmth and a phone. I walked in to a sparsely-furnished, unnervingly similar place to my own, and begged the Eastern European realtor to use her phone. She let me, even though it was clearly dying.
I called my condo association, because I couldn't remember Susan's number (she has my spare) and, um, she was out of town, so, like, I was fucked.
While I waited for them to call me back, I took a look around. The place belongs to a big, lurking dude named Doru, who is from somewhere unidentified -- Romania or Russia or Poland -- a guy with a huge smile and few words.
The Eastern European realtor took some time to show around a couple, explaining, "the man who lives here, he is an artist, he has added many touches."
As it turns out, the touches were as follows:
- he had painted the wall above the granite fireplace a slate grey color, which was alright in and of itself. However, upon further inspection, I noticed that this particular "touch" included copious random halfmoon pockmarks in the wall, as if he had pounded the entire surface with a hammer.
- the opposite wall was painted in broad, diagonal stripes of the same slate grey and a cream color.
- the hallway and bedroom featured squares of crown molding superglued to the walls, spraypainted silver, with silver marker scribbles on the inside. Sometimes going out of the lines.
This particular touch deeply offended my sensibilites -- I felt bad for whomever has to pry those fuckers off the wall.
I also noted a musky, organic smell. While the place appeared clean, it smelled like dirty boy. You know, the smell of a teen boy's room, one where the floor is padded with dirty clothes, where the sheets haven't been changed since he forbade his mom to come in months ago. At first I thought the smell might have been me. However, when I asked the realtor, "Does Doru still live here?" She said -- "Oh, yes. I can smell it."
Nice.
Very few people came in, so the realtor sat down at the kitchen table and started telling me the story of her life -- how she studied law in Romania, how she identified the civil rights the communists were violating by preventing her from leaving the country, how she made herself a target by refusing to be quiet. She told me how her husband had brainwashed and abused her, and how she gained freedom by divorcing him.
She said, "Are you single?"
I said, "Yes."
She said, "Me too."
An hour passed. I called the answering service again, who said my condo assocaition contact wasn't answering his phone.
Finally I called a locksmith.
When he came, a total of two hours in my pajamas smelling boy later, he was a cranky bitch.
I've never been so happy to get back inside.
My chicken was totally burned.
My momentum was shot. My laundry still isn't all done. . .
Anyhow, I was doing laundry, roasting some chicken breasts for soup, and feeling virtuous. I went to take out the garbage, grabbed my newfangled garbage gate key, and walked out the door in my sweatpants and short sleeves. I grabbed the door handle, locked the knob, closed the door behind me, and realized -- I just locked myself out of my own motherfucking house.
It was as if I were watching the door close in slow motion -- watching my own hand reach to undo the mistake I just made -- and the awful click of the door mirroring the awful click my mind made as it registered the fact that I was now underdressed and completely locked out. In thirty degree, windy weather. Wearing pseudo-pajamas and a crazy green headband.
With the oven on.
I walked around to the front of the building, got one of my neighbors to let me into the lobby, and found my front door securely deadbolted.
I saw that a neighbor was hosting an open house, so I went over to seek warmth and a phone. I walked in to a sparsely-furnished, unnervingly similar place to my own, and begged the Eastern European realtor to use her phone. She let me, even though it was clearly dying.
I called my condo association, because I couldn't remember Susan's number (she has my spare) and, um, she was out of town, so, like, I was fucked.
While I waited for them to call me back, I took a look around. The place belongs to a big, lurking dude named Doru, who is from somewhere unidentified -- Romania or Russia or Poland -- a guy with a huge smile and few words.
The Eastern European realtor took some time to show around a couple, explaining, "the man who lives here, he is an artist, he has added many touches."
As it turns out, the touches were as follows:
- he had painted the wall above the granite fireplace a slate grey color, which was alright in and of itself. However, upon further inspection, I noticed that this particular "touch" included copious random halfmoon pockmarks in the wall, as if he had pounded the entire surface with a hammer.
- the opposite wall was painted in broad, diagonal stripes of the same slate grey and a cream color.
- the hallway and bedroom featured squares of crown molding superglued to the walls, spraypainted silver, with silver marker scribbles on the inside. Sometimes going out of the lines.
This particular touch deeply offended my sensibilites -- I felt bad for whomever has to pry those fuckers off the wall.
I also noted a musky, organic smell. While the place appeared clean, it smelled like dirty boy. You know, the smell of a teen boy's room, one where the floor is padded with dirty clothes, where the sheets haven't been changed since he forbade his mom to come in months ago. At first I thought the smell might have been me. However, when I asked the realtor, "Does Doru still live here?" She said -- "Oh, yes. I can smell it."
Nice.
Very few people came in, so the realtor sat down at the kitchen table and started telling me the story of her life -- how she studied law in Romania, how she identified the civil rights the communists were violating by preventing her from leaving the country, how she made herself a target by refusing to be quiet. She told me how her husband had brainwashed and abused her, and how she gained freedom by divorcing him.
She said, "Are you single?"
I said, "Yes."
She said, "Me too."
An hour passed. I called the answering service again, who said my condo assocaition contact wasn't answering his phone.
Finally I called a locksmith.
When he came, a total of two hours in my pajamas smelling boy later, he was a cranky bitch.
I've never been so happy to get back inside.
My chicken was totally burned.
My momentum was shot. My laundry still isn't all done. . .
