Can I brag for a second and say that I had the most wonderful weekend? Special and satisfying from every angle. Perhaps it was especially great because it involved a lot things I don't normally do, making it unlike most weekends where the days fly by and you always feel like a nap around 4:00. Or is that just me?
Friday started nicely with taking a half day off at work. Nice. I laid in the park for awhile (with sunscreen on!) to ease my freckled skin into a weekend chock full of sun. Then M. and I went to see a friend we hadn't seen in awhile. M. helped him get past a particularly difficult level on a video game and M. demonstrated his mad PS2 skillz.
Saturday we went to see my parents at Innsbrook. It was 90 degrees and we were dying for a swim. But wait! Before the swimming we attended Innsbrook's annual anniversary party and got a lot of wonderful and totally sinful food FOR FREE - corndogs (many, many corndogs), nachos, funnel cake, corn on the cob, and cotton candy. Beer and lemonade. It was splendid. They had a petting zoo set up for the kiddies that we totally crashed. We were all up on a baby camel and some baby goats. Too precious. I was reminded how happy I am not to have fur. After we stuffed ourselves we went swimming. I convinced M. that in fact the lake does not have alligators. Or sharks. That is by far the sissiest I have ever seen M. Very amusing.
Sunday started in an unbearably hot apartment. We escaped to Mokabe's for brunch, which was fantastic as usual. We got back here and started whining. The AC unit had yet to be moved from the kitchen where some previous jackass tenant put it behind the refrigerator. Oh! Wait! We have an out!
Last week the other receptionist at my office gave me an invitation for a local hotel's open house/luncheon. The open house was designed to entice local businesses to use their rooms for future needs. She couldn't go so she said I was welcome to use it. So I went and got a free lunch, and was given a coupon for a free night's stay anytime! (Blackout dates may apply.) So I called the hotel expecting them to tell me I couldn't use it because it was a holiday weekend. Lo and behold, they say it's fine and make me a lil reservation for a king's sized room for that very night! EIEEK! Grab your shit and let's go, M! THEY HAVE A POOL!!
We spent the rest of Sunday marvelling at the wonder that is absolutely freezing air conditioning. We flopped our sweaty selves on that massive bed and didn't move for a couple hours, watching a COPS marathon, which - why do I love COPS so much? I really could watch it for hours. Evidently I'm not the only one because they just had their 1300th episode or something. Then we went swimming, and it was one of those 1/2 inside 1/2 outside pools where you can swim under the wall and go back and forth. Big fun. We dried in the sun and I felt the freckles blooming and beginning their annual spread-and-darken thing. We retreated back to the room, put on dry clothes, and went downstairs for the free alcohol. Granted, the servings were exactly what you'd get on an airplane, but it was free and we were allowed three each. And what does one do after drinking three tiny Bloody Marys? She suggests dinner at the Cracker Barrel, because it's right next door! Oh shit, they're racist, aren't they? Damnit! But it was right next door! And we decided we were on vacation!
They really did have a lovely meatloaf. I highly recommend getting the blackberry cobbler a la mode to go and gobbling it up in the cool confines of your hotel room, preferably on your stomach on a king sized bed with your feet wrapped up with your honey's while watching Lingo.
M. passed out in that 65 degree paradise around 9:00. I watched two more hours of COPS, read about building your own pond and what fish to stock in it in a magazine M.'s sister lent me, and then shivered my way under a bunch of blankets. It was heavenly. When I was little my room was the coldest in the house and to this day I can't sleep happily unless I'm under blankets. That becomes a very dramatic situation in the summer time, especially since I haven't had central air in a few years. I was loving the shit out of that hotel room.
The next morning we woke up and went to the hotel lobby again, this time for FREE BREAKFAST, and I'm not talking about that Continental shit. They had biscuits and gravy, scrambled eggs, sausage, french toast, Belgian waffles, cereal, bagels, juice, and coffee. People, we were at a DRURY INN. That breakfast was nothing short of a miracle.
Once again stuffed and happy, we laid around smoking cigarettes until checkout at 11:00. We hopped on the highway and headed to Onondaga State Park so we could swim and play Frisbee in a cold, cold river. Of course, there were people everywhere, but we managed to find an empty spot of beach and kick back for awhile. The river couldn't have been more refreshing. M. and I formed a pretzel-like arrangement of limbs and butts that allowed us to sit in a decently fast part of the river and let the water flow around us. Little fishies huddled behind our legs to get a break, have a cig, relax a little because that damn river doesn't ever stop and fish need to kick their fins up too sometimes.
Sufficiently sunned and swimmed out, we drove back the city and immediately decided the AC situation needed to be fixed. We tore that bad boy out of the kitchen and set it up in the bedroom. The bed was shoved over so that we're right underneath that motherfucker. The room is now cold, and the happiness, it is flowing over. I noticed with some great satisfaction that after a couple cigarettes and a couple hours of the AC pumping, the bedroom smells like a hotel room. Nirvana.
Update: After chilling it in the fridge for a couple days, M. and I cut open a honeydew melon late last night. I have always been a canteloupe kind of girl, so I didn't have great expectations for this honeydew. Let me tell you, I have never enjoyed any fruit as much as I enjoyed that crisp, juicy, and insanely sweet honeydew. It was PERFECT. Which means I was definitely right when I thought this was the best weekend I've had in a long, long time. And you know how I really really know? I didn't dread coming to work this morning. That's all about getting satisfaction out of your weekend!
5.29.2006
5.26.2006
YES!
Can I just tell you about something that I find extraordinairily fabulous? I just ordered some clothes from Old Navy.com. I was a little apprehensive, as I go to real-live Old Navy about once a month and usually leave with nothing. Too short, too loose in funny places, too appliqued. And any time you order from a catalog or online you're taking big chances. Who the fuck wants the hassle and disappointment of sending them back after waiting a week and hoping against hope they get to you by Friday so you can wear them over the long holiday weekend IF they fit? (Actually, Old Navy has in-store returns and a prepaid return package included. Charming!)
I never have high hopes for clothing that comes in those sad, droopy bags. BUT WAIT. My moment of Zen:
I rip the package open and sub-packages come slipping out. Three items? Check!
I furiously strip out of my work pants and go straight for the pair of pants I'm most excited about. Ooooh. Could it be? No. OH MY GAWD they sent invisible fairies to my bedroom and took my measurements while I was sleeping! These pants, they know the dimensions of my ass, and just to make sure I'm smitten, they love it! I'll take success where I can get it, and by gadjum I HAVE SUCCEEDED. This calls for a new pair of flip flops.
Oh, and the other pants fit too. They shan't (do you put an apostrophe in that?) go unrecognized. I have a problem with pants. Being the tall glass of lemonade that I am, it's very hard to find pants that don't totally give away that I rarely wear matching socks.
So yay. Happy Friday! Let there be barbecue and maybe, just maybe, some swimming!
I never have high hopes for clothing that comes in those sad, droopy bags. BUT WAIT. My moment of Zen:
I rip the package open and sub-packages come slipping out. Three items? Check!
I furiously strip out of my work pants and go straight for the pair of pants I'm most excited about. Ooooh. Could it be? No. OH MY GAWD they sent invisible fairies to my bedroom and took my measurements while I was sleeping! These pants, they know the dimensions of my ass, and just to make sure I'm smitten, they love it! I'll take success where I can get it, and by gadjum I HAVE SUCCEEDED. This calls for a new pair of flip flops.
Oh, and the other pants fit too. They shan't (do you put an apostrophe in that?) go unrecognized. I have a problem with pants. Being the tall glass of lemonade that I am, it's very hard to find pants that don't totally give away that I rarely wear matching socks.
So yay. Happy Friday! Let there be barbecue and maybe, just maybe, some swimming!
5.25.2006
meaning
I saw a bumper sticker the other day that was simple and perfect and it's been on my mind since. It said:
Life is short. Live wide.
It wasn't an advertisement. It didn't have any other images, just yellow words on a black background.
I've never heard this phrase before. Similar to Carpe Diem or Just Do It, it's obviously meant to motivate you. It's so beautiful and simple, but unlike those other phrases, not overused or related to the military. When I really started to ask myself what living wide might be all about, my brain created a picture and it all made so much sense. I imagined life as a road that stretches to the horizon. While you might have a limited amount of road between where you are now and the horizon, there is an infinite amount of space on either side of the road. Live wide. I believe this is what Oprah calls an A-ha! moment. It really is so simple and just one of the many ways to encourage yourself to live in the moment, expand your territory, stake your claim.
I am guilty of not living wide. I have so many passions that I don't indulge.
Last night M. and I started watching Joseph Campbell's The Power of Myth. It's a 6-part series in which Campbell is interviewed about various things, all having to do with myth, heroes, love, and basically showcases Campbell's extremely thorough knowledge of how myths have shaped humanity. We watched the first hour called "The Hero's Adventure." During this interview Campbell grew increasingly interesting and I was riveted until the very end, and I'm looking forward to the next 5 hours as well. The most influential part of this hour was Campbell's assertion that the only way to be completely happy is to follow your bliss.
I don't do that. I follow my bliss on a very materialistic level - if I want a new skirt, I buy one. If I want to take a day off work for mental health, I do. That's not living wide. That's living to satisfy the most superficial kind of happiness. Is sitting at this desk perusing the Internet all day in any way, shape, or form, my bliss? Yes. It's blissful because it pays better than it should, which is a paltry excuse because I am miserable. Is this blog just a cheap (literally) way to tell myself that yes, I am a still a writer? Am I only a writer if I have an audience?
My bliss is writing. My bliss is horses. My bliss is creating things with my hands. My bliss is psychoanalysis. What is my bliss worth to me? Is it worth quitting an unfulfilling job? Is it worth taking a huge risk? I read a lot of blogs whose authors have quit their jobs to become free-lancers. That scares the ever-loving shit out of me. I don't even know where to begin, and I have no reputation to back me up.
I come from a very successful family, especially on my mother's side. They have 6-figure incomes. (Thankfully, they're all Democrats!) So my whole life I've watched these people stack up their gains, add important letters behind their names, and exist quietly in their gigantic suburban homes. Their jobs mean everything to them, and it could be said that they are following their bliss because those jobs gave them so many things of value, so many very obvious things they can look at and say "I earned that." But are they living wide because they can afford luxurious vacations and all the best gifts for their children? Are these totally different concepts?
For as long as I can remember I've been convinced that writing a best-seller would be my bliss. Until it happens I'm left to simply assume. What holds me back? Why have I started fifteen books and lost interest after sixty pages? Something has to give.
I want to live wide. I'm not really sure how but I know for me personally it involves confronting fears. It involves giving up certain things so I can let other things in. It means discipline, sacrifice, and frightening changes. Right now, though, it's all Greek to me. I can say these things, I can recognize my desire to live wide and follow my bliss, but nobody ever got anywhere by passionately thinking about something, did they? At some point you must act.
5.22.2006
I'm over it, I swear!
I have always considered middle school the most traumatic and overly dramatic period of my life so far. Nineteen was also a really sketchy year for me, but in terms of experiences that you are sure will be the death of you (at least socially) sixth through eighth grades were long and impossibly bumpy. Everything in my world shifted - my friends, my hobbies, my relationship with my family (namely my penchant for making my mom wish she could un-adopt me) - and I suppose at the time I could not have imagined a shittier sequence of events over the period of three years. Looking back, none of it was horrible, but certainly twelve-year-old me wanted to curl up quietly and die on several occasions.
I should never have opened this diary yesterday because I'm way too distracted by it right now. It looks like I only wrote in it when the worst possible shit was going down. That makes sense, though. When things were going well I was enjoying it, and when they turned sour...well, let's just say I read Go Ask Alice. I knew what to do.
December 27, Sunday (1993)
I rode Earl today. He was good. We did an equitation course. Then I got in a fight with my mom. I wouldn't put my Gameboy away so she hit me. I am gonna run away. I will probably not come back. She will probably ground me, but I don't care. She is such a bitch! She ruined my absolutely perfect day.
Ok, Whiny McWhinerpants. What I failed to tell my diary is that I most likely cussed my mom out after she told me to put away my Gameboy. I would have smacked me too for some of the lovely words I spewed at her. My mother gave me the moon and in return I gave her the brattiest version of myself that I could possibly muster, and I did so on a regular basis. I've only been slapped in the face twice - 1) the Gameboy incident (which I honestly do not remember) and 2) when my parents bought me (based on the recommendation of my riding instructor) a young horse that lived in California. The cost of shipping alone was equal to a quarter of the horse's price. After waiting for him for months and then riding him several times I learned that he was a spoiled, miserable, lazy biter, so I told my mom to send him back. Again, I think I would've slapped myself too. Getting that horse was a major production. In my own defense, horses and their primary riders must click, and we most certainly did not. I mean, come on. Have you ever been bitten by a horse? No? Then step! Also, I was not equipped to teach that horse how to behave properly, which quite honestly would have involved a lot of whipping, snarling, and generally making the horse hate me. It's called "breaking a horse" for a reason, and I wanted no part of it.
I really need to shut up about the horses now. Sorry, it's in the fibre of my being.
Oh, and did you like how I said I'd run away and not come back and then I'd probably get grounded? Hard to get grounded if you actually stay gone, asshat! I am feeling highly disappointed in my illogical young self right now.
OMG! The next entry very briefly recounts THE WORST moment of my life (by age 12, that is).
Why was I so damned brief about all this stuff? Of all the times to skimp on words, which as you know is just not my style!
January 11, Monday (1993)
Today the 3 worst things happened. First, after an awesome weekend with Gwane, she left. We were really bummed. Then I had about a gallon of menstrual blood come out. It was all over my jeans, so I went home. Then I called the Homework Hotline and got the wrong number. So this guy called back and left a message that he was going to find me and hurt me. What a shitty Monday!TGIO!
TGIO must mean Thank God It's Over, which as far as I know was the first and last time I've ever used that acronym. Weird. I had forgotten about that Hotline thing - that was actually kind of scary. After the guy called and said that someone else in his house, a woman, called and left a bunch of messages accusing me of "playing on their phone." I was freaked the fuck out! And the blood...well...I can't even tell you what it feels like to be sitting in 7th grade History class and feel like your insides just burst and were flowing out of your vagina, and even if you were wearing a pad, which you weren't, it would've been like trying to soak up a puddle with a paper towel. Maybe it wasn't a gallon, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was a pint, which - JUST AS BAD. I remember wrapping a jacket around my waist and walking to gym class so I could tell my friend what was going on, because I knew she could tell the nurse what happened and the words would never be able to come out of my mouth. I actually had to beg the gym teacher to let my friend go to the nurse's with me. What a wench.
