Look, pay attention to me again, okay? The shoes. I've already got the skort suit to go with them, and it's pretty spectacular. It looks like a Bed In A Bag set.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
This is Why I Can Stand Out In My Field.
Sometimes, I hear conversations inside my office, and I think, how do these people figure out how to get dressed and get to work EVERY DAY without dying?
I guess I'm not the only one:
I guess I'm not the only one:
PR stands for public relations, but it should stand for public retardation
Cuz I'm saving the right one for Anne Coulter
Dear Newsweek:
Suck my left nut.
Love,
RJ
UPDATE: Since, somehow, I got linked by MSNBC to this post, I thought I'd elucidate.
I hate that the "State of Marriage" report focuses solely on women. I hate that, somehow, in the economics of union, NAY, in the economics of straight people union, women are considered somehow the commodity. Not only are we considered a commodity, but we are considered a PERISHABLE commodity.
I hate that the idea that men might be seeking marriage is mentioned in passing, and mentioned in the context of a "we've come a long way, baby" sort of pat on the back.
I hate the fact that this article is supposed to be some kind of progressive report, and it still sounds so very pejorative. It sounds more like, "Huh, guys. Turns out our incredibly condescending sweeping bullshit announcement that no woman over 30 would ever be married was wrong. Turns out somebody married these old broads. Weird. Anyway, you old bitches shouldn't be so inconsolate, after all."
I hate the fact that this post will be considered the bitter ranting of an old maid.
And I hate you.
Just kidding, I really don't hate you. I'm sorry. Really, I'm totally sorry. C'mon. I'll buy you an ice cream.
Stop pouting, seriously.
Suck my left nut.
Love,
RJ
UPDATE: Since, somehow, I got linked by MSNBC to this post, I thought I'd elucidate.
I hate that the "State of Marriage" report focuses solely on women. I hate that, somehow, in the economics of union, NAY, in the economics of straight people union, women are considered somehow the commodity. Not only are we considered a commodity, but we are considered a PERISHABLE commodity.
I hate that the idea that men might be seeking marriage is mentioned in passing, and mentioned in the context of a "we've come a long way, baby" sort of pat on the back.
I hate the fact that this article is supposed to be some kind of progressive report, and it still sounds so very pejorative. It sounds more like, "Huh, guys. Turns out our incredibly condescending sweeping bullshit announcement that no woman over 30 would ever be married was wrong. Turns out somebody married these old broads. Weird. Anyway, you old bitches shouldn't be so inconsolate, after all."
I hate the fact that this post will be considered the bitter ranting of an old maid.
And I hate you.
Just kidding, I really don't hate you. I'm sorry. Really, I'm totally sorry. C'mon. I'll buy you an ice cream.
Stop pouting, seriously.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Prounounced the Southern Way -- VAAHHHHHHHHSSSS.
JP: Do you have something I can put some water in for Willis? Some Tupperware or something?
Jason: You can use Kitten's vase.
Mark: Did you just say 'vase?'
Jason: Yes - the stainless steel one we got at petsmart.
Mark: . . .
Mark: Oh. I didn't know we were calling it that.
Jason: You can use Kitten's vase.
Mark: Did you just say 'vase?'
Jason: Yes - the stainless steel one we got at petsmart.
Mark: . . .
Mark: Oh. I didn't know we were calling it that.
Caressing the Delicate Folds of My Soul or Why Do I Pay For a Therapist When I Have Google Horoscopes?
Dear Google Horoscopes:
No One.
No one knows me the way you know me. Such a shockingly intimate knowledge, such a fine, sweet insight you exhibit. I may not even know I'm cruising in cold emotional currents until you cue me in. In perfect, precise paragraphs you tell me how to handle the daily hairtuns in my own fate. Oh, Google Horoscopes. I told you one thing, ONE THING, about me. And you took six simple numbers (120674) and turned it into my roadmap in life.