Monday, November 13, 2006
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I've got some sh*t to say.
It's about Oprah.
I know everyone is talking about this. And, I highly recommend you go check it out.
I mean, as a PR person, I have to say I truly appreciate the brilliance of the Jenny Craig public relations team. Well fucking done, bitches -- whoever was in charge of pep-talking Kirstie Alley into that bikini did a great job of distracting her while you pumped her diet coke with Xanax. She seemed quite relaxed and enthusiastic in her appearance on Oprah.
But Oprah, as someone who is mesmerizing the (female) American public with your brown-eyed judgemental stare, dispensing confident tough love interspersed with hokey spiritualism, I think you have a certain responsibility.
Oprah, I'm begging you, stop being such a fuckwad.
Case in point, the slideshow I linked to, above.
Allow me to reproduce it, below, with my own interpretation:
First, Kirstie Alley comes on to shill for Jenny Craig. I suspect she could lose another 8 pounds or so if she would remove her mascara, but Oprah kindly abstains from commenting on that.
Then, Kirstie comes out, aided only by a flowy wrap and, as I mentioned before, a nice Xanax mickey. Women in the audience are duly impressed at her show of confidence and inspired by her true weight loss story. They cheer.
Here's a nice shot of Kirstie, her celeb pals, and the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard going shopping.
Here Kirstie inspires women everywhere to lose some weight and FIND THEMSELVES.
All fine and good. Kirstie’s all about the positivity, Oprah’s all about “girlfriend! You’re great!” and the audience is all, “WOOOOT!”
But then, it gets a little fucked up. Here, we have a photograph of a very unhappy-looking person and her creepy, creepy dad.
According to the copy, this sensitive man said the following:
See? She’s unhappy because she’s fat. Her dad really loves her and therefore IS ASHAMED TO BE SEEN WITH HER IN PUBLIC.
Is it just me, or does he bear a striking resemblance to John Mark Karr? Let’s see:
Hm. You be the judge.
Anyway, so, then we jump to the miraculous follow up. Guess what, everybody? Unhappy girl had radical surgery to transform her internal organs! Because she was physically unable to eat, she experienced a dramatic weight loss! Now that she is a socially-acceptable human being, she understand that her father’s behavior was not out of hateful, shallow self-loathing, it was out of LOVE! See? She was BAD. Now she is GOOD.
(I have to admit, she’s gorgeous. I think it’s the hair.)
Okay. So, right. Where were we?
Celebrity shilling, check. Unneccissary skin baring? Check. Justification of millions of women’s self hatred and reinforcement of the (false) assumption that if I could just be thinner (richer, sexier, hairier, insert –er here-er), daddy will love me? Check.
What’s next?
Right.
THE HOLOCAUST.
Here, Oprah visits the ultimate fat camp, Auschwitz.
Note her duly concerned, deeply moved, still judgmental stare:
Seriously.
Can you imagine a less appropriate segue?
I was going to put some riff here about the production staff meeting, blah, blah, but nothing I can say is scathing enough for this.
From there, Oprah gives a woman her dream house and moves on to some other forms of genocide.
At this point, the whole slideshow becomes anticlimactic.
Blah blah, Genocide, Blah blah, dream house, then a nice little segment about bras, as part of Oprah’s campaign to ensure American women are sporting the correct undergarments.
Finally, there’s this:
OMG! Bono! I have forgotten about genocide already, because they’re TOTALLY GOING SHOPPING AT THE GAP.
Because there’s this red thing, that Bono is part of, and you can buy things at the Gap.
And it’s charitable.
For something. Something probably to do with Bill Gates but who cares? This shit is cute.
The end.
I know everyone is talking about this. And, I highly recommend you go check it out.
I mean, as a PR person, I have to say I truly appreciate the brilliance of the Jenny Craig public relations team. Well fucking done, bitches -- whoever was in charge of pep-talking Kirstie Alley into that bikini did a great job of distracting her while you pumped her diet coke with Xanax. She seemed quite relaxed and enthusiastic in her appearance on Oprah.
But Oprah, as someone who is mesmerizing the (female) American public with your brown-eyed judgemental stare, dispensing confident tough love interspersed with hokey spiritualism, I think you have a certain responsibility.
Oprah, I'm begging you, stop being such a fuckwad.
Case in point, the slideshow I linked to, above.
Allow me to reproduce it, below, with my own interpretation:
First, Kirstie Alley comes on to shill for Jenny Craig. I suspect she could lose another 8 pounds or so if she would remove her mascara, but Oprah kindly abstains from commenting on that.
Then, Kirstie comes out, aided only by a flowy wrap and, as I mentioned before, a nice Xanax mickey. Women in the audience are duly impressed at her show of confidence and inspired by her true weight loss story. They cheer.
Here's a nice shot of Kirstie, her celeb pals, and the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard going shopping.
Here Kirstie inspires women everywhere to lose some weight and FIND THEMSELVES.
All fine and good. Kirstie’s all about the positivity, Oprah’s all about “girlfriend! You’re great!” and the audience is all, “WOOOOT!”
But then, it gets a little fucked up. Here, we have a photograph of a very unhappy-looking person and her creepy, creepy dad.
According to the copy, this sensitive man said the following:
"Does it bother me when we're out in public that Jill's overweight? It does. I'll be honest," said Kirk, Jill's father. "I'm ashamed of her weight, but I love my daughter dearly."