I'M DONE (for) NOW.
I should never have opened this diary yesterday because I'm way too distracted by it right now. It looks like I only wrote in it when the worst possible shit was going down. That makes sense, though. When things were going well I was enjoying it, and when they turned sour...well, let's just say I read Go Ask Alice. I knew what to do.
December 27, Sunday (1993)
I rode Earl today. He was good. We did an equitation course. Then I got in a fight with my mom. I wouldn't put my Gameboy away so she hit me. I am gonna run away. I will probably not come back. She will probably ground me, but I don't care. She is such a bitch! She ruined my absolutely perfect day.
Ok, Whiny McWhinerpants. What I failed to tell my diary is that I most likely cussed my mom out after she told me to put away my Gameboy. I would have smacked me too for some of the lovely words I spewed at her. My mother gave me the moon and in return I gave her the brattiest version of myself that I could possibly muster, and I did so on a regular basis. I've only been slapped in the face twice - 1) the Gameboy incident (which I honestly do not remember) and 2) when my parents bought me (based on the recommendation of my riding instructor) a young horse that lived in California. The cost of shipping alone was equal to a quarter of the horse's price. After waiting for him for months and then riding him several times I learned that he was a spoiled, miserable, lazy biter, so I told my mom to send him back. Again, I think I would've slapped myself too. Getting that horse was a major production. In my own defense, horses and their primary riders must click, and we most certainly did not. I mean, come on. Have you ever been bitten by a horse? No? Then step! Also, I was not equipped to teach that horse how to behave properly, which quite honestly would have involved a lot of whipping, snarling, and generally making the horse hate me. It's called "breaking a horse" for a reason, and I wanted no part of it.
I really need to shut up about the horses now. Sorry, it's in the fibre of my being.
Oh, and did you like how I said I'd run away and not come back and then I'd probably get grounded? Hard to get grounded if you actually stay gone, asshat! I am feeling highly disappointed in my illogical young self right now.
OMG! The next entry very briefly recounts THE WORST moment of my life (by age 12, that is).
Why was I so damned brief about all this stuff? Of all the times to skimp on words, which as you know is just not my style!
January 11, Monday (1993)
Today the 3 worst things happened. First, after an awesome weekend with Gwane, she left. We were really bummed. Then I had about a gallon of menstrual blood come out. It was all over my jeans, so I went home. Then I called the Homework Hotline and got the wrong number. So this guy called back and left a message that he was going to find me and hurt me. What a shitty Monday!TGIO!
TGIO must mean Thank God It's Over, which as far as I know was the first and last time I've ever used that acronym. Weird. I had forgotten about that Hotline thing - that was actually kind of scary. After the guy called and said that someone else in his house, a woman, called and left a bunch of messages accusing me of "playing on their phone." I was freaked the fuck out! And the blood...well...I can't even tell you what it feels like to be sitting in 7th grade History class and feel like your insides just burst and were flowing out of your vagina, and even if you were wearing a pad, which you weren't, it would've been like trying to soak up a puddle with a paper towel. Maybe it wasn't a gallon, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was a pint, which - JUST AS BAD. I remember wrapping a jacket around my waist and walking to gym class so I could tell my friend what was going on, because I knew she could tell the nurse what happened and the words would never be able to come out of my mouth. I actually had to beg the gym teacher to let my friend go to the nurse's with me. What a wench.
I'M DONE (for) NOW.
5.21.2006
self-flagellating like i'm that albino from the davinci movie
I must admit this post is definitely inspired by something I read on someone else's blog. I'm not sure about all the etiquette of quoting your blog source, but it's a really fantastic idea and I just wonder if it wouldn't catch on.
This girl decided it would be funny to dig up old journals and lovelorn missives and gather some other people with their own versions of the same materials and read them out loud in a public place on a regular basis. She lives in NY and it caught on very quickly and now they continuously have packed rooms. She says there is copious laughter and comraderie abound, because weren't we really all that same totally insecure pre-teen ball of angst? I'm thinking we were. It's nice to hear other people wrote totally inappropriate love letters that they wisely never sent, only to become such classic, hilarious fodder given some time and space and a whole lotta living.
I've been carrying around a diary that I only wrote in on ten different occasions between the ages of 13 and 15. I'm going to share and entry with you. It's the first one.
December 24, Thursday
Today is the first day that I'm writing to you. My friends came over last night. I found out something about Nicky. She is gay. It makes me feel really uncomfortable. She says that she's really attracted to Heather. I feel sorry for Heather. Our group always gets in a fight. I felt really bad, because it's Christmas and everyone should be caring. I'll explain about my friends later. First I'll explain myself. I am 5 foot 4 and I just got my hair cut to my chin. I won't tell you my weight in case someone finds this. I think I'm overweight, and my mom is always staring at my stomach. I HATE THAT! I want to lose weight, but it's hard when all my friends are skinny. I have a horse named Sambo that I would die for. I love him dearly. Okay, see you later and I'll tell you what I got for Christmas!
I don't even know where to start! Obviously I had no idea that as an adult all of the people I cherish and love most in the world just happen to be lesbians. I'm mortified by myself but also quite relieved that I outgrew myself in so many good ways. By the way, why is there no derisive but endearing faghag-like term for people like me?
How tragic is that line about my mother looking at my stomach? I'd forgotten about that little habit of hers. Of course somewhere in my brain an unconcious reflex is screaming you didn't forget! you REPRESSED! But whatevs. She gave up long ago and we are all happier for it.
Ok, maybe I'll do the second one too because I know you're dying to know what I got for Christmas! Let the spoiled brat comments commence. I can take it.
December 25, Friday
Today was pretty good. I got the following: a manicure set, boxers, two horse brushes, a sponge for Sambo, a sweater with matching pants and a turtleneck, about five books, tear jerkers, spurs, a boot bag, a bridle bag, a ratcatcher (white)*, 3 pairs of Christmas socks, a white and black puppet horse, a $15 dollar gift certificate to Camelot, horse button covers**, and a Gameboy game called Dr. Mario.
Please remember this is before I almost bankrupted my parents with my horse hobby. That's like my keystone issue or something, the get thee to a therapist ISSUE.
*A ratcatcher is a wrap-collared button-up riding shirt worn under a jacket, only worn when riding in a fancy horse show.
**I never wore them. I DIDN'T!
I still have that black and white horse puppet. It's cute.
This girl decided it would be funny to dig up old journals and lovelorn missives and gather some other people with their own versions of the same materials and read them out loud in a public place on a regular basis. She lives in NY and it caught on very quickly and now they continuously have packed rooms. She says there is copious laughter and comraderie abound, because weren't we really all that same totally insecure pre-teen ball of angst? I'm thinking we were. It's nice to hear other people wrote totally inappropriate love letters that they wisely never sent, only to become such classic, hilarious fodder given some time and space and a whole lotta living.
I've been carrying around a diary that I only wrote in on ten different occasions between the ages of 13 and 15. I'm going to share and entry with you. It's the first one.
December 24, Thursday
Today is the first day that I'm writing to you. My friends came over last night. I found out something about Nicky. She is gay. It makes me feel really uncomfortable. She says that she's really attracted to Heather. I feel sorry for Heather. Our group always gets in a fight. I felt really bad, because it's Christmas and everyone should be caring. I'll explain about my friends later. First I'll explain myself. I am 5 foot 4 and I just got my hair cut to my chin. I won't tell you my weight in case someone finds this. I think I'm overweight, and my mom is always staring at my stomach. I HATE THAT! I want to lose weight, but it's hard when all my friends are skinny. I have a horse named Sambo that I would die for. I love him dearly. Okay, see you later and I'll tell you what I got for Christmas!
I don't even know where to start! Obviously I had no idea that as an adult all of the people I cherish and love most in the world just happen to be lesbians. I'm mortified by myself but also quite relieved that I outgrew myself in so many good ways. By the way, why is there no derisive but endearing faghag-like term for people like me?
How tragic is that line about my mother looking at my stomach? I'd forgotten about that little habit of hers. Of course somewhere in my brain an unconcious reflex is screaming you didn't forget! you REPRESSED! But whatevs. She gave up long ago and we are all happier for it.
Ok, maybe I'll do the second one too because I know you're dying to know what I got for Christmas! Let the spoiled brat comments commence. I can take it.
December 25, Friday
Today was pretty good. I got the following: a manicure set, boxers, two horse brushes, a sponge for Sambo, a sweater with matching pants and a turtleneck, about five books, tear jerkers, spurs, a boot bag, a bridle bag, a ratcatcher (white)*, 3 pairs of Christmas socks, a white and black puppet horse, a $15 dollar gift certificate to Camelot, horse button covers**, and a Gameboy game called Dr. Mario.
Please remember this is before I almost bankrupted my parents with my horse hobby. That's like my keystone issue or something, the get thee to a therapist ISSUE.
*A ratcatcher is a wrap-collared button-up riding shirt worn under a jacket, only worn when riding in a fancy horse show.
**I never wore them. I DIDN'T!
I still have that black and white horse puppet. It's cute.
i know you are but what am i?
The nice thing about having a blog is that you can indulge your own sick obsessions and not only is it okay, it is to be expected. My blog.
I got this fabulous book for my birthday called The Secret Language of Birthdays. I'd borrowed it from my niece's mother and practically made out with it for a whole week and sadly had to give it back. Three years later I own my own copy! I am not afraid to admit that this is the best book I have ever owned. It is huge and lovely in your lap, not unlike that protective, heavy feeling of the x-ray apron at the dentist (is that just me? I'm totally comforted by that apron!) Anyway. As I consider myself very interested in all things astrological, this is basically my bible. There are dirty secrets about ALL OF YOU in here. Oh, and cross-referencing, for fuck's sake! Hea-vun. There's enough information where you couldn't possibly remember it all the first time, so I just keep looking you all up over and over and murmuring ohhh that is SO TRUE about her! I know you all are jealous and you want my book. Or at least now you're curious about what was true about YOU!
Why do I feel so taunty today? Must've been the sun. I had some good quality Frisbee and blanket-occupying in the park today. Wait, keep reading, there is information about YOU coming up!
In my birthday book, every day has a phrase associated with it, like "the day of precocity," and I believe this statement to be the author's best summation of the personality of people born on that day. I find these very entertaining. Also, you've been warned - this will not be the last time I bust out this book.
So find your birthday! Giggle at the appropriateness of everyone else's! Or be totally fucking confused because it doesn't make any sense. (If your birthday isn't on here you can leave it in the comments and I'll update this list. I'm sorry I don't have it memorized yet! Believe me when I say it's very, very important! If you want to ask about someone you know's birthday, that's cool too.) Oh, and if you think I'm making this shit up - that's blasphemous.
February 18 - The Day of the Complete Picture
February 19 - The Day of the Explorer
March 7 - The Day of Abstract Structure
March 13 - The Day of the Fateful Prediction
March 28 - The Day of Innocence
April 8 - The Day of Conscience
July 9 - The Day of Wonder
August 10 - The Day of the Velvet Voice
August 19 - The Day of Startling Suprises
October 23 - The Day of Conflicting Karma
November 29 - The Day of the Instigator
December 20 - The Day of the Generator
I know I'm missing S, E, J, and W's. I'm sad about it so hook me up, somone.
Ok, that's all I have for now. Must shower the park off me. There were ants and spiders.
I got this fabulous book for my birthday called The Secret Language of Birthdays. I'd borrowed it from my niece's mother and practically made out with it for a whole week and sadly had to give it back. Three years later I own my own copy! I am not afraid to admit that this is the best book I have ever owned. It is huge and lovely in your lap, not unlike that protective, heavy feeling of the x-ray apron at the dentist (is that just me? I'm totally comforted by that apron!) Anyway. As I consider myself very interested in all things astrological, this is basically my bible. There are dirty secrets about ALL OF YOU in here. Oh, and cross-referencing, for fuck's sake! Hea-vun. There's enough information where you couldn't possibly remember it all the first time, so I just keep looking you all up over and over and murmuring ohhh that is SO TRUE about her! I know you all are jealous and you want my book. Or at least now you're curious about what was true about YOU!
Why do I feel so taunty today? Must've been the sun. I had some good quality Frisbee and blanket-occupying in the park today. Wait, keep reading, there is information about YOU coming up!
In my birthday book, every day has a phrase associated with it, like "the day of precocity," and I believe this statement to be the author's best summation of the personality of people born on that day. I find these very entertaining. Also, you've been warned - this will not be the last time I bust out this book.
So find your birthday! Giggle at the appropriateness of everyone else's! Or be totally fucking confused because it doesn't make any sense. (If your birthday isn't on here you can leave it in the comments and I'll update this list. I'm sorry I don't have it memorized yet! Believe me when I say it's very, very important! If you want to ask about someone you know's birthday, that's cool too.) Oh, and if you think I'm making this shit up - that's blasphemous.
February 18 - The Day of the Complete Picture
February 19 - The Day of the Explorer
March 7 - The Day of Abstract Structure
March 13 - The Day of the Fateful Prediction
March 28 - The Day of Innocence
April 8 - The Day of Conscience
July 9 - The Day of Wonder
August 10 - The Day of the Velvet Voice
August 19 - The Day of Startling Suprises
October 23 - The Day of Conflicting Karma
November 29 - The Day of the Instigator
December 20 - The Day of the Generator
I know I'm missing S, E, J, and W's. I'm sad about it so hook me up, somone.
Ok, that's all I have for now. Must shower the park off me. There were ants and spiders.
5.20.2006
just so simple
Last night M. and I saw the most beautiful sunset. I wish I had a lovely picture of it to slap up onto this post, but of course the camera is never there when you want it to be. It was one of those sunsets where the sky is filled with all kinds of strangely-shaped clouds, lots of purple and blue, and the sun plays upon all the clouds giving them all this personality and charm, and it made the sky seem so large. That might be the dumbest thing I've ever said. Onward.
A conversation that kind of proves that maybe this whole Mars/Venus thing between the sexes really is true and maybe it's not so horrible that men are more likely to just get to the fucking point already:
Me: Sometimes I wonder if anyone appreciates sunsets. Do people actually take the time to look around or is everyone in such a hurry that they just don't bother to look up? I feel like a dork for always noticing, but then I think I'm just one of the lucky ones that takes the time to take it in. Do you notice sunsets or when the sky is doing something wonderful? When you're at work surrounded by men what do you all say to each other? "Wow, the sky is so beautiful"? That doesn't seem like something men would say to each other. What do you say?