Where do you come up with such insightful nuggets as
And I already bought myself a two-headed quarter. You know, just in case I got into some kind of coin-flipping duel to the death. It knew I would give myself the gift of magic before I did.
Fucking Beautiful.
PS: Can you tell my mind is facile right now? It's totally facile. WAY more facile than usual.
PPS: MAGIC
No One.
No one knows me the way you know me. Such a shockingly intimate knowledge, such a fine, sweet insight you exhibit. I may not even know I'm cruising in cold emotional currents until you cue me in. In perfect, precise paragraphs you tell me how to handle the daily hairtuns in my own fate. Oh, Google Horoscopes. I told you one thing, ONE THING, about me. And you took six simple numbers (120674) and turned it into my roadmap in life.
Where do you come up with such insightful nuggets as
Be aware that your inner conflicts can confuse others and they may not be able to determine what you really want.and
Give yourself the gift of magic, for your creative mind is more facile now than usual
And I already bought myself a two-headed quarter. You know, just in case I got into some kind of coin-flipping duel to the death. It knew I would give myself the gift of magic before I did.
Fucking Beautiful.
PS: Can you tell my mind is facile right now? It's totally facile. WAY more facile than usual.
PPS: MAGIC
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Dear Casey
Congratulations on your pending nuptuals! I have to say there is nothing more encouraging than when your friend is drunk off her ass on "sexy shots" and her feet hurt from dancing on the bar and she's in the cab going to some thong-assed bar and she has to call her fiance because how can she not speak to him in six hours? That's fucking sweet, sister. But not as sweet as your ass looks in this portrait I took while you were dancing to "Livin' on a Prayer" at Hogs & Honeys doing your trademark assslap dance. On the bar. At Hogs & Honeys.
I think that proves how much I love you.
I think that proves how much I love you.
The Early Bird Gets the Ironic Little Meaty Worm
I read this poem on Britney's Web site the other day, and I was thinking about doing a close reading. But I was beat to the punch.
Brilliant.
This passage serves merely to illustrate the propensity of the poem to contain multiple, and equally important, readings within itself.
Brilliant.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Hipster Hating
Real soon I'll tell you about how I got pulled over at 3:00AM with my bra hanging out, but, in the meantime, y'all read this:
That must have been like when Ben Franklin tried to invent the keykite but it came out as electricity.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Every Second Of The Night, We Live Another Life
You know how sometimes, you have a dream that, when you wake up, stays with you? Like, you dreamed you saw and hugged your dead grandma or you found the vintage watch you lost years ago? And you wake up wishing your dream was true? All day, you have that little flutter in your chest? That bittersweet sense of tender longing?
I had a dream last night Lindsey Lohan left a comment on my blog saying how she likes to read it. The REAL Lindsey Lohan.
It hurts, you know?
Oh, I just remembered, I also dreamed that I tested Johnny's urine and found it positive for kidney cancer antibodies. That didn't mean he HAS cancer, just the antibodies. He needed further testing. Then Susanne chased me out the bathroom window.
I had a dream last night Lindsey Lohan left a comment on my blog saying how she likes to read it. The REAL Lindsey Lohan.
It hurts, you know?
Oh, I just remembered, I also dreamed that I tested Johnny's urine and found it positive for kidney cancer antibodies. That didn't mean he HAS cancer, just the antibodies. He needed further testing. Then Susanne chased me out the bathroom window.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Hipster Couple That Is Totally In Love In The Coffee Shop:
You're all, we're in love, but it's troubled love.
That's because we're deep. And young.
So, like, he comes into the coffee shop and surfs myspace for, like, three hours, then, when I get off work at the vintage boutique, I'll join him. And, since we haven't seen each other since this morning, of course we're going to make out. And, like, kiss each other's necks with obscene slurps, and, like, obviously be slipping our hands up under each other's shirts.
But, since we're also intense people, we're going to immmediately get in a fight. Because we don't keep anything from each other, you know? Get it?