See? She’s unhappy because she’s fat. Her dad really loves her and therefore IS ASHAMED TO BE SEEN WITH HER IN PUBLIC.
Is it just me, or does he bear a striking resemblance to John Mark Karr? Let’s see:
Hm. You be the judge.
Anyway, so, then we jump to the miraculous follow up. Guess what, everybody? Unhappy girl had radical surgery to transform her internal organs! Because she was physically unable to eat, she experienced a dramatic weight loss! Now that she is a socially-acceptable human being, she understand that her father’s behavior was not out of hateful, shallow self-loathing, it was out of LOVE! See? She was BAD. Now she is GOOD.
(I have to admit, she’s gorgeous. I think it’s the hair.)
Okay. So, right. Where were we?
Celebrity shilling, check. Unneccissary skin baring? Check. Justification of millions of women’s self hatred and reinforcement of the (false) assumption that if I could just be thinner (richer, sexier, hairier, insert –er here-er), daddy will love me? Check.
What’s next?
Right.
THE HOLOCAUST.
Here, Oprah visits the ultimate fat camp, Auschwitz.
Note her duly concerned, deeply moved, still judgmental stare:
Seriously.
Can you imagine a less appropriate segue?
I was going to put some riff here about the production staff meeting, blah, blah, but nothing I can say is scathing enough for this.
From there, Oprah gives a woman her dream house and moves on to some other forms of genocide.
At this point, the whole slideshow becomes anticlimactic.
Blah blah, Genocide, Blah blah, dream house, then a nice little segment about bras, as part of Oprah’s campaign to ensure American women are sporting the correct undergarments.
Finally, there’s this:
OMG! Bono! I have forgotten about genocide already, because they’re TOTALLY GOING SHOPPING AT THE GAP.
Because there’s this red thing, that Bono is part of, and you can buy things at the Gap.
And it’s charitable.
For something. Something probably to do with Bill Gates but who cares? This shit is cute.
The end.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
NaNoNoGo
Hey, everybody!
It's day two of NaNoWriMo AND I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING!
I'm an abject failure, clearly.
Someone bring me multiple glasses of wine.
Actually, fuck the glasses, I'll drink straight from the bottle.
It's day two of NaNoWriMo AND I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING!
I'm an abject failure, clearly.
Someone bring me multiple glasses of wine.
Actually, fuck the glasses, I'll drink straight from the bottle.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
I'm not proud of it, but I sure as hell ain't sorry, either
So, when I fly down to the 'ville to visit my parents, I inevitably end up infuriated at the self-important yet moronic TSA employees. I've chronicled this before.
This time, I arrived at the airport a good half hour before my flight left, and as I was approaching the (only) security checkpoint, they said, "You're going to Chicago? Cuz they're waiting for you."
Okay. So, you just told me the airplane is waiting for me. Will you attempt to get me through security in a timely manner?
Stupid question.
Three people checked my ID within earshot/sight of one another. My bags were put through the xray machine twice -- then a severe woman with thinning gray hair took my purse aside and announced, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to take a look through this.
Okay.
The man at the counter to the single gate behind me was announcing final boarding call. I waved at him and said, "Just a minute!' He waved back amiably as this woman went though all the contents of my wallet.
She searched through until she found a tube of lipgloss. Really delicious lipgloss that I can only get in NYC. That Fauxinca bought for me, special.
She said, "Ma'am, you are not going to be able to take this on the plane."
Me: My lipgloss?
Lady: You can take solid lipstick but not gels.
Me: It's under three ounces.
Lady: It must be in a clear, five inch square ziplock bag in order for you to take it on the plane.
Me: Are you kidding?
Lady: THESE ARE THE RULES!
Me: You're being pedantic.
Lady: . . .
Me: Pedantic. That means overly attached to the letter of the rules without respecting their spirit.
Lady: I have to run your bag through the machine again.
Me: Fine.
She brings back a cop.
A cop.
Because my lipstick IS NOT IN A ZIPLOCK.
Lady: Ma'am, as these are not in a ziplock you cannot take them on the plane.
Me: You think I'm going to do harm to my fellow passengers with my lipgloss? The lipgloss that you would let me take IF IT WERE SEALED IN A FLIMSY ZIPLOCK BAG?
Lady: What do you want to do?
Me: I want you to allow me to take my lipgloss.
Cop: (Looks sort of sheepish and ashamed)
Lady: (Looks defiant and possibly considering a citizen's arrest)
We engage in a staredown.
At this point, another security guy pipes in: WE DO NOT HAVE AUTHORITY TO MAKE EXCEPTIONS! THESE ARE THE RULES AS THEY ARE MADE IN WASHINGTON
At this point I shoulder my bag and stomp off indignantly, once again deliriously happy I don't still live in Southern Indiana.
I'm really sorry, Southern Indiana, but, with the exception of Bloomington, I totally hate you.
Now is the time I reflect and learn:
a. TSA is useless and annoying.
b. I know you catch more flies with honey, and I probably could have appealed to this woman's sense of moral superiority and power hungry-ness and flattered her into having mercy on me and giving me my lipgloss. But I really wanted to humiliate her.
I couldn't help myself.
No wonder Southern Indiana hates me back.
This time, I arrived at the airport a good half hour before my flight left, and as I was approaching the (only) security checkpoint, they said, "You're going to Chicago? Cuz they're waiting for you."