M.: We say "look."
That might be the smartest thing I've heard in awhile. Just shut up and look already.
A conversation that kind of proves that maybe this whole Mars/Venus thing between the sexes really is true and maybe it's not so horrible that men are more likely to just get to the fucking point already:
Me: Sometimes I wonder if anyone appreciates sunsets. Do people actually take the time to look around or is everyone in such a hurry that they just don't bother to look up? I feel like a dork for always noticing, but then I think I'm just one of the lucky ones that takes the time to take it in. Do you notice sunsets or when the sky is doing something wonderful? When you're at work surrounded by men what do you all say to each other? "Wow, the sky is so beautiful"? That doesn't seem like something men would say to each other. What do you say?
M.: We say "look."
That might be the smartest thing I've heard in awhile. Just shut up and look already.
5.19.2006
EWWW and also, OH NO SHE DIDN'T!
ok. i'm trying to regulate my breathing so that i don't hyperventilate.
i just discovered that mice have been visiting (ransacking, rather) my snack drawer.
MICE.
not only do they visit, but they either stay for long enough to completely gorge themselves and then shit repeatedly, or we're talking about approximately 500 mice. Ok, maybe it's not that bad. But maybe it is!
Yeah, it's my fault, but what the fuck? I have never had a mouse-related problem with my snack drawer here or anywhere else, for that matter, including the office in the Chicago suburbs where we always saw mice running from bush to bush in front of the building. Snack drawer-related problems have always been more like crap, how long has this pudding been in here? and how am i going to fit three rolls of rice cakes in this drawer?
MICE!! I cannot express with appropriate vehemence how much i truly despise mice. i've wondered my whole life why i am so frightened and utterly repulsed by them. after all, gigantic Rottweilers and randy stallions (which will attempt to mount humans) don't bother me in the slightest. but mice? devil spawns. i think it has something to do with my aversion to all nocturnal creatures. there is something just not right about things with long tails and beady eyes that creep about and handle all their business affairs after everyone has gone to sleep. they are naughty and sneaky and moochy.
I think (and hope) that this is a new problem, considering i open my snack drawer several times a day and didn't notice until this morning that there are very obvious gnaw marks in my hot chocolate packets. half of one of my Goetze's caramels has been gutted. THERE IS MOUSE POOP. A LOT. and that was before I even got the back of the drawer, where i discovered much to the dismay of my gag reflexes, that the mice had dragged TWO packets of oatmeal under where my magazines chill in hanging files. And more poop. Waaaay more poop. At this point i seriously have to close my eyes and tell myself to breathe and swallow, just keep swallowing, to keep the throw-uppy juices down.
(By the way, the mess is still not dealt with. Baby steps.)
I have been providing OATMEAL to MICE. And when they're done eating the healthy stuff their mommies allow them to eat dessert. Caramels with sweet icing filling and dry hot chocolate. Why, i'm the fanciest mouse cafeteria they've ever encountered!
The vacuum in the cleaning supply closet bears attachments that do not attach to it, and no, the business end of the vacuum doesn't fit into the drawer. I tried. I just alerted the other receptionist so she can tell the pest control people about it, which, DO YOUR JOB, pest people! and she said she'd leave a note for the cleaning lady to take care of it. Now, you might be thinking I have found a great solution. Someone else will remove the mess. But somehow I just can't imagine sitting next to this all day. That, and it seems so mean to make the cleaning lady deal with this nastiness. Call me codependant.
And now, I feel like a total baby. M. just called and I burst into my story with all appropriate disgust and he says "yeah, well, Nick just got hit by a car." Nick is M.'s best friend at work. M. tells me that a car coming down the street they were paving suddenly slammed into a parked car. The driver, a 24-year-old pregnant woman, kept going and drove into several of those orange barrels they always have around road construction. She then got herself stuck up on a curb and Nick walked up to the car and told her she needed to stop, didn't she realize she had just hit a car? The woman smacked her car into Nick's legs, then reversed, then gunned the engine and plowed into him, and he rode on the hood of her car screaming STOPPP and she continued another block, steadily accelerating, until a truck coming the opposite way (one of the work trucks for Nick and M.'s employer, which was towing a trailer of equipment) blocked her path, and she proceeded to slam into the trailer. Somehow Nick still had the wherewithall to reach into the car and grab the keys from the ignition while the woman furiously scrambled to get out of the passenger side. She offered money to them if they'd please not call the police. Then she punched Nick in the nose.
The cops came and she tried to fight them off. They halted all street work because they need to take pictures of all the stuff she hit. It turns out they are very familiar with this young and 4 months pregnant crack addict whose mother had just died. Who, by the way, has a wicked staph infection, did anyone touch her? Well yes, Nick touched her a lot while he was trying to restrain her after she basically attempted to kill him.
Whoa. What mice? Am feeling totally stupid. But thankfully a very nice coworker just came along and pulled the drawer out and dumped the contents into the trash for me, officially becoming my favorite person in the office. Ok, I'm off to 409 the crap outta my drawer lest those little bastards sniff a little crumb I might have missed. There will be no missing of crumbs, only repeated mental sighs of relief that that crazy beotch didn't hit M.
i just discovered that mice have been visiting (ransacking, rather) my snack drawer.
MICE.
not only do they visit, but they either stay for long enough to completely gorge themselves and then shit repeatedly, or we're talking about approximately 500 mice. Ok, maybe it's not that bad. But maybe it is!
Yeah, it's my fault, but what the fuck? I have never had a mouse-related problem with my snack drawer here or anywhere else, for that matter, including the office in the Chicago suburbs where we always saw mice running from bush to bush in front of the building. Snack drawer-related problems have always been more like crap, how long has this pudding been in here? and how am i going to fit three rolls of rice cakes in this drawer?
MICE!! I cannot express with appropriate vehemence how much i truly despise mice. i've wondered my whole life why i am so frightened and utterly repulsed by them. after all, gigantic Rottweilers and randy stallions (which will attempt to mount humans) don't bother me in the slightest. but mice? devil spawns. i think it has something to do with my aversion to all nocturnal creatures. there is something just not right about things with long tails and beady eyes that creep about and handle all their business affairs after everyone has gone to sleep. they are naughty and sneaky and moochy.
I think (and hope) that this is a new problem, considering i open my snack drawer several times a day and didn't notice until this morning that there are very obvious gnaw marks in my hot chocolate packets. half of one of my Goetze's caramels has been gutted. THERE IS MOUSE POOP. A LOT. and that was before I even got the back of the drawer, where i discovered much to the dismay of my gag reflexes, that the mice had dragged TWO packets of oatmeal under where my magazines chill in hanging files. And more poop. Waaaay more poop. At this point i seriously have to close my eyes and tell myself to breathe and swallow, just keep swallowing, to keep the throw-uppy juices down.
(By the way, the mess is still not dealt with. Baby steps.)
I have been providing OATMEAL to MICE. And when they're done eating the healthy stuff their mommies allow them to eat dessert. Caramels with sweet icing filling and dry hot chocolate. Why, i'm the fanciest mouse cafeteria they've ever encountered!
The vacuum in the cleaning supply closet bears attachments that do not attach to it, and no, the business end of the vacuum doesn't fit into the drawer. I tried. I just alerted the other receptionist so she can tell the pest control people about it, which, DO YOUR JOB, pest people! and she said she'd leave a note for the cleaning lady to take care of it. Now, you might be thinking I have found a great solution. Someone else will remove the mess. But somehow I just can't imagine sitting next to this all day. That, and it seems so mean to make the cleaning lady deal with this nastiness. Call me codependant.
And now, I feel like a total baby. M. just called and I burst into my story with all appropriate disgust and he says "yeah, well, Nick just got hit by a car." Nick is M.'s best friend at work. M. tells me that a car coming down the street they were paving suddenly slammed into a parked car. The driver, a 24-year-old pregnant woman, kept going and drove into several of those orange barrels they always have around road construction. She then got herself stuck up on a curb and Nick walked up to the car and told her she needed to stop, didn't she realize she had just hit a car? The woman smacked her car into Nick's legs, then reversed, then gunned the engine and plowed into him, and he rode on the hood of her car screaming STOPPP and she continued another block, steadily accelerating, until a truck coming the opposite way (one of the work trucks for Nick and M.'s employer, which was towing a trailer of equipment) blocked her path, and she proceeded to slam into the trailer. Somehow Nick still had the wherewithall to reach into the car and grab the keys from the ignition while the woman furiously scrambled to get out of the passenger side. She offered money to them if they'd please not call the police. Then she punched Nick in the nose.
The cops came and she tried to fight them off. They halted all street work because they need to take pictures of all the stuff she hit. It turns out they are very familiar with this young and 4 months pregnant crack addict whose mother had just died. Who, by the way, has a wicked staph infection, did anyone touch her? Well yes, Nick touched her a lot while he was trying to restrain her after she basically attempted to kill him.
Whoa. What mice? Am feeling totally stupid. But thankfully a very nice coworker just came along and pulled the drawer out and dumped the contents into the trash for me, officially becoming my favorite person in the office. Ok, I'm off to 409 the crap outta my drawer lest those little bastards sniff a little crumb I might have missed. There will be no missing of crumbs, only repeated mental sighs of relief that that crazy beotch didn't hit M.
5.18.2006
meet the Gabbys. plural.
Because I haven't in awhile, I just googled myself. All that came up were a couple boring articles I wrote for the Fontbonne newspaper while I was there. Then I googled "Gabby" without my last name, and hooo boy, did I have a good (and horrified) laugh!
Let the Gabbing begin:
First, this chain of restaurants in Toronto called Gabby's. Aren't you jealous that you don't have a cheesy, Applebee's-type chain with your name all over it? Ooh they probably have ginormous alcoholic bevies called Gabbaritas and Gabby on the Beach. And that is some major history, people. They've been slingin' overpriced chicken fingers since 1989!!
Next, a delightful musician named Gabby La La, based in San Francisco:
See, doesn't she look like fun? She plays the sitar, accordian, toy piano, and ukelele(!) fer chrissakes! And she was involved with the incredibly cool-sounding Dakah Hip Hop Orchestra. A snippet from her online journal:
I am almost done with the last inner ear section. I think the head is too big!! soon, hopefully today, I will assemble everything and hopefully it will look like a real bunny!
(that she is knitting, apparently, but before I scrolled down I thought ooooh we've got a live one, y'all! no seriously, though, this chick seems pretty rad.)
Not so rad: Crabby Gabby's Primitive Black Doll. Check out the close up of the face. WOULD YOU EVER give your baby a doll like that, you sick fuck? The doll's name is Belindy, but feel free to rename her Fuglette!
What else do we have here...
Gabby Pahinui, a musician from Hawaii, greatly respected and no longer living. I like when I find male Gabbys. Interesting and strange. Also, Gabby Hayes, American actor, who was in 192 movies, most of them Westerns. He looks like someone that might know a few dirty jokes.
Ok, the next couple bug me out a bit...
we don't live in a disposable world? WE DON'T?!? Nice cleav, Mom. And are you sure your baby's not drowning? Aren't babies supposed to float? You pushed him under there for the shot, didn't you?
Also:
Fabby Gabby's Froo Froos.
This is the Special of the Month, the Pink Marshmallow Froo Froo:
And this is a needle in my eye.
Did I ever enjoy shit like that? I don't think I want girls anymore. And when I end up having 5 girls and they all prance around in tu-tus, or rather, froo froos (because you know I'll remember Fabby Gabby and patronize her later) please don't mock me or ask me where the needle is now.
Yes, yes, y'all:
That would be Gabby's, "A Great Little Honky Tonk." There are no two words more fun than Honky and Tonk. Put 'em together and you've got magic. This place is in British Columbia. Canadians must LOVE their Gabbys! Obviously I should move.
This is a band called Gabby Johnson that I will not be listening to:
They look all cute and harmless and granted, they were kind enough to add my name, but their tour dates involve places strictly within the confines of Florida and Texas and they pretty much go off on Michael Moore, so, you know, peace out. I'm sure they rock the socks off the local Seymour Frog's. I kinda feel like my name has been taken in vain, what with all the liberal-hating, poop-catching, dead doll-making things going on here!
Thankfully, we can end on a good note. Meet Gabby Day, professional cyclist:
Rawr! Can we all agree she saved the Gabbys? Or did I do that? Oh Me, you're such a card!
Let the Gabbing begin:
First, this chain of restaurants in Toronto called Gabby's. Aren't you jealous that you don't have a cheesy, Applebee's-type chain with your name all over it? Ooh they probably have ginormous alcoholic bevies called Gabbaritas and Gabby on the Beach. And that is some major history, people. They've been slingin' overpriced chicken fingers since 1989!!
Next, a delightful musician named Gabby La La, based in San Francisco:
See, doesn't she look like fun? She plays the sitar, accordian, toy piano, and ukelele(!) fer chrissakes! And she was involved with the incredibly cool-sounding Dakah Hip Hop Orchestra. A snippet from her online journal:
I am almost done with the last inner ear section. I think the head is too big!! soon, hopefully today, I will assemble everything and hopefully it will look like a real bunny!
(that she is knitting, apparently, but before I scrolled down I thought ooooh we've got a live one, y'all! no seriously, though, this chick seems pretty rad.)
Not so rad: Crabby Gabby's Primitive Black Doll. Check out the close up of the face. WOULD YOU EVER give your baby a doll like that, you sick fuck? The doll's name is Belindy, but feel free to rename her Fuglette!
What else do we have here...
Gabby Pahinui, a musician from Hawaii, greatly respected and no longer living. I like when I find male Gabbys. Interesting and strange. Also, Gabby Hayes, American actor, who was in 192 movies, most of them Westerns. He looks like someone that might know a few dirty jokes.
Ok, the next couple bug me out a bit...
we don't live in a disposable world? WE DON'T?!? Nice cleav, Mom. And are you sure your baby's not drowning? Aren't babies supposed to float? You pushed him under there for the shot, didn't you?
Also:
Fabby Gabby's Froo Froos.
This is the Special of the Month, the Pink Marshmallow Froo Froo:
And this is a needle in my eye.
