Friday, December 29, 2006
2. VMars at work ("work"), all day. It's Friday! Ain't got shit to do! It's a good show! It's totally high school! It's got a ... sheen!
3. NYE plans forming, changing, shapeshifting even. Every day brings something new. Break out the body glitter, we're in town and I think we're doin' dinner and dancing afterwards. Well, at least house-partying. I don't dance. Unless smashed.*
* the drier the better. no brut.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Time was you sent a boy off to war. Shooting a man'd fix 'em right up. But there's not even any wars no more, thank you very much, Warren Christopher!
I saw this package at my parents last week and got kinda crazy excited in a way I hadn’t been in 18 years. For a little dude, a package wrapped like this meant you’d been good that year and your raggedy-ass was getting some sweet action figure action. And even though it was wrapped in several layers of colored paper, an experienced toy opener could tell which kind. Let’s examine…
First off, we can eliminate most Transformers (unless it was a smaller character like Laserbeak) because they came in boxes. Next, let’s cross off He-Man since the plastic bubble trapping our precious Mekaneak and mini-comic was a little more bulbous. Same goes for the TMNT. Also for those two, the bump was in the bottom-center and was pronounced enough that the whole thing could probably stand up on its own. We don’t have any of that here.
The shape of the cardboard backing suggests either GI Joe or Star Wars or Gobot. For the first two, the “doll” was located in the lower-left corner, where GI Joe was on the lower-right. For all three, the plastic was usually a uniform 4 inches tall but it was still possible to differentiate based on their accessories. Star Wars was the most basic and crammed the characters’ weapons inside the plastic box. The Gobots, like Cy-Kill, placed their side-items in small individual compartments immediately to the right of the figure. GI Joe placed their junk above each figure, like Law & Order here.
See what I mean? This was serious stuff for a young boy. So much so that I was able to pull all of that deep out of my grey matter after not really though at about it for 2 decades. But where did that leave us on Xmas morn? No dice on the action figure.
Instead I got a set of chisels. Granted, it was something I had asked for but after the initial and irrational excitement it was still disappointing. On the plus side, though, I got several other awesome toys and two jammin' Halloween costume ideas.
Here are the most important things that happened this year:
1. The dog decided to stay. The fish decided to leave. We got another fish.
2. We set some shit on fire. Lots of people got married.
3. I found a photo online of an old college friend wearing a "GHOTI HOOK" teeshirt and I laughed til I 'bout peed my pants.
At least '06 was better than '05, which was just: balls.
Okay, happy New Year.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
But then as I was crossing the street to my office, I passed an old guy who was dressed in a normal K-St suit, excet he was wearing a BERET, and I suddenly was filled with hope - it was fate for me to dress cute-stupid today.
Also I've decided that it's probably a really fabulous idea for me to start dressing with a stereotypical ethnic theme every morning. Expect Gretel tomorrow, and maybe an Inuit come Friday.
- School Principal
- Cousin in technology something or other, perhaps modem business
- FBI Agent
- Circuit Court Judge
- Real Estate Agent
- Most Cousin-Moms
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Esp. when you are the only person in the building during your workday.
Dressing like a bag lady, TMBG and 2-hour lunches! December 26th, you are my new favorite workday.
Happy birthday, baby Jesus (who, according to some cousins's offspring, "comes down the chimney with Grandpa to bring presents." No one is correcting that. )
I'm actually at work today. Yr tears can start at any time now.
Friday, December 22, 2006
The Paris website offers only the most outstanding in entertainment information, maybe EVER, btw:
"The Producers will feature David Hasselhoff in the role of the outrageously flamboyant Roger DeBris. Best known for his roles in Knight Rider and Baywatch, Hasselhoff has also had a successful recording career and acclaimed stage performances in Chicago and Jekyll & Hyde.
“I am overjoyed that David Hasselhoff is going to play Roger DeBris in the Las Vegas production of THE PRODUCERS,” Mel Brooks said, “He has an incredible comedic timing, terrific musical theater experience and a stage presence that I think will be a perfect marriage with the role. And by the way, he has great legs for that dress.”