Okay. So, you just told me the airplane is waiting for me. Will you attempt to get me through security in a timely manner?
Stupid question.
Three people checked my ID within earshot/sight of one another. My bags were put through the xray machine twice -- then a severe woman with thinning gray hair took my purse aside and announced, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to take a look through this.
Okay.
The man at the counter to the single gate behind me was announcing final boarding call. I waved at him and said, "Just a minute!' He waved back amiably as this woman went though all the contents of my wallet.
She searched through until she found a tube of lipgloss. Really delicious lipgloss that I can only get in NYC. That Fauxinca bought for me, special.
She said, "Ma'am, you are not going to be able to take this on the plane."
Me: My lipgloss?
Lady: You can take solid lipstick but not gels.
Me: It's under three ounces.
Lady: It must be in a clear, five inch square ziplock bag in order for you to take it on the plane.
Me: Are you kidding?
Lady: THESE ARE THE RULES!
Me: You're being pedantic.
Lady: . . .
Me: Pedantic. That means overly attached to the letter of the rules without respecting their spirit.
Lady: I have to run your bag through the machine again.
Me: Fine.
She brings back a cop.
A cop.
Because my lipstick IS NOT IN A ZIPLOCK.
Lady: Ma'am, as these are not in a ziplock you cannot take them on the plane.
Me: You think I'm going to do harm to my fellow passengers with my lipgloss? The lipgloss that you would let me take IF IT WERE SEALED IN A FLIMSY ZIPLOCK BAG?
Lady: What do you want to do?
Me: I want you to allow me to take my lipgloss.
Cop: (Looks sort of sheepish and ashamed)
Lady: (Looks defiant and possibly considering a citizen's arrest)
We engage in a staredown.
At this point, another security guy pipes in: WE DO NOT HAVE AUTHORITY TO MAKE EXCEPTIONS! THESE ARE THE RULES AS THEY ARE MADE IN WASHINGTON
At this point I shoulder my bag and stomp off indignantly, once again deliriously happy I don't still live in Southern Indiana.
I'm really sorry, Southern Indiana, but, with the exception of Bloomington, I totally hate you.
Now is the time I reflect and learn:
a. TSA is useless and annoying.
b. I know you catch more flies with honey, and I probably could have appealed to this woman's sense of moral superiority and power hungry-ness and flattered her into having mercy on me and giving me my lipgloss. But I really wanted to humiliate her.
I couldn't help myself.
No wonder Southern Indiana hates me back.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Major Milestone?
I just totally forgot how old I am.
I was sitting here?
On the couch?
Thinking about my birthday?
And I couldn't determine whether I was turning 32 or 33.
Seriously.
I honestly could not remember.
I had to do the math, based upon my birth date.
1974?
Oh, phew.
I'm only turning 32.
What does this MEAN?
Oh, god.
I was sitting here?
On the couch?
Thinking about my birthday?
And I couldn't determine whether I was turning 32 or 33.
Seriously.
I honestly could not remember.
I had to do the math, based upon my birth date.
1974?
Oh, phew.
I'm only turning 32.
What does this MEAN?
Oh, god.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Scene From The Lush Counter
I stopped by the Lush counter on my way home from work Monday. Nestled in a corner of Macy's, it's a little oasis of smelly things tended by perky, perky salesgirls. I suspect the cocobutter fumes make them high.
So, I was waiting in line behind a tall, blonde woman with a long black coat. She had a little heart-shaped pin on her lapel and appeared to be in her late forties. Pretty unassuming. She was purchasing some massage oil bars. When I stepped behind her, she turned to me and initiated the following exchange:
Blonde: Oh, what are you getting?
Me: Um, some shampoo?
Blonde: Oh, don't you just love girly things?
Me: Totally.
Blonde: I had some airline stewardesses from American Continental stalking me, and they couldn't understand why I spent money on girly things. They called me a city girl! I think they were jealous. You know?
Me: You had airline stewardesses stalking you?
Blonde: I didn't want to tell you this, but I was raped. By eight airline pilots.
Me: . . .
Blonde: It was terrible. They took turns. And I just think those stewardesses were jealous! They were following me around and taunting me and making fun of me! Because I had nice things and cosmetics! Just don't turn to me and be angry at ME because you chose to be a stewardess and I chose the life of a city girl! Isn't it great being a city girl?
Me: Oh, yeah, totally.
Blonde: So, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but one of the stewardesses, she had both male and female parts. She wanted to live as a woman, but she hated women. That's why the whole thing started.
Me: Um, that's really too bad.
Blonde: I'll never fly American Continental again.
Me: . . .
Blonde (finishing her transaction and walking off): Enjoy your shampoo!
Okay.
That has really stuck with me -- I mean, American Continental? Those are two different airlines, completely.
She must have been crazy, is all I can imagine.
So, I was waiting in line behind a tall, blonde woman with a long black coat. She had a little heart-shaped pin on her lapel and appeared to be in her late forties. Pretty unassuming. She was purchasing some massage oil bars. When I stepped behind her, she turned to me and initiated the following exchange:
Blonde: Oh, what are you getting?
Me: Um, some shampoo?
Blonde: Oh, don't you just love girly things?
Me: Totally.
Blonde: I had some airline stewardesses from American Continental stalking me, and they couldn't understand why I spent money on girly things. They called me a city girl! I think they were jealous. You know?
Me: You had airline stewardesses stalking you?