Did I ever enjoy shit like that? I don't think I want girls anymore. And when I end up having 5 girls and they all prance around in tu-tus, or rather, froo froos (because you know I'll remember Fabby Gabby and patronize her later) please don't mock me or ask me where the needle is now.
Yes, yes, y'all:
That would be Gabby's, "A Great Little Honky Tonk." There are no two words more fun than Honky and Tonk. Put 'em together and you've got magic. This place is in British Columbia. Canadians must LOVE their Gabbys! Obviously I should move.
This is a band called Gabby Johnson that I will not be listening to:
They look all cute and harmless and granted, they were kind enough to add my name, but their tour dates involve places strictly within the confines of Florida and Texas and they pretty much go off on Michael Moore, so, you know, peace out. I'm sure they rock the socks off the local Seymour Frog's. I kinda feel like my name has been taken in vain, what with all the liberal-hating, poop-catching, dead doll-making things going on here!
Thankfully, we can end on a good note. Meet Gabby Day, professional cyclist:
Rawr! Can we all agree she saved the Gabbys? Or did I do that? Oh Me, you're such a card!
5.16.2006
Post 19!
Post 19 has absolutely no relevance. 19 is not my favorite number. The 19th is not my birthday. I do not type 19 words per minute or have 19 pairs of shoes. I just thought 19 sounded rather big. Then I realized in 19 posts I haven't really said anything very...worthwhile. Ah, Self-Esteem, you are a cruel creature. It's not like I'm going for a Nobel Peace Prize here!
Just a minute ago, I was sitting on the toilet (now we're getting somewhere) and I heard a thump against the door. I opened it a crack and it was Cirrus the kitty, crashing her face into it because she loves to crash her face into shit. I gave her a second to dash in but she didn't so I closed the door. She likes to visit me when I'm in the loo. However, there is a guest in the apartment right now and it's just not decent to impose the sound of draining piss upon someone, and ain't I the most decent of all decency! But I thought it would be fun to play with the kitty. So I unwadded some of the t.p. in my hand and pushed it under the door. I then proceeded to wiggle it around and yank it away, which is the proper way to get a cat's attention. Cirrus wasn't taking the bait. Wiggle wiggle wiggle. Still no claw. Yeah, uh, that's because the cat had walked away and left me wiggling, unaware. Are you a loser if no one is there to see you lose? No, you are a loser when you proceed to tell people about it. Hopefully it's more tolerable than making you read about my dream last night. Which, by the way, was crazy...
Just a minute ago, I was sitting on the toilet (now we're getting somewhere) and I heard a thump against the door. I opened it a crack and it was Cirrus the kitty, crashing her face into it because she loves to crash her face into shit. I gave her a second to dash in but she didn't so I closed the door. She likes to visit me when I'm in the loo. However, there is a guest in the apartment right now and it's just not decent to impose the sound of draining piss upon someone, and ain't I the most decent of all decency! But I thought it would be fun to play with the kitty. So I unwadded some of the t.p. in my hand and pushed it under the door. I then proceeded to wiggle it around and yank it away, which is the proper way to get a cat's attention. Cirrus wasn't taking the bait. Wiggle wiggle wiggle. Still no claw. Yeah, uh, that's because the cat had walked away and left me wiggling, unaware. Are you a loser if no one is there to see you lose? No, you are a loser when you proceed to tell people about it. Hopefully it's more tolerable than making you read about my dream last night. Which, by the way, was crazy...
5.14.2006
Mother may I...
kick my brother's ass?
Here's the thing about my brother: he just got off nearly three years of not being allowed to drink alcohol or (obviously) consume any sort of illicit anything. He had to blow into a breathalizer every time he started his car. He even wore a strap on his angle that detects alcohol in your sweat. If you don't know my brother very well, all I can tell you is that my brother used to party hard. I must say he handled this government babysitting remarkably well, and I thought maybe he'd see a new outlook on life that didn't revolve around drunken carousing in Soulard or any of the many, many bars where he knows the bartenders by name. At the very least, maybe he'd see the benefit of moderation and recognize that getting careless with the things and people you love can have devastating consequences.
Recently, he officially ended his relationship with his on/off girlfriend who is not the peachiest of peaches, and I agree they probably shouldn't be together. Recently, he completed his term of forced sobriety. What do you get when you squash these two major events within weeks of one another? Retro J., the J. that gets arrested.
To be fair, he didn't get arrested. He called me last night and I was in a noisy place so I didn't answer. I assumed he was double-checking that we were still meeting at 9:00am for Mother's Day brunch at Mokabe's. (Yeah, it's early, and it was my idea, but if you don't there early you don't get a table.) So I called J. back late last night and MY COUSIN answered the phone. My cousin is my age and very cute and friendly. When she first came into the family (through marriage at age 11) I thought it was awesome to have a female cousin my age that rode horses and played the flute like I did, and she thought my hair was perfect so naturally I took to her. Now her and my brother are friends. I barely talked to my cousin at Easter; she was too busy gossiping with J. about all the partying, about her recent breakup, and how J.'s girlfriend is crazy and he should end it. Though I still think she's nice, I have nothing in common with her. She and her friends enjoy hanging out in bars in downtown Clayton because that's where they think they're going to meet rich men. Her and J. have very similar paces of life. That doesn't mean they should be pacing together!
A few years ago my brother told me that he thinks she's hot.
Um.
So she answered his phone, laughing hysterically. I recognized her laugh and said "Cousin?" (no, I really said her name) and told her who was calling and that just sent her into another fit of laughter. I didn't even bother trying to talk to her, I just asked her to put my brother back on the phone. "Nine o'clock, J," I said, and I hung up. Had I not, he would have heard a very mean stream of buzz-harshing words come out of my mouth.
Because, really. I know people hang out with their cousins. Am I crazy to think that it's just not okay for cousins of the opposite sex to be getting drunk together? Am I paranoid because he said she was hot? I don't honestly think that they'd do anything. I'm a benefit-of-doubt kind of person. That wasn't the first time they've hung out - they actually have a mutual friend so it makes it a little less weird, but I'm sure that mutual friend was not in attendance last night. What I'll keep telling myself is that he must want her to introduce him to her hot friends.
This morning, how ever, I felt the sort of rage towards my brother that I used to feel when he told me I was fatter than our mother. At 4:07am, my brother sent me this text message: 9 am mokabes right ? Ill b there right .
By 9:30am, we had all eaten brunch without my brother. Gifts had been opened, heaps of bacon chewed, strawberry orange juice savored, all without my brother.
"If I had my cell phone, I'd call him and let him have it," I said to everyone.
"I have my cell phone!" chirped my mom. But she is more diplomatic than I am, and I also believe she enjoys a good guilt trip every once in awhile, and the mother of all mother guilt trips obviously should occur on Mother's Day.
"Hellloooo. This is your mooother. Where arrrrre you?" Her perfect sing-songy tone was absolutely saturated with disappointed anger. Oh, and she was talking to his voicemail. He called back a few minutes later and didn't show up for another twenty-five minutes, nevermind the fact that the coffeehouse is less than 2 minutes from his apartment.
I'll admit it - I could barely look at him. He knew he fucked up, and I was glad he knew it, and I wanted to make sure he knew that I was not okay with it. It wasn't even that I wanted to side with my mother and appear the better and more considerate child. I was honestly enraged. Had he not added that sarcastic little right onto the end of Ill be there in his cute little text message I might have made eye contact or smiled at him once. He was inexplicably taunting me, like oh shit! It's 4am and I have get up in 5 hours! Isn't this a rockstar dilemma! For better or worse, your mother deserves more respect than anyone you know. Showing up to Mother's Day brunch nearly an hour late smelling like alcohol with blood shot eyes and basically refusing to eat is about as disrespectful as it gets.
And you could hear my heart break when my mom said this after my brother passed her a card and got up to get coffee:
"He probably bought this on the way here."
But it's okay. Instead of throwing a fit and because I like to throw grenades, my parents and my aunt now know that J. and our cousin have been hanging out, and there were looks of disapproval aplenty. Let the chips fall, every last one of 'em.
Here's the thing about my brother: he just got off nearly three years of not being allowed to drink alcohol or (obviously) consume any sort of illicit anything. He had to blow into a breathalizer every time he started his car. He even wore a strap on his angle that detects alcohol in your sweat. If you don't know my brother very well, all I can tell you is that my brother used to party hard. I must say he handled this government babysitting remarkably well, and I thought maybe he'd see a new outlook on life that didn't revolve around drunken carousing in Soulard or any of the many, many bars where he knows the bartenders by name. At the very least, maybe he'd see the benefit of moderation and recognize that getting careless with the things and people you love can have devastating consequences.
Recently, he officially ended his relationship with his on/off girlfriend who is not the peachiest of peaches, and I agree they probably shouldn't be together. Recently, he completed his term of forced sobriety. What do you get when you squash these two major events within weeks of one another? Retro J., the J. that gets arrested.
To be fair, he didn't get arrested. He called me last night and I was in a noisy place so I didn't answer. I assumed he was double-checking that we were still meeting at 9:00am for Mother's Day brunch at Mokabe's. (Yeah, it's early, and it was my idea, but if you don't there early you don't get a table.) So I called J. back late last night and MY COUSIN answered the phone. My cousin is my age and very cute and friendly. When she first came into the family (through marriage at age 11) I thought it was awesome to have a female cousin my age that rode horses and played the flute like I did, and she thought my hair was perfect so naturally I took to her. Now her and my brother are friends. I barely talked to my cousin at Easter; she was too busy gossiping with J. about all the partying, about her recent breakup, and how J.'s girlfriend is crazy and he should end it. Though I still think she's nice, I have nothing in common with her. She and her friends enjoy hanging out in bars in downtown Clayton because that's where they think they're going to meet rich men. Her and J. have very similar paces of life. That doesn't mean they should be pacing together!
A few years ago my brother told me that he thinks she's hot.
Um.
So she answered his phone, laughing hysterically. I recognized her laugh and said "Cousin?" (no, I really said her name) and told her who was calling and that just sent her into another fit of laughter. I didn't even bother trying to talk to her, I just asked her to put my brother back on the phone. "Nine o'clock, J," I said, and I hung up. Had I not, he would have heard a very mean stream of buzz-harshing words come out of my mouth.
Because, really. I know people hang out with their cousins. Am I crazy to think that it's just not okay for cousins of the opposite sex to be getting drunk together? Am I paranoid because he said she was hot? I don't honestly think that they'd do anything. I'm a benefit-of-doubt kind of person. That wasn't the first time they've hung out - they actually have a mutual friend so it makes it a little less weird, but I'm sure that mutual friend was not in attendance last night. What I'll keep telling myself is that he must want her to introduce him to her hot friends.
This morning, how ever, I felt the sort of rage towards my brother that I used to feel when he told me I was fatter than our mother. At 4:07am, my brother sent me this text message: 9 am mokabes right ? Ill b there right .
By 9:30am, we had all eaten brunch without my brother. Gifts had been opened, heaps of bacon chewed, strawberry orange juice savored, all without my brother.
"If I had my cell phone, I'd call him and let him have it," I said to everyone.
"I have my cell phone!" chirped my mom. But she is more diplomatic than I am, and I also believe she enjoys a good guilt trip every once in awhile, and the mother of all mother guilt trips obviously should occur on Mother's Day.
"Hellloooo. This is your mooother. Where arrrrre you?" Her perfect sing-songy tone was absolutely saturated with disappointed anger. Oh, and she was talking to his voicemail. He called back a few minutes later and didn't show up for another twenty-five minutes, nevermind the fact that the coffeehouse is less than 2 minutes from his apartment.
I'll admit it - I could barely look at him. He knew he fucked up, and I was glad he knew it, and I wanted to make sure he knew that I was not okay with it. It wasn't even that I wanted to side with my mother and appear the better and more considerate child. I was honestly enraged. Had he not added that sarcastic little right onto the end of Ill be there in his cute little text message I might have made eye contact or smiled at him once. He was inexplicably taunting me, like oh shit! It's 4am and I have get up in 5 hours! Isn't this a rockstar dilemma! For better or worse, your mother deserves more respect than anyone you know. Showing up to Mother's Day brunch nearly an hour late smelling like alcohol with blood shot eyes and basically refusing to eat is about as disrespectful as it gets.
And you could hear my heart break when my mom said this after my brother passed her a card and got up to get coffee:
"He probably bought this on the way here."
But it's okay. Instead of throwing a fit and because I like to throw grenades, my parents and my aunt now know that J. and our cousin have been hanging out, and there were looks of disapproval aplenty. Let the chips fall, every last one of 'em.
5.12.2006
The children
Sshhh...don't wake the beast...
I warned you! (This might be my favorite kitty picture ever. I mean, look at all the crazy going on!)
Ok, maybe this is my favorite.
5.10.2006
Bad as I wanna be, Part 2
So here's the rest:
- In fifth grade me and a friend of mine decided we didn't like this other girl Michelle. It was kind of messed up because I had just been friends with Michelle. Anyway, the elementary school we attended was very odd in that there were no real walls separating the classrooms. Each grade had a big open area with a desk for a teacher's aide in the middle. Also in the middle when we were in fifth grade was a large cubby-type mailbox and every student and teacher had their own slot. The teachers used it for sending home fliers for our parents and giving back graded work; we used it for trading notes with our friends and Valentine distribution. There were no real rules for the mailboxes - why should there be? My evil friend and I left a note in Michelle's box telling her we were going to kill her bunny. She was always talking about her stupid bunny. I think we might have even prank called her and whispered "I'm going to kill your bunny!" and then hung up. Michelle showed our evil note to a teacher and not long after that they got rid of the mailboxes. Oops. Sorry, class. I really don't understand what my problem was. I love animals! (On a very sad final note - I had photography class with Michelle in high school and she remembered everything. I scarred her.)
- I guess my friend and I hadn't had enough fun torturing Michelle, because we convinced her that we wanted to make up in order to torture her more. We met her near the jacket hooks in the hall one day. I brought with me a fake hand that my brother bought for Halloween. I stuck it up my shirt and then told Michelle we should shake and call a truce. She shook the fake hand and I let it go and the screaming commenced. EVIL!