But, we're in love, so we'll just make out to make up, you know, and then we'll look at myspace TOGETHER and we'll look at the Intonation fest site together but that actually is a bad idea because then we have to FIGHT about whether we want to go to that fest. Because I just don't know if it is worth it but he says it'll be a great live show and I say why do you have to be like this?
I mean, I got this tattoo on my back, the one with the two skeletons making out? For YOU! BECAUSE I TOTALLY LOVE YOU.
So, you just look at myspace and I'll lean on you.
Because that's how it is.
See? This is nice. Put your hand on my leg.
You can type with one hand.
Okay, fine, don't.
Huh.
But you're ignoring me!
It's fine. Fine. FINE. I'm leaving.
Bye.
If you click here, you can totally see her retreating. And him not caring.
That's because we're deep. And young.
So, like, he comes into the coffee shop and surfs myspace for, like, three hours, then, when I get off work at the vintage boutique, I'll join him. And, since we haven't seen each other since this morning, of course we're going to make out. And, like, kiss each other's necks with obscene slurps, and, like, obviously be slipping our hands up under each other's shirts.
But, since we're also intense people, we're going to immmediately get in a fight. Because we don't keep anything from each other, you know? Get it?
But, we're in love, so we'll just make out to make up, you know, and then we'll look at myspace TOGETHER and we'll look at the Intonation fest site together but that actually is a bad idea because then we have to FIGHT about whether we want to go to that fest. Because I just don't know if it is worth it but he says it'll be a great live show and I say why do you have to be like this?
I mean, I got this tattoo on my back, the one with the two skeletons making out? For YOU! BECAUSE I TOTALLY LOVE YOU.
So, you just look at myspace and I'll lean on you.
Because that's how it is.
See? This is nice. Put your hand on my leg.
You can type with one hand.
Okay, fine, don't.
Huh.
But you're ignoring me!
It's fine. Fine. FINE. I'm leaving.
Bye.
If you click here, you can totally see her retreating. And him not caring.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Proud Member: The NRA
That's right.
This whole week I'm at the NRA show.
Unfortunately, there are no rifles, handguns, ammo, or other deadly weapons (well, unless you count kitchen knives. Which, really, you should. So). It's the National Restaurant Association show, where you can sample cheesecake on a stick, every kind of popper known to man, and even hook yourself up with a shot glass and chaser in one.
It is a massive display of the depth of the restaurant industry -- chafing dishes, gelato, menu covers, lightweight marble substitute, i-can't-believe-it's-not-wood paneling, miles and miles of stuff all designed to make your dining experience that much more spiffy.
Some things I've found immensely charming in the last few days include:
- this poster, which I have blurrily captured with my cell phone camera. In case you are getting a migraine trying to read it, I'll translate. It says "America's Favorite Corn Muffin -- 90% Corn Muffin Share." That means Jiffy? the KING OF CORN MUFFINS. Other corn muffins occupy mere fractions of the corn muffin market, they are edged out by the herculean power of Jiffy. Their booth consists of this poster, a table with many massive boxes of corn muffin mix, and several chairs with tshirts draped over them with snappy slogans such as, "Muffin Doin'" and "Muffin Much" and "Muffin Better!" I just want to go over there and pinch that Jiffy brand on the cheeks! There is muffin more adorable!
- An egg booth, serving eggs, lots of pictures of eggs, signs screaming, EGGS! and a small sign that says, "Eggs. This booth serving eggs. If you are allergic to eggs, do not sample the eggs."
Sound advice, if I've ever heard any.
This whole week I'm at the NRA show.
Unfortunately, there are no rifles, handguns, ammo, or other deadly weapons (well, unless you count kitchen knives. Which, really, you should. So). It's the National Restaurant Association show, where you can sample cheesecake on a stick, every kind of popper known to man, and even hook yourself up with a shot glass and chaser in one.
It is a massive display of the depth of the restaurant industry -- chafing dishes, gelato, menu covers, lightweight marble substitute, i-can't-believe-it's-not-wood paneling, miles and miles of stuff all designed to make your dining experience that much more spiffy.