Blonde: I didn't want to tell you this, but I was raped. By eight airline pilots.
Me: . . .
Blonde: It was terrible. They took turns. And I just think those stewardesses were jealous! They were following me around and taunting me and making fun of me! Because I had nice things and cosmetics! Just don't turn to me and be angry at ME because you chose to be a stewardess and I chose the life of a city girl! Isn't it great being a city girl?
Me: Oh, yeah, totally.
Blonde: So, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but one of the stewardesses, she had both male and female parts. She wanted to live as a woman, but she hated women. That's why the whole thing started.
Me: Um, that's really too bad.
Blonde: I'll never fly American Continental again.
Me: . . .
Blonde (finishing her transaction and walking off): Enjoy your shampoo!
Okay.
That has really stuck with me -- I mean, American Continental? Those are two different airlines, completely.
She must have been crazy, is all I can imagine.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
My Calendar
So, if August was the end of summer, and September was the month of airplanes, I suppose I should continue the designations:
Starting with October. Or, rather, mid-October, but let's not split hairs. October is Sober October. Hear that? That's not the sound of fall leaves underfoot. That's the sound of crispy crackly me as my wino-ism dries on out. I figured my liver could use a break, and I could focus on doing things that are not necessarily alcoholic.
Of course, Sober October just began yesterday (I'm on day two of temporary sobriety! Where's my medal?), and tonight I'm meeting my friends for "drinks," so we'll see how that goes.
I'm feeling strong, people. I won't break. Get me some marijuana. . .
Next is November. Luckily, I'll be back on the sauce by then, because guess what? I'll give you a hint, I've declared it over there to the right -- I'm doing NaNoWriMo. That crazy writer thing where you declare that you will write a novel in a month? YEAH! I'm gonna DO IT!
If you're already scoffing at me, you're probably someone who knows me, and you're probably right, but why not shoot for the stars? Or, at least, shoot for an advanced case of carpal tunnel syndrome.
Starting with October. Or, rather, mid-October, but let's not split hairs. October is Sober October. Hear that? That's not the sound of fall leaves underfoot. That's the sound of crispy crackly me as my wino-ism dries on out. I figured my liver could use a break, and I could focus on doing things that are not necessarily alcoholic.
Of course, Sober October just began yesterday (I'm on day two of temporary sobriety! Where's my medal?), and tonight I'm meeting my friends for "drinks," so we'll see how that goes.
I'm feeling strong, people. I won't break. Get me some marijuana. . .
Next is November. Luckily, I'll be back on the sauce by then, because guess what? I'll give you a hint, I've declared it over there to the right -- I'm doing NaNoWriMo. That crazy writer thing where you declare that you will write a novel in a month? YEAH! I'm gonna DO IT!
If you're already scoffing at me, you're probably someone who knows me, and you're probably right, but why not shoot for the stars? Or, at least, shoot for an advanced case of carpal tunnel syndrome.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Freud Would Be Super Proud
From my dad, who called to chat --
Dad: Hey! I've got great news!
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Dad: I got my penis scoped!
Me: WAY too much information.
Dad: My kidneys are healthy!
Me: That's all you had to say, man.
Do I have to let him know before I just have my therapist send all his bills straight to him?
Speaking of my therapist (I usually am), the second memorable quote of the morning was from him, as I was ranting about the inexplicably assholish behavior of one of my clients --
DeeP: So, how's your ass?
Me: (Glancing at ass) Huh?
DeeP: 'Cuz you're getting FUCKED in it.
Me: Thanks. So very clinical of you.
UPDATE:
In unrelated, but related (She's a PSYCHOLOGIST, for Christ's sake!), but seriously AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH news:
Dad: Hey! I've got great news!
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Dad: I got my penis scoped!
Me: WAY too much information.
Dad: My kidneys are healthy!
Me: That's all you had to say, man.
Do I have to let him know before I just have my therapist send all his bills straight to him?
Speaking of my therapist (I usually am), the second memorable quote of the morning was from him, as I was ranting about the inexplicably assholish behavior of one of my clients --
DeeP: So, how's your ass?
Me: (Glancing at ass) Huh?
DeeP: 'Cuz you're getting FUCKED in it.
Me: Thanks. So very clinical of you.
UPDATE:
In unrelated, but related (She's a PSYCHOLOGIST, for Christ's sake!), but seriously AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH news:
In court papers, McMahan denies that he ever had a sexual affair with his daughter. But he doesn't explain how his and Linda's DNA turned up on a vibrator that Linda's husband uncovered in her luggage.
Monday, October 09, 2006
I'll probably get excommunicated from the family, but, hell.
Since September 1, I have been on 12 planes, and will get on two more tomorrow morning.
I have been to (or through)8 cities and two countries.
I have been to two weddings, but no funerals.
I have played with numerous babies, cooked many meals, laughed a lot, danced a lot, drank a lot, and didn't take nearly enough pictures.
How on earth do people actually work full time? I am fucking busy, people.
Generally, I try not to write posts like this about blood kin, but this is too good.
The first wedding of the month was in West Virginia. Upon my return I wrote the following email to the second wedding's bride-to-be, Sarah:
---------- Message ----------
From: Me
Date: Sep 25, 2006 11:36 AM
Subject: hey
To: Sarah
happy wedding week!
Are you working this week?