- Another friend Nancy, who lived just around the corner, always came over to my house even though I don't think her mother liked me very much. Couldn't possibly be because I practically forced her to break her mother's rules, namely Nancy, you shall not paint your nails. Even then I knew that was a ridiculous rule and was always begging Nancy to let me paints her nails. Boy, I most have chosen some friends with spaghetti backbones - no one ever really stood up to me, and Nancy was probably the softest of them all. Not only did I paint her nails, I put makeup on her (scandalous!) and also tried to teach her how to ride a horse (my chair) which left her pining hard for some horseback riding lessons, and I'm sure her mother didn't appreciate all the begging. Nancy was the first real victim of my bossiness, I think. She loved to come over and play with me but I always took the good Barbies and good Breyer horses and left her with the crap. Dear Nancy, she was always happy with the crap. And if she wasn't she sure didn't let on.
- Jessica (the one who abetted my "love note" to Jeff B.) and I used to love to go a few doors down to offer free babysitting to a set of twins in a very large family. Their mother always said yes because she was overwhelmed and she didn't care if you knew it (there were about 7 children there at the time). For some reason, we adored one of the twins and loved to make the other one cry. Is that normal when you're little, to want to make someone younger than you cry? This must happen with younger siblings, right?
- Another friend of mine in elementary school became a great friend of mine in middle school, but when we were really young she came over to my house for the first time and I introduced her to all my dolls and we started to play. I don't remember what I said (or more accurately, what shitty toy she was forced to play with while I got the cool one) but suddenly she looked up at the clock and said, "It's 1:03. My mom told me to be home at 1:07." After she left I told my mom and she said "You need to stop being so bossy," which evidently I didn't take to heart until middle school when suddenly I was groping for friends because all my friends made new friends.
- For my 13th birthday my parents were feeling very generous and said yes when I asked them if they would rent me a limo for the night so my friends and I could just drive around. In high school they probably would have said no for fear of providing us with a rolling pub, but we were only 13 which meant I was too young for them to be worried yet. (Oh parents, bless your ignorant hearts.) So I chose five friends and we got dressed up (man, did I love having the power to make my guy friends wear ties!) and we just...got chauffeured around. We blasted the Reality Bites soundtrack and the Cranberries. Hardcore partiers, I know. There was a girl in our class, Sara, that had a fancy party for her birthday (fancy = hired a DJ) at the community center and had neglected to invite me, and she invited a lot of people, including all my friends in the limo, who wisely declined in favor of big pimpin' around St. Louis with the Gabsta. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why she didn't invite me to her party, which incidentally, was held on my birthday. So I decided to crash that bitch's party. I asked the limo driver to go to the community center, and not five minutes after we pulled up her entire party was coming outside to investigate the limo. We let a few people sit in it to rub it in but then kicked them out and drove off, and I will never forget the look on Sara's face as she stood at the back of the crowd glaring at me and my sparkly white limo. Of all the crappy things I've done, I'm proudest of this for its supreme timing and execution. Poor Sara got TSS in high school (but NOT from a tampon, OK? NOT!) and I'm pretty sure the subsequent social damage hurt a lot more than me not getting invited to her party. But whatever.
- One day in high school I came back from doing some illicit extracurriculars in the parking lot with the only friend I've ever had that I'd qualify as a bad influence (after all, that was usually my job). I'd had a little too much of the extracurriculars and must have been feeling very ballsy, because I went up to my ex-best friend's new best friend, who was sitting right next to my ex-best friend, and I said "She probably only likes you because you look like me. But I'm funnier than you, did she tell you that?" I still honestly can't believe I did something like that at age 15, because by then I was very much over my taunting stage. It was the extracurriculars, I swear! But actually people confused me and the new best friend all the time because we could have been sisters what with all the freckles and red hair and association with the same friend. They are probably still best friends. The difference is, now I don't care.
You know what? Suddenly I'd rather disclose some of the mean shit that has happened to me. Just to show you karma has a sense of humor, which I'm sure you already knew.
- I grew up in a neighborhood surrounded by kids I went to school with so there was never a shortage of people to play with. We were very good at organizing our own games in the middle of the street. We usually played kickball and used trees as bases. I was covering first base one day and for some reason decided to do a cartwheel instead of pay attention. My neighbor Laura had just kicked the ball and was running towards first base and smacked her head right into my cartwheeling foot. I say she smacked into my foot and not the other way around, because seriously, who aims their cartwheels? I couldn't have cartwheel-kicked her if I tried. Yet when she collapsed on the ground in tears, everyone, included my so-called BFF Jessica, turned on me and got all up in my grill like "Why did you do that?!" and "YOU COULD AT LEAST SAY YOU'RE SORRY!" which I totally and definitely did but no one heard me. I ran crying into my house and didn't come back out.
- This doesn't really have a specific story attached, but imagine being a little larger than most of your classmates and having a name that rhymes with Flabby. And a last name that rhymes with Puking, which had nothing to do with being fat.
- Another little Jessica, a far more annoying one, frequently challenged my status as an adopted child. "Nuh-uh," she'd taunt. "You're not adopted," to which the only logical response is "Want to call my mom and ask her?" I swear that turd would challenge me on a weekly basis, and it was very upsetting. I know, I know, WAH! You're the girl who threatened to kill someone's bunny!"
Another time she accused me of eating my eye boogers, which, NO. I most certainly did NOT. I know she was just trying to get me riled up so I'd admit that I'm not really adopted. Twit.
- Between 10th and 11th grade, I was one of 16 students to go to Germany for one month as an exchange student. I was very psyched about this trip - a month in a foreign country where we CAN DRINK, sans parents, and I also thought it was going to be a lot of fun because I had a pretty good friend going with me. She wasn't one of my best friends, but I hung out with her and her best friends frequently. What I didn't expect was for her to crawl up the asses of all the upperclassmen that went. I know they thought I was a fat ugly dork. I know it. As soon as the plane landed, this chick no longer associated with me, and I was crushed. Not only did my exchange student/hostess, Carmen, swap personalities with a raging bitch that she didn't bring along to America, I was ditched by my "friend" from home for people who bummed cigarettes from me (douches didn't bring a carton like I did) and then told me in disgusted tones that my cigarettes were stale. FUCK YOU. DON'T ASK FOR ANOTHER. I would like to say that I gobbled up every learning, social, or cultural experience while in quaint little Tauberbischofsheim, but closer to the truth would be that I sat on the balcony of my host family's house smoking my stale cigarettes and writing letters to my friends, who, I learned from letters, were embroiled in much better drama than Should I go watch Carmen's fencing lesson like she wants me to or go inside where it perpetually smells like snot and watch bad German TV? You know the TV won out.
Ok, wow. I'm realizing that I was generally a lot more horrible to others than they were to me. I'm done now.
5.09.2006
Fisticuffs
This morning when I was getting ready for work I heard some noisy children outside and didn't think much of it because there are always noisy children outside my apartment. An elementary school sits at the top of our block, and a lot of the kids walk to and from school. At three o'clock you'd better just stay off the sidewalk completely unless you want to get run over by children of all ages, postively rambunctious after being cooped up in school all day.
This morning, though, the noise from the kids didn't fade in the direction of the school, and I realized they were all in front of our building yelling about something. When I went to the window I saw two girls, probably no more than 7 years old, beating the shit out of each other while their friends watched. Both girls had their fingers embedded deep into the other's hair, and were taking turns taking punches to the head. They seemed WAY too young to be fighting, like seriously fighting. And the language! Whoa!
So what did I do? Well I couldn't just sit there and let these little kids wail on each other. That wouldn't be very responsible of me. So I yelled "Hey!" and it wasn't loud enough. So I screamed "HEEEEYYYYY! STOP FIGHTING! GO TO SCHOOL!" A few kids looked up and saw me in the window and eventually they separated the girls, but not before one of the girls who was fighting fell to the ground and got kicked by a boy. "That's your sister, you punk!" screamed another girl. You could tell they were all a little anxious because they got caught, and slowly they started walking to school, the two little girls still cussing each other out.
I broke up a fight, y'all! With my voice!
This morning, though, the noise from the kids didn't fade in the direction of the school, and I realized they were all in front of our building yelling about something. When I went to the window I saw two girls, probably no more than 7 years old, beating the shit out of each other while their friends watched. Both girls had their fingers embedded deep into the other's hair, and were taking turns taking punches to the head. They seemed WAY too young to be fighting, like seriously fighting. And the language! Whoa!
So what did I do? Well I couldn't just sit there and let these little kids wail on each other. That wouldn't be very responsible of me. So I yelled "Hey!" and it wasn't loud enough. So I screamed "HEEEEYYYYY! STOP FIGHTING! GO TO SCHOOL!" A few kids looked up and saw me in the window and eventually they separated the girls, but not before one of the girls who was fighting fell to the ground and got kicked by a boy. "That's your sister, you punk!" screamed another girl. You could tell they were all a little anxious because they got caught, and slowly they started walking to school, the two little girls still cussing each other out.
I broke up a fight, y'all! With my voice!
5.07.2006
I hope a quarter gets stuck in your eye like that alligator at the zoo
I've come to the conclusion that I fucking hate laundromats. I've been able to avoid them for the most part - I've probably only been to a laundromat 10-15 times in my life, not counting the laundry room at college which I probably should have visited more often but I was, you know, having the college experience. I usually do my laundry at my parents' house because I'm a shameless mooch, but considering I have to drive an hour each way to get there and then spend three hours giving them my undivided attention, it balances out. They give me a clean place to launder with free soda and turkey sandwiches and I give them what all parents want - large chunks of undivided attention from their children.
When I'm feeling lazy or gas is $10.57 a gallon I go to a laundromat, and every time I go to one I'm convinced the place is far dirtier than it should be considering its sole purpose is to help people get something clean. Does anyone actually work at these places? Sweeping, perhaps? EMPTYING THE FUCKING LINT TRAP? EVER?! And why oh why would you, as the owner of this "cleaning" environment, decide to eat whatever the fuck that was that smelled like something took a big hot shit on a week-old fish carcass right next to me and the other folks folding our fresh, unmolested clothes? Also, "urine waft" is not something you want to encounter in a laudromat. Investigate that.
Please say no, it's not true, you definitely did not once again raise the price of the dryer so that I get 8 FUCKING MINUTES per quarter? What the fuck? I swear on all my fingers and toes that last time it was 15 minutes per quarter. Please also explain to me why my shirt has this funny little stain on it even though it certainly didn't go into the washer that way.
I'm a scam-spotter, y'all. I think they drop oil pellets into the washing machines so you rewash. Maybe the owners go around pressing the Lo Temp buttons between customers hoping the next fool won't notice and change it to Hi Temp, causing the fool to spend an extra $2.50 continuing the dryer time before they catch on. More plausibly, they just don't empty the fucking lint traps so it ends up taking five years and more than the special stash of quarters you have only for laundry that you've been saving for months? Forget your lofty Permanent Press ideals, those dryers know of no such pleasantry. These are the kinds of things that infuriate me. I'm already very impolite with my dryer-hogging dispatchment of clothes for the sake of a speedier dry, because who really wants to spend their entire Sunday afternoon in a place like that? But no, turns out it takes 55 minutes to dry a handful of skivvies and two pairs of pants. Mmkay. South Park pinball machine or not, I'm over that experience. My parents' house it is.
Ok fine, I'm also pissed because I left a load of laundry in the dryer and had to drive back and since the clothes were still NOT DRY it means they were sitting there for an extra 45 minutes in their wetness getting wrinkled while I was busy forgetting and hanging clothes on the back porch so, you know, THEY COULD DRY.
p.s. I did get the high score playing Quik Match on their magic touch on my first try today, which I was unable to do last time. Gabby Rulzzz finally beat you, "Leon," and she's never coming back!
When I'm feeling lazy or gas is $10.57 a gallon I go to a laundromat, and every time I go to one I'm convinced the place is far dirtier than it should be considering its sole purpose is to help people get something clean. Does anyone actually work at these places? Sweeping, perhaps? EMPTYING THE FUCKING LINT TRAP? EVER?! And why oh why would you, as the owner of this "cleaning" environment, decide to eat whatever the fuck that was that smelled like something took a big hot shit on a week-old fish carcass right next to me and the other folks folding our fresh, unmolested clothes? Also, "urine waft" is not something you want to encounter in a laudromat. Investigate that.
Please say no, it's not true, you definitely did not once again raise the price of the dryer so that I get 8 FUCKING MINUTES per quarter? What the fuck? I swear on all my fingers and toes that last time it was 15 minutes per quarter. Please also explain to me why my shirt has this funny little stain on it even though it certainly didn't go into the washer that way.
I'm a scam-spotter, y'all. I think they drop oil pellets into the washing machines so you rewash. Maybe the owners go around pressing the Lo Temp buttons between customers hoping the next fool won't notice and change it to Hi Temp, causing the fool to spend an extra $2.50 continuing the dryer time before they catch on. More plausibly, they just don't empty the fucking lint traps so it ends up taking five years and more than the special stash of quarters you have only for laundry that you've been saving for months? Forget your lofty Permanent Press ideals, those dryers know of no such pleasantry. These are the kinds of things that infuriate me. I'm already very impolite with my dryer-hogging dispatchment of clothes for the sake of a speedier dry, because who really wants to spend their entire Sunday afternoon in a place like that? But no, turns out it takes 55 minutes to dry a handful of skivvies and two pairs of pants. Mmkay. South Park pinball machine or not, I'm over that experience. My parents' house it is.
Ok fine, I'm also pissed because I left a load of laundry in the dryer and had to drive back and since the clothes were still NOT DRY it means they were sitting there for an extra 45 minutes in their wetness getting wrinkled while I was busy forgetting and hanging clothes on the back porch so, you know, THEY COULD DRY.
p.s. I did get the high score playing Quik Match on their magic touch on my first try today, which I was unable to do last time. Gabby Rulzzz finally beat you, "Leon," and she's never coming back!
5.05.2006
oh happy day
A couple reasons why I am having the most fabulous Cinco de Mayo on record:
1) Pizza! Where? In the office! So? That I didn't have to pay for! SWEET! I know!
2) Hearing "Buffalo Stance" by Neneh Cherry on the radio, which I haven't heard in oh, years, and totally impressing myself by still knowing all the lyrics. What was he loik? What was he loik, anyway?
3) Hearing "Melt with You" on the radio right after, which is the song I croaked to M. in my morning voice while he was getting ready for work this morning.
4) A last minute decision to stop and get a root beer resulted in discovering that Reese's has a Limited Edition Peanut Butter Bar. Yes. A bar. It is delicious, just like the cups, I didn't even miss the little crown-y projections perfect for scraping off with teeth. It has more chocolate than the cups, just so you know. (No Dee will not be liking that.)