Some things I've found immensely charming in the last few days include:
- this poster, which I have blurrily captured with my cell phone camera. In case you are getting a migraine trying to read it, I'll translate. It says "America's Favorite Corn Muffin -- 90% Corn Muffin Share." That means Jiffy? the KING OF CORN MUFFINS. Other corn muffins occupy mere fractions of the corn muffin market, they are edged out by the herculean power of Jiffy. Their booth consists of this poster, a table with many massive boxes of corn muffin mix, and several chairs with tshirts draped over them with snappy slogans such as, "Muffin Doin'" and "Muffin Much" and "Muffin Better!" I just want to go over there and pinch that Jiffy brand on the cheeks! There is muffin more adorable!
- An egg booth, serving eggs, lots of pictures of eggs, signs screaming, EGGS! and a small sign that says, "Eggs. This booth serving eggs. If you are allergic to eggs, do not sample the eggs."
Sound advice, if I've ever heard any.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Dear Trent Reznor
First off, I just want to thank you. Because, in 1990, as an angst-ridden teen stuck in southern Indiana, I really needed you, and you were there. Full of crazy techno alt-rock loathing, your music really spoke to me. You were full of sixteen year old stuck in the cornfields suck suck suck. It was before the Internet, so what else was I to do but drive around in my 1986 Delta '88 and blast head like a hole? I'll tell you what. Nothing.
But, in the subsequent decade and a half I've broadened my horizons a bit and since have other types of angst to fulfill my deepest darkest self, stuff like mortgages, alcohol, and making fun of shit on the fabulous newfangled Internet.
But you? Trent.
I heard you on the radio today. You were still so full of teen angst that I almost detatched my retinas while rolling my eyes. Trent, you've got to be pushing forty. Take a walk, take a nice bath, read a book. Especially the book part.
Don't make me call you a loser.
Loser.
But, in the subsequent decade and a half I've broadened my horizons a bit and since have other types of angst to fulfill my deepest darkest self, stuff like mortgages, alcohol, and making fun of shit on the fabulous newfangled Internet.
But you? Trent.
I heard you on the radio today. You were still so full of teen angst that I almost detatched my retinas while rolling my eyes. Trent, you've got to be pushing forty. Take a walk, take a nice bath, read a book. Especially the book part.
Don't make me call you a loser.
Loser.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
A little amusement
While I drown in trade show hell. Y'all. Trade shows? They're totally brutal.
Y'all, the internet? Has unintentionally gay videos for you to watch. Life's full of tradeoffs that way. Like Kirk Cameron would say, god makes you go to a trade show, god also lets you laugh at Kirk Cameron. Door/window? Yesiree.
Y'all, the internet? Has unintentionally gay videos for you to watch. Life's full of tradeoffs that way. Like Kirk Cameron would say, god makes you go to a trade show, god also lets you laugh at Kirk Cameron. Door/window? Yesiree.
Friday, May 19, 2006
More disturbing truths about Flickr
Cute pic of susan. Check out the profile of the gentleman who commented on it. (I must say I'm tempted to become his friend. . . you know. . . just out of curiousity.)
Can't decide if I'm disturbed by this or not.
But three people on flickr call this photo of susanne, blindfolded with a scarf at her birthday party, a favorite. Although this shot is of a girl about to break a pinata, the people who favor the photo appear to be scarf/bondage fetishists.
Sorry, Susanne. I accidentally have involved you in some internet psuedo-porn. And probably some monkey spanking.
Sorry, Susanne. I accidentally have involved you in some internet psuedo-porn. And probably some monkey spanking.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Bad Behavior
So, these are the two cows that hang out on a shelf in the waiting room at DeeP's office.
I have been known to be unable to resist the compulsion to place them in sexually suggestive positions while I'm waiting for the elevator.
They're usually back to just kissing by the next time I see them.
I haven't mentioned this behavior to my therapist.
I'm not sure I will.
He probably knows it's me, anyway.
Probably.