So, right, I was thinking of you a lot this weekend at my cousins
wedding. I was thinking that you might want to incorporate some of
these ideas into your wedding:
- for that sense of excitement, try playing some upbeat music as you
introduce the wedding party -- like Eye of the Tiger
- have your cheesy dj (my other cousin's comment "do you think they
have a special catalog for those wedding dj vests?") kick off the
dining portion of the wedding by announcing that whichever side of the
room screams the loudest will get to go to the buffet table first.
then lead the room in a gigantic screaming match.
- invite my dad, who will refuse to leave his dog at home, then sulk
furiously when I tell him "you cannot bring your dog to the wedding."
- serve beer out of a keg -- self-service style
- have some drunk dudes decide it's a good idea to climb to the roof
and then their hysterical girlfriends can stand outside and scream and
people can cry and generally make a scene
- have your drunk, perma-stoned brother as the best man, then give him
a microphone and let him do a speech. End up turning off his
microphone because he's verbally berating the wedding planner.
(apparently, right before his speech, he was pissing in the bathroom
with my other cousin's boyfriend, and he said: 'I don't have a speech,
yet, I'm gonna wing it. how's you're PISSING your life away? HAHA!
Get it!" Then Mike (cousin's boyfriend) came out and reported all so
rachel was able to videotape the speech. I've asked her to upload to
youtube for us.)
_____________________________
I hope to have photographs for posting soon.
I also forgot to mention to her the following exchange at the end of the evening:
Best man is standing next to an older lady, with a napkin tied jauntily around his head. He has his hand resting on the woman's shoulder. She is gazing up at him in annoyance.
I walk up and hear him slurring drunkenly.
Best man: You know you want me to bang your daughter. It would make you so happy.
Me: Uh, hey, what's going on.
Best Man: She totally wants me to bang her daughter.
Me: Do you have a ride home?
Best Man: Yeah! (Points at lady.) She's taking me!
AND SCENE.
I have been to (or through)8 cities and two countries.
I have been to two weddings, but no funerals.
I have played with numerous babies, cooked many meals, laughed a lot, danced a lot, drank a lot, and didn't take nearly enough pictures.
How on earth do people actually work full time? I am fucking busy, people.
Generally, I try not to write posts like this about blood kin, but this is too good.
The first wedding of the month was in West Virginia. Upon my return I wrote the following email to the second wedding's bride-to-be, Sarah:
---------- Message ----------
From: Me
Date: Sep 25, 2006 11:36 AM
Subject: hey
To: Sarah
happy wedding week!
Are you working this week?
So, right, I was thinking of you a lot this weekend at my cousins
wedding. I was thinking that you might want to incorporate some of
these ideas into your wedding:
- for that sense of excitement, try playing some upbeat music as you
introduce the wedding party -- like Eye of the Tiger
- have your cheesy dj (my other cousin's comment "do you think they
have a special catalog for those wedding dj vests?") kick off the
dining portion of the wedding by announcing that whichever side of the
room screams the loudest will get to go to the buffet table first.
then lead the room in a gigantic screaming match.
- invite my dad, who will refuse to leave his dog at home, then sulk
furiously when I tell him "you cannot bring your dog to the wedding."
- serve beer out of a keg -- self-service style
- have some drunk dudes decide it's a good idea to climb to the roof
and then their hysterical girlfriends can stand outside and scream and
people can cry and generally make a scene
- have your drunk, perma-stoned brother as the best man, then give him
a microphone and let him do a speech. End up turning off his
microphone because he's verbally berating the wedding planner.
(apparently, right before his speech, he was pissing in the bathroom
with my other cousin's boyfriend, and he said: 'I don't have a speech,
yet, I'm gonna wing it. how's you're PISSING your life away? HAHA!
Get it!" Then Mike (cousin's boyfriend) came out and reported all so
rachel was able to videotape the speech. I've asked her to upload to
youtube for us.)
_____________________________
I hope to have photographs for posting soon.
I also forgot to mention to her the following exchange at the end of the evening:
Best man is standing next to an older lady, with a napkin tied jauntily around his head. He has his hand resting on the woman's shoulder. She is gazing up at him in annoyance.
I walk up and hear him slurring drunkenly.
Best man: You know you want me to bang your daughter. It would make you so happy.
Me: Uh, hey, what's going on.
Best Man: She totally wants me to bang her daughter.
Me: Do you have a ride home?
Best Man: Yeah! (Points at lady.) She's taking me!
AND SCENE.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Quickly! Quietly! VOICES!
Right now I am sitting in a fourth grade classroom in New Mexico. The chairs are small and the table is short.
My sister is the teacher. She's a hot teacher, I suspect there are some crushes, but she's pretty strict and otherwise badass, so they're probably also a bit intimidated by her.
This month I have been on 12 planes, in 7 cities and two countries.
I have been to two weddings but no funerals.
Knock on wood.
I have lots of fun updates to make but now I have to conduct writing prompts with eight-year olds who like martians, adventures, and football.
My sister is the teacher. She's a hot teacher, I suspect there are some crushes, but she's pretty strict and otherwise badass, so they're probably also a bit intimidated by her.
This month I have been on 12 planes, in 7 cities and two countries.
I have been to two weddings but no funerals.
Knock on wood.
I have lots of fun updates to make but now I have to conduct writing prompts with eight-year olds who like martians, adventures, and football.
My fourth-grade writing assignment
Rachel was napping when the doorbell rang.