5) There are many, many margaritas in my future tonight. It's like Tequila's birthday today, and she's turning THE BEST BOOZE EVER.
she's a superconductor, alright
While deleting some old emails, I came upon a bunch from K-Pop, all with fantastic (albeit confusing) subject lines. No Dee used to have the best but she's been slacking lately.
(Which reminds me, I need to make a list of nicknames for all of my friends so you can figure out who you are so you know it when I'm talking about you. I'm trying to make it harder for people to Google you, so you're welcome!)
Ok, the email subject lines already:
beaver farming
failure to appear
gabble dee goo
my lizard kicks your moon's ass
pigpen rocks the dustcloud
does it hurt being so awesome?
malarial superconductor
JIGGA WHAT?????
and my favorite:
poupee mechanique
K-Pop, what does it mean?
It's my blog and I'll list if I want to
Foods so good I dream about them:
- guacamole
- hot & sour soup
- baklava
Addictions that might make me a Loser:
- mommy blogs
- crossword puzzles online (because you can check your answers, and yes, it totally makes me feel dumber instead of smarter, and I can't seem to finish the newspaper crosswords anymore because I can't check my answers and I have no one to blame but myself.)
- Dr. 90210
- reading Dear Margo, the advice column
Words most often found in crossword puzzles:
- tzar/csar
- ewe
- era
- eon
Things I just might be very proud of:
- knowing what Simon Cowell is going to say because I just thought it
- being able to identify celebrity voice-overs on commercials
- my Cranium skillz
- usually knowing what time it is, within ten minutes, without having to look at my watch
Most valuable and applicable skills learned:
- typing (and 10-key)
- ability to write a very formal letter
- neat handwriting
- parallel parking (why they don't have competitions for this, I don't know.)
Game shows I would totally suck at:
- Jeopardy!
- Dog Eat Dog
Game shows I would totally win:
- Lingo (can't you see me and No up there? we'd RAWK)
- Match Game (if it was still on the air)
- Wheel of Fortune
Things that might sounds weird but are actually very fun:
- playing Frisbee in water - think of the leaping and falling possibilities!
- riding roller coasters backwards
- while sitting shotgun on curvy country roads, stick your arms and upper torso out the window because it feels like a roller coaster and suddenly you get why dogs do that. Too bad they can't flail their arms around like humans, but maybe their flappity ears make up for it.
- looking up the astrological compatibility of all your friends' relationships
- looking up the astrological compatibility of your own relationship and deciding to never do that again because PSHAW, what does the computer know anyway?!
Alchoholic drinks they should make into hard candy:
- Margarita
- Tequila Sunrise
- Sex on the Beach
- White Russians
- Bailey's and coffee
(list alternately titled Gabby's Favorite Drinks)
Things I wish I knew how to do:
- shuck a clam
- drive a stick shift
- play the guitar
- speak fluent German
- fly a hot air balloon
- say NO to food and YES to exercise, though this Frisbee thing is wicked good
- play the drums
People, if you're feeling generous, tell me what you wish you knew how to do in the comments. I LOVE THE COMMENTS. And I LOVE YOU.
- guacamole
- hot & sour soup
- baklava
Addictions that might make me a Loser:
- mommy blogs
- crossword puzzles online (because you can check your answers, and yes, it totally makes me feel dumber instead of smarter, and I can't seem to finish the newspaper crosswords anymore because I can't check my answers and I have no one to blame but myself.)
- Dr. 90210
- reading Dear Margo, the advice column
Words most often found in crossword puzzles:
- tzar/csar
- ewe
- era
- eon
Things I just might be very proud of:
- knowing what Simon Cowell is going to say because I just thought it
- being able to identify celebrity voice-overs on commercials
- my Cranium skillz
- usually knowing what time it is, within ten minutes, without having to look at my watch
Most valuable and applicable skills learned:
- typing (and 10-key)
- ability to write a very formal letter
- neat handwriting
- parallel parking (why they don't have competitions for this, I don't know.)
Game shows I would totally suck at:
- Jeopardy!
- Dog Eat Dog
Game shows I would totally win:
- Lingo (can't you see me and No up there? we'd RAWK)
- Match Game (if it was still on the air)
- Wheel of Fortune
Things that might sounds weird but are actually very fun:
- playing Frisbee in water - think of the leaping and falling possibilities!
- riding roller coasters backwards
- while sitting shotgun on curvy country roads, stick your arms and upper torso out the window because it feels like a roller coaster and suddenly you get why dogs do that. Too bad they can't flail their arms around like humans, but maybe their flappity ears make up for it.
- looking up the astrological compatibility of all your friends' relationships
- looking up the astrological compatibility of your own relationship and deciding to never do that again because PSHAW, what does the computer know anyway?!
Alchoholic drinks they should make into hard candy:
- Margarita
- Tequila Sunrise
- Sex on the Beach
- White Russians
- Bailey's and coffee
(list alternately titled Gabby's Favorite Drinks)
Things I wish I knew how to do:
- shuck a clam
- drive a stick shift
- play the guitar
- speak fluent German
- fly a hot air balloon
- say NO to food and YES to exercise, though this Frisbee thing is wicked good
- play the drums
People, if you're feeling generous, tell me what you wish you knew how to do in the comments. I LOVE THE COMMENTS. And I LOVE YOU.
5.04.2006
The Boy, The Sequel
The Boy, The Sequel
Ok, so maybe I really like telling you about M. or I’m encouraged by the fact that you liked that post. When all else fails, write about what you know, right? I can’t use numbers this time, though. Sometimes numbers bother me. (Did you know I took Algebra five times?)
- M. has fiery little rings around his pupils like I do. Unlike mine, his are more brown than red, but I still find this very cool. That means our offspring will most likely have this thing! This weird cool fiery little thing!
- M. got me addicted to brussel sprouts! Wha-HUH? Yeah. I always assumed they were nasty because nobody I know likes them. Either my mom or my dad hates them because we never ever ate them when I was growing up. My ex’s parents ate them steamed with mayonnaise, and while I love mayo, I don’t consider it something you dip into so I never tried them. M. cuts them in half, sautees them with olive oil, balsamic vinaigrette, onions, salt, and they are SO GOOD. They get carmelized. Seriously people – what’s the problem? Why does everyone think they’re nasty? How were they served to you if/when you ate them? Imput please!
- I think M. is slightly annoyed by my cats sometimes. I am too. But I find it very funny when he gets annoyed. Usually a cat has jumped on him while he’s trying to fall asleep or a cat stands in front of his face when he’s lying on the couch trying to watch tv. They also walk on the puzzles we’re working on and on the weekends they start running in and out of the bedroom, meowing all the while, until we are awake. All of this bad kitty behavior usually elicits some not really but maybe a tiny bit bitter response from M. like “Kitty! Why are you so BAD?” It cracks me up. The cats definitely piss me off sometimes, so it’s funny to see someone else react like I used to react before I realized that they’re cats and while they earnestly believe in their right to fuck every thing up, they will never care enough to stop, so really you just sigh heavily and rarely, but always deliciously, shove them the fuck away. But M. doesn’t shove because they’re not his cats. That’s good. Kinda like how only I am allowed to insult my mother.
- Despite their transgressions, M. says “Goodbye, kitty cats!” every morning.
- M. and I are the exact same height. Technically I think he might be a ½ inch taller, but when we are both barefoot we’re exactly eye to eye. I always thought I’d be with someone who was taller than me because not only do I find tall men very attractive, I liked the idea of being the shorter one. I think now I wouldn’t have it any other way than just my height. It’s gives me the fantastic feeling that M. and I are on the same level on so many levels, and it’s just so easy to kiss someone when they’re right there in front of you. Not up, not down, but right there.
- So we’re all well aware that all of my very best friends are lesbians. I love it, it’s familiar, and if they all went straight I’d be disappointed. Not that I have to worry about that. What I realized recently is that having a girlfriend whose friends are all lesbians is probably near the top on a man’s Why I Love My Girlfriend list. But M. doesn’t gawk or encourage us all to make out. (You shoulda seen us about 8 years ago, though!) So YAY for the boyfriend who just watches me all night when we’re out with all my hot lesbian friends.
- M. has a blue pickup truck with a metal tool box behind the cab and matching metal running down the top of the sides of the truck bed. I lovingly refer to this as “sexy metal,” because it is, but M. has his own nickname for his truck: Blue Steel, as in the ultimate facial expression for a male model as coined by Zoolander. He finds this hilarious, and so do I.
- When I found out M.’s initials are M.C.A. I immediately sang “M C Aaayyyy” like they do in that Beastie Boy’s song. Or maybe in every Beastie Boys song? Maybe we’ll name our first child Adam Yauch. Or maybe not.
Ok, so maybe I really like telling you about M. or I’m encouraged by the fact that you liked that post. When all else fails, write about what you know, right? I can’t use numbers this time, though. Sometimes numbers bother me. (Did you know I took Algebra five times?)
- M. has fiery little rings around his pupils like I do. Unlike mine, his are more brown than red, but I still find this very cool. That means our offspring will most likely have this thing! This weird cool fiery little thing!
- M. got me addicted to brussel sprouts! Wha-HUH? Yeah. I always assumed they were nasty because nobody I know likes them. Either my mom or my dad hates them because we never ever ate them when I was growing up. My ex’s parents ate them steamed with mayonnaise, and while I love mayo, I don’t consider it something you dip into so I never tried them. M. cuts them in half, sautees them with olive oil, balsamic vinaigrette, onions, salt, and they are SO GOOD. They get carmelized. Seriously people – what’s the problem? Why does everyone think they’re nasty? How were they served to you if/when you ate them? Imput please!
- I think M. is slightly annoyed by my cats sometimes. I am too. But I find it very funny when he gets annoyed. Usually a cat has jumped on him while he’s trying to fall asleep or a cat stands in front of his face when he’s lying on the couch trying to watch tv. They also walk on the puzzles we’re working on and on the weekends they start running in and out of the bedroom, meowing all the while, until we are awake. All of this bad kitty behavior usually elicits some not really but maybe a tiny bit bitter response from M. like “Kitty! Why are you so BAD?” It cracks me up. The cats definitely piss me off sometimes, so it’s funny to see someone else react like I used to react before I realized that they’re cats and while they earnestly believe in their right to fuck every thing up, they will never care enough to stop, so really you just sigh heavily and rarely, but always deliciously, shove them the fuck away. But M. doesn’t shove because they’re not his cats. That’s good. Kinda like how only I am allowed to insult my mother.
- Despite their transgressions, M. says “Goodbye, kitty cats!” every morning.
- M. and I are the exact same height. Technically I think he might be a ½ inch taller, but when we are both barefoot we’re exactly eye to eye. I always thought I’d be with someone who was taller than me because not only do I find tall men very attractive, I liked the idea of being the shorter one. I think now I wouldn’t have it any other way than just my height. It’s gives me the fantastic feeling that M. and I are on the same level on so many levels, and it’s just so easy to kiss someone when they’re right there in front of you. Not up, not down, but right there.
- So we’re all well aware that all of my very best friends are lesbians. I love it, it’s familiar, and if they all went straight I’d be disappointed. Not that I have to worry about that. What I realized recently is that having a girlfriend whose friends are all lesbians is probably near the top on a man’s Why I Love My Girlfriend list. But M. doesn’t gawk or encourage us all to make out. (You shoulda seen us about 8 years ago, though!) So YAY for the boyfriend who just watches me all night when we’re out with all my hot lesbian friends.
- M. has a blue pickup truck with a metal tool box behind the cab and matching metal running down the top of the sides of the truck bed. I lovingly refer to this as “sexy metal,” because it is, but M. has his own nickname for his truck: Blue Steel, as in the ultimate facial expression for a male model as coined by Zoolander. He finds this hilarious, and so do I.
- When I found out M.’s initials are M.C.A. I immediately sang “M C Aaayyyy” like they do in that Beastie Boy’s song. Or maybe in every Beastie Boys song? Maybe we’ll name our first child Adam Yauch. Or maybe not.
5.02.2006
Bad as I wanna be, Part 1
If I were to admit all the horrid things I did when I was little, you might not believe me. I know I do such a great job at convincing everyone that I am just so sweet and nice and yada blah, which maybe I am NOW, but when I was a child I had some problems. Being Nice kind of problems. I don't know why I changed or what trigger flipped in my head that lit a giant neon NO ONE WILL LIKE YOU IF YOU KEEP ACTING THIS WAY sign. It was a benevolent trigger. It trigged without warning. But trigg it did, and now I can say I'm a nice girl with good intentions (97.2% of the time). I'm sure you will believe me when I tell you that roughly half of the mean stuff I did involved writing. Because I have never been at a lack for words, especially the written kind.
And now, I'm going to get my Confessional on. In between the instances of my heart blackening, I was a good little Catholic girl who just wanted to be liked.
Oh god, here we go...
- In third grade there was a very dorky new kid named Jeff Blue. No one liked him, and I'll venture to say it was because he was an other-side-of-tracks kind of child. He was sticky, wore dirty clothes and spoke horrible English, and I'm sorry, but in Clayton, MO? Good luck with that. (I don't remember now, but he was probably what us snot-rags called "a seminary kid," meaning he only went to Clayton because his dad was studying to become a minister at the seminary which just happened to be in Clayton. Seminary kids were usually poor and only stayed a year or two before moving again. Never was there a popular seminary kid, is what I'm trying to tell you.) I decided my best friend Jessica and I should write Jeff Blue a sexy note. Where in the fuck I learned sexy words and phrases by third grade is beyond...fuck, nevermind, for a second I forgot I had an older brother. Anyway. We sat at the antique secretary in my living room after school one day (apparently I held nothing sacred, as this secretary used to belong to my very refined grandmother, who also used to write with the fancy pen that we used. Ahem. I used.) and crafted a very clever note To: Jeff B. From: Your Secret Admirer. Some phrases I specifically recall: "I think your blue eyes are sexy, isn't it great your last name is Blue?" and "I want you to touch my boobies." And because I was such a smart child at the age of eight, my method of delivering this note involved following Jeff to his cubby in the hall, handing him the note and saying "Here, Jeff. I found this on the floor. It has your name on it." What do you know, that fucking redneck Jeff turned out to be just as big an asshat as we thought. He took the note directly to his resource teacher (resource = trying to unknot kids with Problems) and not long after that I was being questioned by the resource teacher about the filthy note. Denied! Oh, how I denied. My parents were called and I still wouldn't admit to it. Finally I confessed to my mother and told her Jessica helped me which was a shitface thing to do considering the idea was mine and I was the one who gathered the necessary materials, thought up the content, and wrote the words. She just sat there and made me feel like it was a good idea. When I told my mom she called Jessica's parents and ya wanna know what they did? Laugh. I was so grounded, and her parents LAUGHED. Here's the revelation, though - Jeff Blue in fact knew how much of a loser he was and that he couldn't possibly have a secret admirer. So in the end, I was right about him.