I have been known to be unable to resist the compulsion to place them in sexually suggestive positions while I'm waiting for the elevator.
They're usually back to just kissing by the next time I see them.
I haven't mentioned this behavior to my therapist.
I'm not sure I will.
He probably knows it's me, anyway.
Probably.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Singed
I burned the sweet holy fuck out of my arm on Thursday.
I somehow, in the process of performing my domestic best on Thursday, managed to press my forearm (white, vulnerable, pasty) against the 8 kajillion degrees hot iron. So now I have this really interesting strip of science experiment in a suggestive spot -- I kind of look like I recently attempted to slash my wrist.
It didn't hurt at the time, didn't really do more than look ugly for a couple of days, which I took as a good sign, but, as it turns out, was not such a good sign. See, it was Saturday, as the chunks of skin began to fall from the wound, when I realized this is a very ugly situation.
DeeP took a look at it today and informed me that, "yeah, that's a third degree burn."
So, right. Now I'm not just mentally fliberdygibbety, but I've got a THIRD DEGREE BURN ON MY ARM.
I don't know if it is because of said burn, but the whole arm hurts. My elbow? hurts. Wrist? Fucking bitch fuck fuck. Point of this post?
If my arm falls off in the night, just know I always loved you. I will always. . . god. . . no. . . more. . . typing. . . (maybe I'll post a pic later, if you're lucky!!)
I somehow, in the process of performing my domestic best on Thursday, managed to press my forearm (white, vulnerable, pasty) against the 8 kajillion degrees hot iron. So now I have this really interesting strip of science experiment in a suggestive spot -- I kind of look like I recently attempted to slash my wrist.
It didn't hurt at the time, didn't really do more than look ugly for a couple of days, which I took as a good sign, but, as it turns out, was not such a good sign. See, it was Saturday, as the chunks of skin began to fall from the wound, when I realized this is a very ugly situation.
DeeP took a look at it today and informed me that, "yeah, that's a third degree burn."
So, right. Now I'm not just mentally fliberdygibbety, but I've got a THIRD DEGREE BURN ON MY ARM.
I don't know if it is because of said burn, but the whole arm hurts. My elbow? hurts. Wrist? Fucking bitch fuck fuck. Point of this post?
If my arm falls off in the night, just know I always loved you. I will always. . . god. . . no. . . more. . . typing. . . (maybe I'll post a pic later, if you're lucky!!)
Friday, May 12, 2006
Ah, But You Know Me So Well
Today's DeeP:
Me: God, it's just -- I woke up in the middle of the night and I thought, I just need to ask DeeP what the hell am I supposed to DO!
DeeP: Mmm. (takes notes) What do you mean?
Me: I mean, about my LIFE!
DeeP: And you knew I wouldn't tell you what to do.
Me: Yes! Damnit! (starts weeping dramatically)
DeeP: So, when is your period supposed to start?
Me: (through tears) in about two days! What are you trying to say??
Me: God, it's just -- I woke up in the middle of the night and I thought, I just need to ask DeeP what the hell am I supposed to DO!
DeeP: Mmm. (takes notes) What do you mean?
Me: I mean, about my LIFE!
DeeP: And you knew I wouldn't tell you what to do.
Me: Yes! Damnit! (starts weeping dramatically)
DeeP: So, when is your period supposed to start?
Me: (through tears) in about two days! What are you trying to say??
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Dear Top Chef
I've decided that I love Stephen now. Stephen, if you can apologize to Candice for terrorizing her for being a dizzy silly model cum cheflet, I can apologize to you. I'm sorry I said you were just like PeeWee. Well, okay, I'm not sorry, because you were. But, dude. Now you're all sweet and reformed and wearing hott jeans and being sweet and sensitive and apologizing to Candice in the reunion. Even right after they showed that clip where she called you a douchebag.
And, Top Chef, you finally broke down Tiffani by giving validation to the internet crazies who think she's the one who turned down the oven on Lee Ann. That's just not nice.
I'll see you in Hell.