It startled her -- she sat up and nearly fell off the couch. The late afternoon light was slanting in through the blinds. She had been asleep for hours. She rubbed her eyes and stumbled through the living room to the door.
She opened the door, but no one was there. There was, however, a large brown box at her feet.
She bent to pick it up. It was heavy, too heavy to carry very far. She thought, vaguely, this must have been a very expensive package to ship. She slid the box into the door and across the carpet so it was in the middle of the room. She sat again on the couch and stared at it through sleep-bleary eyes.
She wasn't expecting a package. She wondered what it could be.
She stood again and wandered into the kitchen to look for scissors. She opened the junk drawer and rooted through balls of string, random loose buttons, batteries, refrigerator magnets with paper clips and small nails stuck to their backs, and eventually found a small pair of scissors with orange handles.
She walked back over to the package and knelt beside it. It was tall, a foot or more, and wide, a large square box with her name and address on it and little clue as to where it was from.
She searched for a return address but found none.
She used the scissors like a blade and sliced the tape that bound the flaps of the box together.
She managed to free the top of the box and open it -- all she could see, at first, was mounds and mounds of packing material that looked like dried grass. It crunched a little when she touched it.
She started to pull the grass out of the box by the handful, making a big messy pile on the carpet next to her. She pulled and pulled for what seemed like a very long time before she found the heavy item in the box. She had a large pile of the grass next to her.
The object was black and glossy -- it looked like marble, only smoother. It was completely smooth. When she touched it her fingers slid along the surface. It was very black, a deep, inky color that gleamed in the light and seemed to absorb the light, to change a little with it, revealing reddish tones.
She slid her hands around it and lifted -- it was very heavy.
She managed to pull it out it out of the box and place it on the coffee table, where she looked at it, puzzled.
What on earth? It looked like the statue of a man. Who would send something like this to her?
It startled her -- she sat up and nearly fell off the couch. The late afternoon light was slanting in through the blinds. She had been asleep for hours. She rubbed her eyes and stumbled through the living room to the door.
She opened the door, but no one was there. There was, however, a large brown box at her feet.
She bent to pick it up. It was heavy, too heavy to carry very far. She thought, vaguely, this must have been a very expensive package to ship. She slid the box into the door and across the carpet so it was in the middle of the room. She sat again on the couch and stared at it through sleep-bleary eyes.
She wasn't expecting a package. She wondered what it could be.
She stood again and wandered into the kitchen to look for scissors. She opened the junk drawer and rooted through balls of string, random loose buttons, batteries, refrigerator magnets with paper clips and small nails stuck to their backs, and eventually found a small pair of scissors with orange handles.
She walked back over to the package and knelt beside it. It was tall, a foot or more, and wide, a large square box with her name and address on it and little clue as to where it was from.
She searched for a return address but found none.
She used the scissors like a blade and sliced the tape that bound the flaps of the box together.
She managed to free the top of the box and open it -- all she could see, at first, was mounds and mounds of packing material that looked like dried grass. It crunched a little when she touched it.
She started to pull the grass out of the box by the handful, making a big messy pile on the carpet next to her. She pulled and pulled for what seemed like a very long time before she found the heavy item in the box. She had a large pile of the grass next to her.
The object was black and glossy -- it looked like marble, only smoother. It was completely smooth. When she touched it her fingers slid along the surface. It was very black, a deep, inky color that gleamed in the light and seemed to absorb the light, to change a little with it, revealing reddish tones.
She slid her hands around it and lifted -- it was very heavy.
She managed to pull it out it out of the box and place it on the coffee table, where she looked at it, puzzled.
What on earth? It looked like the statue of a man. Who would send something like this to her?
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Seattle, Baby
Annevan and I have set our sights on Seattle, where it is already Autumn, all crisp sunshine and gorgeous sweet hay and pine-filled air.
We are visiting a boy named Max.
This picture? Not of Max.
This picture is of Nicholas Beach, who we met at a cafe while we were eating crab- and mushroom-filled omlettes and generally acting goofy.
Together Anne and I become more than the sum of our parts, some kind of endlessly gregarious dynamic duo who make friends wherever we go.
Nicholas was rockin' his second day on the job yesterday, and we salute him and his sassy customer service style.
Anne: Just some constructive criticism?
Nicholas: (skeptical) um, yeah?
Anne: Bring a pen with the check.
Nicholas: . . .
Anne: I'm just sayin'.
Nicholas mistook us for local drama scene divas.
Not so much. See his perfect teeth? He's totally an actor.
Anne says, "Seattle totally wants us to move here, so they can hang out with us all the time."
I totally agree.
Gotta go, there's a baby that needs to be played with.
Max:
We are visiting a boy named Max.
This picture? Not of Max.
This picture is of Nicholas Beach, who we met at a cafe while we were eating crab- and mushroom-filled omlettes and generally acting goofy.
Together Anne and I become more than the sum of our parts, some kind of endlessly gregarious dynamic duo who make friends wherever we go.
Nicholas was rockin' his second day on the job yesterday, and we salute him and his sassy customer service style.
Anne: Just some constructive criticism?
Nicholas: (skeptical) um, yeah?
Anne: Bring a pen with the check.
Nicholas: . . .
Anne: I'm just sayin'.
Nicholas mistook us for local drama scene divas.
Not so much. See his perfect teeth? He's totally an actor.