- When I was about 11, my best friend Ann and I both really liked to read dirty books. (By this time my old BFF Jessica had become the Bee's Knees and left me in the dorky quagmire despite still owning the ST ENDS portion of our BFF necklace). The dirtiest book, of course, was Forever by Judy Blume. I was too afraid to go buy the book because other than maxi pads, I couldn't think of a more embarassing situation at a checkout counter. Somehow I was alone in the sixth grade hallway at night, I must have been there for some function, and I noticed a copy of Forever sitting on someone's desk. Why they would leave it out for some uptight adult to notice, I don't know. But I took that shit right off her desk. And Ann and I gobbled it up. We memorized the page number where the girl gets introduced to her boyfriend's penis, Ralph, and then proceeds to get her cherry popped. (It was page 151.) Once those few pages had basically been memorized, Ann and I decided we needed to write our own. Unlike the Jeff Blue incident, I didn't want her to help me write. That would have been like masturbating together, which is something better left for lovers, not BFFs. Our family had just purchased an Apple computer, so clickity-clack, out came my erotica, typed. I don't remember any of these stories, but I do know that I used every dirty word, situation, phrase, and thought I could think of. And there wasn't just one story. Try five or six. I know this was my way of exploring sexuality on my own terms and in a way that was most comfortable for me - by age ten I was already churning out short stories at such a rate that my fifth grade teacher called me "prolific," which I thought was the coolest thing anyone had ever said to me before I even looked it up. This story wouldn't have to end poorly, if it weren't for, again, my stupidity. I left a story out somewhere in my mother's path. She read it, she conferenced with my dad, and I wish I could tell you that this ended with a great peer-editing session, but my parents are Catholic, remember? They might as well have found out I was doling out blowjobs to street ruffians. I had to sit through a lengthy lecture about the power of words, the importance of discretion, and ultimately "When you write something down, it could be there forever. YOU MUST BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE."
But did I learn? Perhaps the very, VERY hard way...
- When I was 12, I was heavily involved with horseback riding. My parents had just bought me my first horse, which...hum it with me now...OMMMMM. Riding consumed all of my free time and I loved every second of it. I had a new group of friends my age and got to take my horse to horse shows and frequently came away with all kinds of ribbons, blue included. My riding instructors were Tina and her daughter, Bettina, and I thought they hung the moon. So much so that when I had to get Confirmed in the Catholic church, I chose Tina as my sponsor even though the right thing would have been to choose my highly religious aunt. But Tina was technically Catholic and formally My Role Model. During this time, a girl name Jenny started working at the stable where we rode. She lived a few miles away and was definitely not as fortunate as the rest of us - we knew this because she worked there, she didn't ride there. She cleaned stalls and assisted us at horse shows. She was extremely trustworthy, and because she was 15, cool. I'd never had an older friend before, and me and her got on like cherries and chocolate. I even went to her house a few times. I wanted her to think I was the coolest girl she knew, and after being invited to her house I decided I could trust her. So, again, I wrote something that I shouldn't have and gave it to Jenny. This diatribe of mine was nothing short of hideously, inexcuseably mean. I dedicated a paragraph to each person we knew at the stable, including my beloveds, Tina and Bettina. I went off as much and as far as a 12 year old can go off. I made up slanderous shit. I made fun of things that couldn't be helped. I said something about the 9 year old boy that rode with us "popping a semi" which is just gross. What I definitely didn't expect to happen happened. Jenny showed Tina the letter. I have never felt so ashamed. There was no reason for me to write that bullshit, because I honestly adored every person that I had so carelessly ripped apart. In my effort to convince Jenny that I was cool I forgot that cool people don't call their friends rich bitches with sticks up their asses and reduce their role models to crabby wrinkled hags. That doozy, my friends, put an end to the days of writing things that shouldn't be written. Or rather, the days of sharing those things.
And now, I'm going to get my Confessional on. In between the instances of my heart blackening, I was a good little Catholic girl who just wanted to be liked.
Oh god, here we go...
- In third grade there was a very dorky new kid named Jeff Blue. No one liked him, and I'll venture to say it was because he was an other-side-of-tracks kind of child. He was sticky, wore dirty clothes and spoke horrible English, and I'm sorry, but in Clayton, MO? Good luck with that. (I don't remember now, but he was probably what us snot-rags called "a seminary kid," meaning he only went to Clayton because his dad was studying to become a minister at the seminary which just happened to be in Clayton. Seminary kids were usually poor and only stayed a year or two before moving again. Never was there a popular seminary kid, is what I'm trying to tell you.) I decided my best friend Jessica and I should write Jeff Blue a sexy note. Where in the fuck I learned sexy words and phrases by third grade is beyond...fuck, nevermind, for a second I forgot I had an older brother. Anyway. We sat at the antique secretary in my living room after school one day (apparently I held nothing sacred, as this secretary used to belong to my very refined grandmother, who also used to write with the fancy pen that we used. Ahem. I used.) and crafted a very clever note To: Jeff B. From: Your Secret Admirer. Some phrases I specifically recall: "I think your blue eyes are sexy, isn't it great your last name is Blue?" and "I want you to touch my boobies." And because I was such a smart child at the age of eight, my method of delivering this note involved following Jeff to his cubby in the hall, handing him the note and saying "Here, Jeff. I found this on the floor. It has your name on it." What do you know, that fucking redneck Jeff turned out to be just as big an asshat as we thought. He took the note directly to his resource teacher (resource = trying to unknot kids with Problems) and not long after that I was being questioned by the resource teacher about the filthy note. Denied! Oh, how I denied. My parents were called and I still wouldn't admit to it. Finally I confessed to my mother and told her Jessica helped me which was a shitface thing to do considering the idea was mine and I was the one who gathered the necessary materials, thought up the content, and wrote the words. She just sat there and made me feel like it was a good idea. When I told my mom she called Jessica's parents and ya wanna know what they did? Laugh. I was so grounded, and her parents LAUGHED. Here's the revelation, though - Jeff Blue in fact knew how much of a loser he was and that he couldn't possibly have a secret admirer. So in the end, I was right about him.
- When I was about 11, my best friend Ann and I both really liked to read dirty books. (By this time my old BFF Jessica had become the Bee's Knees and left me in the dorky quagmire despite still owning the ST ENDS portion of our BFF necklace). The dirtiest book, of course, was Forever by Judy Blume. I was too afraid to go buy the book because other than maxi pads, I couldn't think of a more embarassing situation at a checkout counter. Somehow I was alone in the sixth grade hallway at night, I must have been there for some function, and I noticed a copy of Forever sitting on someone's desk. Why they would leave it out for some uptight adult to notice, I don't know. But I took that shit right off her desk. And Ann and I gobbled it up. We memorized the page number where the girl gets introduced to her boyfriend's penis, Ralph, and then proceeds to get her cherry popped. (It was page 151.) Once those few pages had basically been memorized, Ann and I decided we needed to write our own. Unlike the Jeff Blue incident, I didn't want her to help me write. That would have been like masturbating together, which is something better left for lovers, not BFFs. Our family had just purchased an Apple computer, so clickity-clack, out came my erotica, typed. I don't remember any of these stories, but I do know that I used every dirty word, situation, phrase, and thought I could think of. And there wasn't just one story. Try five or six. I know this was my way of exploring sexuality on my own terms and in a way that was most comfortable for me - by age ten I was already churning out short stories at such a rate that my fifth grade teacher called me "prolific," which I thought was the coolest thing anyone had ever said to me before I even looked it up. This story wouldn't have to end poorly, if it weren't for, again, my stupidity. I left a story out somewhere in my mother's path. She read it, she conferenced with my dad, and I wish I could tell you that this ended with a great peer-editing session, but my parents are Catholic, remember? They might as well have found out I was doling out blowjobs to street ruffians. I had to sit through a lengthy lecture about the power of words, the importance of discretion, and ultimately "When you write something down, it could be there forever. YOU MUST BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WRITE."
But did I learn? Perhaps the very, VERY hard way...
- When I was 12, I was heavily involved with horseback riding. My parents had just bought me my first horse, which...hum it with me now...OMMMMM. Riding consumed all of my free time and I loved every second of it. I had a new group of friends my age and got to take my horse to horse shows and frequently came away with all kinds of ribbons, blue included. My riding instructors were Tina and her daughter, Bettina, and I thought they hung the moon. So much so that when I had to get Confirmed in the Catholic church, I chose Tina as my sponsor even though the right thing would have been to choose my highly religious aunt. But Tina was technically Catholic and formally My Role Model. During this time, a girl name Jenny started working at the stable where we rode. She lived a few miles away and was definitely not as fortunate as the rest of us - we knew this because she worked there, she didn't ride there. She cleaned stalls and assisted us at horse shows. She was extremely trustworthy, and because she was 15, cool. I'd never had an older friend before, and me and her got on like cherries and chocolate. I even went to her house a few times. I wanted her to think I was the coolest girl she knew, and after being invited to her house I decided I could trust her. So, again, I wrote something that I shouldn't have and gave it to Jenny. This diatribe of mine was nothing short of hideously, inexcuseably mean. I dedicated a paragraph to each person we knew at the stable, including my beloveds, Tina and Bettina. I went off as much and as far as a 12 year old can go off. I made up slanderous shit. I made fun of things that couldn't be helped. I said something about the 9 year old boy that rode with us "popping a semi" which is just gross. What I definitely didn't expect to happen happened. Jenny showed Tina the letter. I have never felt so ashamed. There was no reason for me to write that bullshit, because I honestly adored every person that I had so carelessly ripped apart. In my effort to convince Jenny that I was cool I forgot that cool people don't call their friends rich bitches with sticks up their asses and reduce their role models to crabby wrinkled hags. That doozy, my friends, put an end to the days of writing things that shouldn't be written. Or rather, the days of sharing those things.
Stay tuned for Part 2, where I come clean about the mean shit that had nothing to do with writing. THEN you can proceed to think I'm a dirty rotten scoundrel. GREAT movie, by the way.
Leftastic
I've been more than a smidgen obsessed with the fact that I'm left-handed ever since I learned that it was different. Somehow it makes me feel more original and skilled, because come on, it's definitely a right-handed world, and you must have something special if you can keep yourself from getting totally frustrated at the lack of appropriate desks at school AND figure out how to not kill yourself while using tools with a righty user in mind. There have been many studies showing that left-handed people are more creative and musically inclined than their righty peers. It's been proven. Don't kill the messenger. Did you know that four out of five of the people who created the first MacIntosh were lefties? Yeah-huh.
I just recently found my Page-a-Day calendar that was abandoned in August of 2005. It lost its place in my daily life when I moved back to St. Louis and didn't have a desk job for months. Page-a-Days are the kinds of things that you don't look at while at home. They are for the suspension of boredom at work, even if it simply serves as something to do while your computer starts up in the morning. This Page-a-Day, as you might guess, is chock-full of lefty trivia, celebrities, studies, and tendencies. It's not the first time I've had a calendar like this. I was kind of giddy when I found it a few days ago, because since 2005 is over I have EVERY RIGHT to read every fucking page, one after the other, which is an urge you fight daily if you are using a Page-a-Day as it should be used.
I came upon some interesting things while ripping off August through New Year's Eve. I will admit some of the facts are incredibly "DUH!" like how left-handed athletes have an advantage because of the element of surprise. Many successful boxers have been left-handed. Also tennis, basketball, and soccer players (left-handedness and left-footedness helped Pele become the most famous and respected soccer player in history).
The page for August 18 gives a list of websites that sell left-handed supplies. I've seen lefty stores before, but mostly they have kitschy shit like coffee mugs and aprons that say "Lefties do it right!" or "Kiss me, I'm a lefty!" You could definitely find a right-handed can opener in one of these stores, which I should totally buy because it IS hard to open a can backwards. Welcome to life as a lefty. We live in reverse.
So I went online to one of these stores prepared to be bombarded by a bunch of things I simply COULD NOT LIVE WITHOUT. Instead, I believe I happened upon a scam.
I'm sorry, a left-handed spatula? Imagine a spatula with me. What could possibly make it biased for a righty? Hm? And I'm not talking about one of those fancy BBQ spatulas with the teeth on one side. I examined the picture of this miracle lefty spatula for a long time, really trying to understand. If you can tell me what makes it left-handed I'll buy you one for your favorite lefty. What about a lefty wooden spoon? How does that makes sense? The only utensil with a discernable on this website was a lefty ladle, because the little indentation for pouring is on the other side so you don't have to twist your arm around all crazy. But mostly I think some scumbag, probably a righty, wants to make money by making us believe we would be so much happier with left-handed kitchen utensils. I'm wondering now if my Page-a-Day was just fluffing me up by telling me lefties just might be smarter.
I will give props to the lefty keyboard I found on the website. All the junk to the right of the letters is moved to the left, so that you can do your 10-key entry and page up, down, and all around with your faster hand. I thought for a moment about buying one, but I realized that my right hand IS A MANIAC at the 10-key. I'm like, totally super fast and can whip out long sequences of numbers very quickly. I'm proud of this. I am also terribly ashamed to say that I don't think for one second my left hand would know what the fuck to do with all those numbers. I'd rather not feel inadequate, thank you.
However, maybe I could learn. Lefties have better adaptation skills. If a lefty breaks her left hand (that's you, Kimbo!) she will complain a lot less than if she were right handed, because lefties have always had to learn to be ambidextrous if they want to use any kind of appliance. I use my right hand for cutting with scissors, for example, which is probably the most common occurance of ambidexterity, because seriously there was ONE PAIR of lefty scissors at the very bottom of every bin of scissors in elementary school. You could either dig to the bottom and then fight over that pair with the other lefty in your class or you could shut up and learn to use the righty scissors before you were old enough and proud enough of your lefty-ness to be ashamed of selling out for the sake of convenience. See, if I could take it all back there's no way in hell I'd let myself learn to cut with my right hand. It's a matter of pride.