Sincerely,
RJ
And, Top Chef, you finally broke down Tiffani by giving validation to the internet crazies who think she's the one who turned down the oven on Lee Ann. That's just not nice.
I'll see you in Hell.
Sincerely,
RJ
Birth of Buckets
Last night I joined Buckets and a motley crew of his people at the map room, late in the evening, and fed him more than one birthday shot of Makers. You could see it suffuse his brain, slow him down, sink him into his own thoughts.
Buckets has this thing where he likes to stare at you while you're talking to him as if you were speaking some alien clicks and pops language. Not only that, but maybe you were spouting clicks and pops obscenity at him, and maybe spitting a little through your teeth while you were doing it.
You ask him a question and the blank, slightly shocked stare goes on for several moments before he answers you.
Usually with something non sequiter, obscene, or profound.
His darling friend Carla was on hand, she is a cheerful, short, sweet and lovely black woman who could possibly not be any more opposite from the drunken, hipster, tortured B. She said, "How do you know Luc?"
I said, "Indiana University. You?"
"Oh," she explained, between ladylike sips of beer, "I know him from the cult."
Awesome. "Right! The cult! I don't know much about that!"
"Right, well, I got out of there in high school, when my parents left, but if I had stayed I'd be married and have, like, six kids by now!" She began laughing in completely endearing bubbly chirps. "I don't want to be married! But, when you're in the cult, what else do you do after high school?"
Good point. Apparently, for a bit during high school, buckets lived in a cult on the north side of Chicago. Carla explained to me that Luc was the fun, badass cult member who would slip out for cigarettes all the time. Every cult has to have the bad boy, I guess.
We moved on to discuss other important topics, including how Carla likes to go to white trixie girl bars and start fights by accusing the blondes of being racist and yelling, "I AM A STRONG BLACK WOMAN! BLACK WOMEN DO NOT STAND IN LINE!"
"Do black people really not wait in line?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know!" She was giggling, all round cheeks and sweet twinkly eyes and everything cherubic. "Would you be intimidated by me?"
"I don't think so. You're awfully sweet."
"They're always saying, 'oh, you're so CUTE!' and I'm all, 'Shut UP, bitch!'"
She was just so cute.
Luc told me about how he coerced Apple, once into reading Henry Miller to him in her southern drawl, such a literary boy sexual fantasy.
Carla bummed cigs from me, drank many beers, and started many conversations with, "When I left the cult," and, "When we were in the cult," which made me laugh until I snorted.
Then some weirdly cross-eyed blonde blonde blonde spiky woman came over to our table and said, "I'm from San Francisco! People are so nice here!" She explained to us that, "They call me flighty, so I wear airline apparel!" She bought Luc a drink and he followed the call of free liquor to the bar, his eyes unfocused.
Carla and I left, because, we got work to do, people.
Buckets has this thing where he likes to stare at you while you're talking to him as if you were speaking some alien clicks and pops language. Not only that, but maybe you were spouting clicks and pops obscenity at him, and maybe spitting a little through your teeth while you were doing it.
You ask him a question and the blank, slightly shocked stare goes on for several moments before he answers you.
Usually with something non sequiter, obscene, or profound.
His darling friend Carla was on hand, she is a cheerful, short, sweet and lovely black woman who could possibly not be any more opposite from the drunken, hipster, tortured B. She said, "How do you know Luc?"
I said, "Indiana University. You?"
"Oh," she explained, between ladylike sips of beer, "I know him from the cult."
Awesome. "Right! The cult! I don't know much about that!"
"Right, well, I got out of there in high school, when my parents left, but if I had stayed I'd be married and have, like, six kids by now!" She began laughing in completely endearing bubbly chirps. "I don't want to be married! But, when you're in the cult, what else do you do after high school?"
Good point. Apparently, for a bit during high school, buckets lived in a cult on the north side of Chicago. Carla explained to me that Luc was the fun, badass cult member who would slip out for cigarettes all the time. Every cult has to have the bad boy, I guess.