Anne says, "Seattle totally wants us to move here, so they can hang out with us all the time."
I totally agree.
Gotta go, there's a baby that needs to be played with.
Max:
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
HP Movie Review: The Curve
When I was in college, I spent one summer interning for the local public radio station in my hometown in Southern Indiana. I reported directly to the news director. She was not only the news director; she was also the reporting staff, the editor, and the host of Morning Edition. What I’m getting at, here, is that it was a skeletal staff. So, pretty much as soon as I established myself as capable of forming sentences and otherwise trustworthy with a microphone and tape recorder, I was out doing stories and soon was filling in as a part-time radio host.
It was a pretty cool thing for a twenty-nothing semi-slacker.
Anyhow, there were several sort of generally malaised dudes that worked there, the type of guys who have vague ambitions of being “in radio” but no real motivation to actually do that much. The type of guys who like to talk a lot about how undervalued they are as a way to justify spending most of their days on the dial-up Internet (hey – it was the nineties) researching conspiracy theories.
I loved those guys. They would give me cigarettes and we would sit on the back steps of the big old dilapidated mansion that served as the public radio and TV station HQ and they would tell me all about the in-depth serial killer biographies they were reading. At the time, Andrew Cunanan had just terrorized gay clubs across the country in his manic pursuit of Gianni Versace, probably pissed at all those loud patterns.
(No? Nothing? Too soon? Eh, I digress.)
So, I was just thinking of this period in my life as I nursed my hangover this weekend to the sweet sound of bullshit b movies on tv. As I stumbled through the channels seeking something that would not over stimulate my neurons (fucking electrical activity, ouch), I came upon The Curve (curiously mislabeled on IMDB -- as if they can't even bother with it), an early production of MTV’s stint in movie-making.
This is an exceptionally bad film, starring Felicity during the height of her career, before she gave herself a much-needed haircut and got rid of some of those cascades of butt-ugly dirty blonde curls.
Basically, the movie is about a couple of guys who conspire to kill their roommate and make it look like a suicide so they can get an automatic 4.0 for the semester.
And the way I weave all this rambling together is by saying that when this movie came out, it seriously ticked off one of these cigarette-toting radio dudes. Apparently, he had written a script based upon this very premise! And now? Someone else? RIPPING HIM OFF.
Me: Did you actually try to sell your script to someone?
Cigarette-Toting Radio Dude: Well, I talked about it.
Me: So, like, you didn’t send it out?
CTRD: Well, I might have, when it was done?
Me: You didn’t finish it?
CTRD: Well, I didn’t really write it.
Me: Huh.
We smoked together on the steps in the waning sunlight and I imagined him, holed up in his dreary basement apartment in Southern Indiana, smoking pot, watching TV, and dreaming up film premises.
And, having finally seen this film, I just want to say, maybe it’s better that he didn’t get credit for the genesis of this idea. Because it was total crap.
It was a pretty cool thing for a twenty-nothing semi-slacker.
Anyhow, there were several sort of generally malaised dudes that worked there, the type of guys who have vague ambitions of being “in radio” but no real motivation to actually do that much. The type of guys who like to talk a lot about how undervalued they are as a way to justify spending most of their days on the dial-up Internet (hey – it was the nineties) researching conspiracy theories.
I loved those guys. They would give me cigarettes and we would sit on the back steps of the big old dilapidated mansion that served as the public radio and TV station HQ and they would tell me all about the in-depth serial killer biographies they were reading. At the time, Andrew Cunanan had just terrorized gay clubs across the country in his manic pursuit of Gianni Versace, probably pissed at all those loud patterns.
(No? Nothing? Too soon? Eh, I digress.)
So, I was just thinking of this period in my life as I nursed my hangover this weekend to the sweet sound of bullshit b movies on tv. As I stumbled through the channels seeking something that would not over stimulate my neurons (fucking electrical activity, ouch), I came upon The Curve (curiously mislabeled on IMDB -- as if they can't even bother with it), an early production of MTV’s stint in movie-making.
This is an exceptionally bad film, starring Felicity during the height of her career, before she gave herself a much-needed haircut and got rid of some of those cascades of butt-ugly dirty blonde curls.
Basically, the movie is about a couple of guys who conspire to kill their roommate and make it look like a suicide so they can get an automatic 4.0 for the semester.
And the way I weave all this rambling together is by saying that when this movie came out, it seriously ticked off one of these cigarette-toting radio dudes. Apparently, he had written a script based upon this very premise! And now? Someone else? RIPPING HIM OFF.
Me: Did you actually try to sell your script to someone?
Cigarette-Toting Radio Dude: Well, I talked about it.
Me: So, like, you didn’t send it out?
CTRD: Well, I might have, when it was done?
Me: You didn’t finish it?
CTRD: Well, I didn’t really write it.
Me: Huh.
We smoked together on the steps in the waning sunlight and I imagined him, holed up in his dreary basement apartment in Southern Indiana, smoking pot, watching TV, and dreaming up film premises.
And, having finally seen this film, I just want to say, maybe it’s better that he didn’t get credit for the genesis of this idea. Because it was total crap.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Good Night, Sweet Prince.
I have to say, it isn't shocking that Steve Irwin is dead at the tender age of 44.
When you were the guy who popularized the term "Crikey,", someone's bound to stab you in the chest with a stingray.
When you were the guy who popularized the term "Crikey,", someone's bound to stab you in the chest with a stingray.
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