I told you I was a little obsessed.
I just recently found my Page-a-Day calendar that was abandoned in August of 2005. It lost its place in my daily life when I moved back to St. Louis and didn't have a desk job for months. Page-a-Days are the kinds of things that you don't look at while at home. They are for the suspension of boredom at work, even if it simply serves as something to do while your computer starts up in the morning. This Page-a-Day, as you might guess, is chock-full of lefty trivia, celebrities, studies, and tendencies. It's not the first time I've had a calendar like this. I was kind of giddy when I found it a few days ago, because since 2005 is over I have EVERY RIGHT to read every fucking page, one after the other, which is an urge you fight daily if you are using a Page-a-Day as it should be used.
I came upon some interesting things while ripping off August through New Year's Eve. I will admit some of the facts are incredibly "DUH!" like how left-handed athletes have an advantage because of the element of surprise. Many successful boxers have been left-handed. Also tennis, basketball, and soccer players (left-handedness and left-footedness helped Pele become the most famous and respected soccer player in history).
The page for August 18 gives a list of websites that sell left-handed supplies. I've seen lefty stores before, but mostly they have kitschy shit like coffee mugs and aprons that say "Lefties do it right!" or "Kiss me, I'm a lefty!" You could definitely find a right-handed can opener in one of these stores, which I should totally buy because it IS hard to open a can backwards. Welcome to life as a lefty. We live in reverse.
So I went online to one of these stores prepared to be bombarded by a bunch of things I simply COULD NOT LIVE WITHOUT. Instead, I believe I happened upon a scam.
I'm sorry, a left-handed spatula? Imagine a spatula with me. What could possibly make it biased for a righty? Hm? And I'm not talking about one of those fancy BBQ spatulas with the teeth on one side. I examined the picture of this miracle lefty spatula for a long time, really trying to understand. If you can tell me what makes it left-handed I'll buy you one for your favorite lefty. What about a lefty wooden spoon? How does that makes sense? The only utensil with a discernable on this website was a lefty ladle, because the little indentation for pouring is on the other side so you don't have to twist your arm around all crazy. But mostly I think some scumbag, probably a righty, wants to make money by making us believe we would be so much happier with left-handed kitchen utensils. I'm wondering now if my Page-a-Day was just fluffing me up by telling me lefties just might be smarter.
I will give props to the lefty keyboard I found on the website. All the junk to the right of the letters is moved to the left, so that you can do your 10-key entry and page up, down, and all around with your faster hand. I thought for a moment about buying one, but I realized that my right hand IS A MANIAC at the 10-key. I'm like, totally super fast and can whip out long sequences of numbers very quickly. I'm proud of this. I am also terribly ashamed to say that I don't think for one second my left hand would know what the fuck to do with all those numbers. I'd rather not feel inadequate, thank you.
However, maybe I could learn. Lefties have better adaptation skills. If a lefty breaks her left hand (that's you, Kimbo!) she will complain a lot less than if she were right handed, because lefties have always had to learn to be ambidextrous if they want to use any kind of appliance. I use my right hand for cutting with scissors, for example, which is probably the most common occurance of ambidexterity, because seriously there was ONE PAIR of lefty scissors at the very bottom of every bin of scissors in elementary school. You could either dig to the bottom and then fight over that pair with the other lefty in your class or you could shut up and learn to use the righty scissors before you were old enough and proud enough of your lefty-ness to be ashamed of selling out for the sake of convenience. See, if I could take it all back there's no way in hell I'd let myself learn to cut with my right hand. It's a matter of pride.
I told you I was a little obsessed.
5.01.2006
Hula Poop
Yesterday I enjoyed many hours of I Love Toys on VH1. Similar to I Love the 80s & 90s, but better because the best parts of those shows happened when those hysterical goofball comics discussed toys from the 80s and 90s. And lo, they got their own show.
Some notables that you probably haven't thought of in awhile:
Pong
Spirograph
Chutes & Ladders
Slip & Slide
Erector Set
Color Forms (those boring-ass static cling stickers with accompanying scenery)
The Top Ten Toys:
10) Wiffle Ball & Bat - did you know they used to come with instructions on how to throw certain pitches? Did/do people take Wiffle Ball-ing that seriously? They were talking about throwing wicked sliders and curve balls and I couldn't help but think people who desire such throwing should be using a real fucking ball.
9) Slinky - Oh yeah. Loved me some Slinky! My brother and I could walk that mofo down some stairs, dude. We also did this thing where we sang (not sure why, it wasn't a real song) "The elephant's trunk!" while dropping the end of the slinky down to the stairs from above. We were weird, I guess, because it's really not funny or entertaining, but we loved the elephant's trunk.
8) Yo-yo - I think anyone who didn't give up on this thing after three times of not getting the yo-yo to come back up the string went on to become a professional yo-yoer. That cute kid from Malcolm in the Middle's got mad yo-yo skillz, just in case you were wondering. Can I also just say that seeing child actors grow up disturbs me? Like, A LOT. I don't know why. It doesn't bother me when my little cousins grow up. Actually...I guess it does.
7) Star Wars figures - I've got nothing. Haven't even watched the movie all the way through.
6) Monopoly - I can't even tell you how much I hate Monopoly. Have you ever finished this game? Have you ever had fun playing after the first 15 minutes when the novelty of the money and the Community Chest cards wear off? And all those stupid little spawns like (Insert your city here) Monopoly or Gay Monopoly? Not helping. I guess General Popularity affects these ratings more than Fun to be Had.
5) Mr. Potatohead - Did you know that originally you just bought the facial features and used a real potato? I had no idea. That's kind of gross. But imagine the Fun to be Had when you could pretend those spuds budding from Mr. Potato's head were hairy warts!
4) G.I. Joe - I don't get how these were so entertaining, but that could be said for most of the 100 toys on VH1's countdown, or most toys in general. I know little boys love to destroy them. Or at least the boy that was my brother.
3) LEGO - Did you know there's a LEGO theme park? And that the origins of the word LEGO come from the Danish words "leg" meaning "play" and "godt" meaning "well"? Just another reason VH1 is making me smarter.
2) Barbie - you go girl. With your Pool Party and your pink convertible and your mansion with the elevator and your endless wardrobe and your many career choices. You should have been number one, because number one is...
1) Hula Hoop - which makes no sense. Seriously? Number one? Why? Because it's nice to see little girls gyrate their hips? I wholeheartedly disagree with this decision.
Clearly I really want VH1 to hire me to comment on...well, anything, really. I heart you, VH1, even if (like MTV) you only show about an hour of actual music videos per day, because quite honestly I'd rather hear music than see it. Then it can be about anything I want it to be.
Some notables that you probably haven't thought of in awhile:
Pong
Spirograph
Chutes & Ladders
Slip & Slide
Erector Set
Color Forms (those boring-ass static cling stickers with accompanying scenery)
The Top Ten Toys:
10) Wiffle Ball & Bat - did you know they used to come with instructions on how to throw certain pitches? Did/do people take Wiffle Ball-ing that seriously? They were talking about throwing wicked sliders and curve balls and I couldn't help but think people who desire such throwing should be using a real fucking ball.
9) Slinky - Oh yeah. Loved me some Slinky! My brother and I could walk that mofo down some stairs, dude. We also did this thing where we sang (not sure why, it wasn't a real song) "The elephant's trunk!" while dropping the end of the slinky down to the stairs from above. We were weird, I guess, because it's really not funny or entertaining, but we loved the elephant's trunk.
8) Yo-yo - I think anyone who didn't give up on this thing after three times of not getting the yo-yo to come back up the string went on to become a professional yo-yoer. That cute kid from Malcolm in the Middle's got mad yo-yo skillz, just in case you were wondering. Can I also just say that seeing child actors grow up disturbs me? Like, A LOT. I don't know why. It doesn't bother me when my little cousins grow up. Actually...I guess it does.
7) Star Wars figures - I've got nothing. Haven't even watched the movie all the way through.
6) Monopoly - I can't even tell you how much I hate Monopoly. Have you ever finished this game? Have you ever had fun playing after the first 15 minutes when the novelty of the money and the Community Chest cards wear off? And all those stupid little spawns like (Insert your city here) Monopoly or Gay Monopoly? Not helping. I guess General Popularity affects these ratings more than Fun to be Had.
5) Mr. Potatohead - Did you know that originally you just bought the facial features and used a real potato? I had no idea. That's kind of gross. But imagine the Fun to be Had when you could pretend those spuds budding from Mr. Potato's head were hairy warts!
4) G.I. Joe - I don't get how these were so entertaining, but that could be said for most of the 100 toys on VH1's countdown, or most toys in general. I know little boys love to destroy them. Or at least the boy that was my brother.
3) LEGO - Did you know there's a LEGO theme park? And that the origins of the word LEGO come from the Danish words "leg" meaning "play" and "godt" meaning "well"? Just another reason VH1 is making me smarter.
2) Barbie - you go girl. With your Pool Party and your pink convertible and your mansion with the elevator and your endless wardrobe and your many career choices. You should have been number one, because number one is...
1) Hula Hoop - which makes no sense. Seriously? Number one? Why? Because it's nice to see little girls gyrate their hips? I wholeheartedly disagree with this decision.
Clearly I really want VH1 to hire me to comment on...well, anything, really. I heart you, VH1, even if (like MTV) you only show about an hour of actual music videos per day, because quite honestly I'd rather hear music than see it. Then it can be about anything I want it to be.
Forget Me Not
Recently I had a run-in with my dad's Alzheimers. Mostly my mom has to deal with it and my brother and I are spared. For the most part I see my parents when I go out to their house for laundry and a visit, and my dad cheerfully greets me with "The anagrams are ready when you are," meaning he wants to play anagrams with me as soon as I'm done putting my laundry in. I love that he always wants to play with me, because it's just about the only thing we do just the two of us. You know, bonding. I've become quite good at anagrams and while he used to be extremely good, I can tell anagrams, just like many other things in his life, is becoming more frustrating. His temper has shortened and he's become much more sarcastic. He hates losing to me. He's never been one of those fathers that lets their children win - he's not evil or anything, he doesn't rub it in your face - he just likes to keep us on our toes. My dad is impressed at how well I can play anagrams now, and he must think sometimes that while his daughter is getting smarter he's getting dumber, and thus his sense of self-worth must take regular hits to the gut. Like when he forgets how to get to a friend's house that he's been driving to for 30 years. Like when my mother has him help her with her scrapbook like he's an intern. Honestly, that's how my mom treats him lately. If he's not working he'd better do something besides nap, and she now has him helping her with silly projects and she's taken away most of his decision-making. She is coping the best way she knows how and I really can't blame her. It's probably the hardest thing she'll ever have to deal with, and really, when you're over 60 and your kids are self-sufficient you must think to yourself "now comes the easy part, the twilight years, the years when we retire and relax." Except there will be no relaxing for her. She will be his babysitter until she can't take it anymore and then, for her own sanity, she will put him in a nursing home. He is well aware of this. She already talks about taking up golf because she'll need activities in her life "when she's a single woman." I was totally aghast when she said that to me. My dad was in the other room, and I'm sure he heard it, and I'm sure it's not the first time. No wonder he's become more sarcastic. He probably feels like a rotting piece of fruit just waiting to be noticed and thrown out.
Well, as I said, my brother and I don't really see all the ins and outs and all the ways their lives are affected. While I can see my dad's increased frustration and temper, I had yet, until recently, to really see what can happen when the disease takes over.
For my birthday my parents gave me a generous gift certificate so I could replace my sad tennis shoes with new ones, because that's what I asked for. (Anything that promotes/hints at me getting exercise is cause for great glee with them.) I promptly lost the gift card and asked my mom for the receipt so I could attempt to still use the credit. Somehow my dad got assigned to bringing me the receipt before meeting my mom and some of their friends for dinner. In preparation, I called my dad and gave him exact directions to my house from the Botanical Gardens, which is where he'd be coming from. Not hard, right? About a mile away. Nevermind that he's actually been to my apartment about 4 times. With Alzheimers, it's like a clean slate every time. I didn't even flinch when he asked for directions because I understand that. Friday night passed and there was no receipt in my mailbox. I called my parents' house on Saturday morning and my dad answered, and this is how our conversation went:
Me: Hi Dad! How are you?
Dad: Oh, fine, fine. How are you? What's going on?
Me: Not much! I was just wondering what happened...I thought you were going to bring me that receipt mom gave you.
Dad: (silence)
Dad: The receipt. Hm. Well, I'm not sure.
Me: Ok...um, did Mom forget to give it to you?
Dad: Well, let's see...I don't know.
Me: Were the directions to my apartment hard to follow?
Dad: I don't really know what you're talking about. You'd better ask your mother.
Me: Ok, Dad. It's ok. I'll talk to her later. No big deal.
My dad remembered nothing about the receipt. I don't know if he tried to find my apartment or not. It was the oddest conversation I've ever had with anyone - he just didn't comprehend anything I was saying. Later when I talked to my mom I told her how odd he was on the phone and she said "You know, I had a very strange conversation with him a couple days ago. It must be some sort of rough patch for him," which I think was her way of consoling me, because she knows I'm not used to him being so scatterbrained. Everytime I visit them she tells me another thing he can't do or another factoid about Alzheimers, and I rarely want to hear about it because it's too fucking painful, which is very selfish because I believe she shares these things with me to unload some of the burden from her shoulders. She wants to keep us abreast but she also wants to keep herself sane. I don't believe he has rough patches. I believe I am losing my father. You don't even know how vividly I can imagine walking into his nursing home room in 10 years (8 years? FIVE years?!) with a child on my hip saying "Hi Papa!" and him looking over at the both of us like "Well aren't you pretty! Who are you?"
I recently read an article about dealing with people with Alzheimers when their spouse has died. These people wake up everyday and want to know about their wives and husbands, they ask When are they coming to visit me? And everyday the nursing home staff battles with whether or not to tell them that their loved ones have passed away. Do they tell them the truth every day, making every day the worst of that patient's life? Or do they placate them with "Oh, your wife is visiting tomorrow," knowing that they'll have to recycle that lie for all the tomorrows to come? I honestly don't know what I'll do if my mother passes away before my father. She is, was, and will continue to be the solid rock of our family. But perhaps that responsibility is too great. I need to do more, but I have no idea where to start.
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