We moved on to discuss other important topics, including how Carla likes to go to white trixie girl bars and start fights by accusing the blondes of being racist and yelling, "I AM A STRONG BLACK WOMAN! BLACK WOMEN DO NOT STAND IN LINE!"
"Do black people really not wait in line?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know!" She was giggling, all round cheeks and sweet twinkly eyes and everything cherubic. "Would you be intimidated by me?"
"I don't think so. You're awfully sweet."
"They're always saying, 'oh, you're so CUTE!' and I'm all, 'Shut UP, bitch!'"
She was just so cute.
Luc told me about how he coerced Apple, once into reading Henry Miller to him in her southern drawl, such a literary boy sexual fantasy.
Carla bummed cigs from me, drank many beers, and started many conversations with, "When I left the cult," and, "When we were in the cult," which made me laugh until I snorted.
Then some weirdly cross-eyed blonde blonde blonde spiky woman came over to our table and said, "I'm from San Francisco! People are so nice here!" She explained to us that, "They call me flighty, so I wear airline apparel!" She bought Luc a drink and he followed the call of free liquor to the bar, his eyes unfocused.
Carla and I left, because, we got work to do, people.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Friday Night Moments
Mark: You always remind me of Ellen Pompeo from Grey's Anatomy!
Susan: Oh, Mark. That is such a complement, because she is so. thin.
Mark:. . .
Mark: Um, that's not exactly what I meant, but. . .
We stumble drunkenly to Bar Louie. Between four people, we order:
- a basket of french fries
- 24 wings
- chip and dip trio
- artichoke and spinach dip
- soft pretzels and dip
The food doesn't all fit on our table. We eat it all. We lick plates. Not a celery stick is left at the end.
Susan: I feel so embarrased!
Me: I feel proud.
Mark: The only thing that would make this better is if I were alone with all this food.
Susan: Oh, Mark. That is such a complement, because she is so. thin.
Mark:. . .
Mark: Um, that's not exactly what I meant, but. . .
We stumble drunkenly to Bar Louie. Between four people, we order:
- a basket of french fries
- 24 wings
- chip and dip trio
- artichoke and spinach dip
- soft pretzels and dip
The food doesn't all fit on our table. We eat it all. We lick plates. Not a celery stick is left at the end.
Susan: I feel so embarrased!
Me: I feel proud.
Mark: The only thing that would make this better is if I were alone with all this food.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Top Bitch
Once, a few weeks ago, Fauxnica and I were having an incredibly important conversation.
It was about which member of "Top Chef" we most resembled.
Fauxinca said I was like Tiffani.
Of course, I was incredibly offended. Tiffani, omg, she's such a bitch. And her face is so goddamned square.
But, shame on me.
I was just reading Tom Colicchio's blog about episode 9 on Bravo's Website (shut up, I am NOT a loser!), and he made a statement I thought was not only very wise, but also hit very close to home for me. Therefore, worth sharing:
It was about which member of "Top Chef" we most resembled.
Fauxinca said I was like Tiffani.
Of course, I was incredibly offended. Tiffani, omg, she's such a bitch. And her face is so goddamned square.
But, shame on me.
I was just reading Tom Colicchio's blog about episode 9 on Bravo's Website (shut up, I am NOT a loser!), and he made a statement I thought was not only very wise, but also hit very close to home for me. Therefore, worth sharing:
I want to take a moment here to discuss Tiffani's controversial "attitude." While she and I disagreed about the kid challenge weeks ago, I never held it against her – Tiffani was willing to voice what others on her team clearly felt. While she could be tough on people, I never saw her criticize anyone else for sport or out of spite. She made enemies because she was brusque, opinionated, and unwilling to give an inch in her pursuit of the title of Top Chef. Would her toughness and determination have been denigrated in a man of similar talent? Do male chefs get criticized for being demanding and relentless? Is it possible that our distaste for competitive women keeps them out of leadership roles? Or that our preference for easygoing women over strong, outspoken ones clouds our judgment of their talent? It's worth thinking about.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Thursday, May 04, 2006
GOOD MORNING!
This morning, while I hoisted my consciousness out of a hazy, NPR-influenced dream state, I became vaguely aware that my feline companion was being far more active than usual. She does have a habit, in the morning, of milling about my room, jumping over my sleeping body, and meowing loudly in my ears. Like, HELLO ENOUGH SLEEPING IT IS TIME TO FEEEEEED ME! This is annoying. Lucky for her I am not cold-hearted enough to fulfill my fantasies of picking her up and throwing her across the room at that point. Plus, she's pretty cute. I'm a sucker that way. But, seriously. Chekkit:
So, right. Back to the point. This morning, she was tearing around the house, howling, pouncing, leaping, and otherwise scrabbling in a furry flurry of activity. I pried my eyes open and looked over the edge of the matress, where the cat had come to a stop. She was eyeing me with, I swear, a glint of pride. Between her paws was a little mouse. She meowed. She pawed lightly at the mouse. She gave me pride eyes.
This isn't unusual. Or, rather, it isn't unusual for her to be meowing proudly over one of these:
A nice little faux mouse, made of fur that I'd rather not think about, with little pink felt ears and strips of leather for a tail. Usually, the cat immediately eats the tail.
So, it's not unusual for the cat to be pawing at a little wet chunk of matted fur with little felt pink ears. That rattles.
What is unusual, which I realized as I forced my eyes to focus, is to see the cat purring over the conquest of a. real. live. (formerly) mouse. Fully articulated. With little tiny paws sporting little tiny claws and fur he grew himself. Tiny, perfectly formed whiskers poking out from his little snout. A little frowny gaping mouse mouth with tiny little razor sharp teeth. A rodent tail. A for real, long, slightly reptilian RODENT TAIL.
Good FUCKING morning!
The cat was still kind of batting around the dead body and leaning down to playfully bite it.
I got out of bed and ignored the situation. Cannot. Deal. I took a shower. I put on moisturizer. I made. coffee.
Then I came back with a paper towel, encouraged and praised the cat (a dead mouse is better than a live one). And got rid of it.
But I can't get rid of the AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGRRRAHHHCKKK thing that possesses us city girls when we get a little too much nature.
There ain't enough paper towels for that.
So, right. Back to the point. This morning, she was tearing around the house, howling, pouncing, leaping, and otherwise scrabbling in a furry flurry of activity. I pried my eyes open and looked over the edge of the matress, where the cat had come to a stop. She was eyeing me with, I swear, a glint of pride. Between her paws was a little mouse. She meowed. She pawed lightly at the mouse. She gave me pride eyes.
This isn't unusual. Or, rather, it isn't unusual for her to be meowing proudly over one of these:
A nice little faux mouse, made of fur that I'd rather not think about, with little pink felt ears and strips of leather for a tail. Usually, the cat immediately eats the tail.
So, it's not unusual for the cat to be pawing at a little wet chunk of matted fur with little felt pink ears. That rattles.
What is unusual, which I realized as I forced my eyes to focus, is to see the cat purring over the conquest of a. real. live. (formerly) mouse. Fully articulated. With little tiny paws sporting little tiny claws and fur he grew himself. Tiny, perfectly formed whiskers poking out from his little snout. A little frowny gaping mouse mouth with tiny little razor sharp teeth. A rodent tail. A for real, long, slightly reptilian RODENT TAIL.
Good FUCKING morning!
"Hey, Yo, What's up? I'm a real mouse!"
The cat was still kind of batting around the dead body and leaning down to playfully bite it.
I got out of bed and ignored the situation. Cannot. Deal. I took a shower. I put on moisturizer. I made. coffee.
Then I came back with a paper towel, encouraged and praised the cat (a dead mouse is better than a live one). And got rid of it.
But I can't get rid of the AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGRRRAHHHCKKK thing that possesses us city girls when we get a little too much nature.
There ain't enough paper towels for that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