So there's that.
* * *
In continuing with tradition, I usually attempt to con people into drinking w. me on the night of the 23rd. I have a high school friend in town who I'd really like to avoid. If interested, please to contact.
I suck at holidays. I suck at birthdays, I give terrible gifts. This is why I love Thanksgiving (I can, actually, cook) and Halloween (I love Halloween with all my heaert and soul): no gifting. My neighbors bake cookies and then go like, caroling and shit, and I just stand there with the door to my incredibly messy house wide open looking all lantern-jawed. Friends are in town and want to do dinner, but they want to eat at Senior Citizen-meal time for some reason, and they want to meet up in WV practically; and it takes me two hours to drive throught the godawful hell that is Tysons traffic just to hang for 25 minutes of too-loud restaurant bonding time.
I find the whole seasonal deal incredibly stressful, and I'm always a mess by this time of the year.
Sure enough, the smallest things haven't been going my way the past two days, and it has almost been enough to send me over the edge.
And my family is totally over the edge.
* * *
Sloop John B always makes me tear up. I'm assuming it's not just me, or my raging seasonal affective disorder?
Thursday, December 21, 2006
There was also a frat burning tires outside the wedding hall. But the FD showed up and determined things were under control, so we were cool too.
But that’s her.
I won’t touch the wedding (very nice), the reception (ummm…), or the guests.
(Except this one guy. It seems when he went to get his tux he asked for everything that would make his different from any other tux ever rented. Long tales? Yes, please. Collarless shirt? Of course. Cummerbund or vest? How about a highly stylized black vest and I tuck it into my cummerbund? I’m sorry, is your name Jeffrey Sebelia? Because you are about to blow the fashion world up from the inside.)
But I feel the lengths we went to secure ourselves alcohol for our brief three days in the driest county in the South is fair game.
There is probably a legitimate argument about why the civic leaders of any county would institute a law forbidding the sale of alcohol. But in my limited drinking experience all those regulations have ever accomplished were to increase and enhance my drunk driving opportunities. At the hillbilly university (that’s “the 2006 NCAA 1-AA football champion hillbilly university” to you. And we beat UVA in basketball!) that the Duchess attended, the nearest source of alcohol was up (and then later dangerously down) a long mountainous road. In the “city” where our wedding was held, the surrounding counties were a checkerboard of dry vs wet and, for outsiders like us, it was a crap shoot about what interstate exit might shelter the liquor store with our delicious single malted liquor.
To put it plainly, we can’t have fun without booze. This makes me believe the amount of stressing in the weeks leading up to this wedding is probably a classic indicator of an family-wide alcohol problem. Investigations were made into flask design, Camelbak concealment, and reasonable explanations for my wild weight gain if we employed this. In the end we just decided to drink as much as we could in the day leading up to the blessed event and after the wedding we’d spike the punch at our cliquey family table.
After a fabulous catfish lunch in Memphis of Friday, we battled our way across state borders until we felt we were comfortably surrounded by a community of like-minded drunks. Unfortunately, the decades since college have dulled our Hemingway-senses and we struck out at our first gas station. However, they took pity on our shaky hands and kindly provided directions to the next wet town. Again unfortunately, my politeness and the cashier’s English speaking skills meant that we got rigorously lost. We only found the liquor store by accident and even though it had a drive-thru we decided we needed to no be in the car. While my parents-in-law bought 40s (seriously, check Flickr) I spent my time in there coveting this wall.
You know that kitten fell into an alligator’s mouth and died, right?
I’ve never had or heard of Seagram’s Canadian Hunter Mellow Sipping Whiskey but, damn, did I want some after this poster. My biggest regret of the entire trip was not asking to buy it. I really hope Mark Spitz was getting royalties. A similar but significantly less awesome version is up on Ebay for offensively high price of $40 + $20 shipping and handling. But screw that and its nice wood frame. In the end, though, I was too much of a scaredy kitten and we just took our cases and 40s and drove off.
Fast forward one day. Because we are drunks and pathetic, we consumed two days worth of beer in 16 hours. While the lady Pyggies crammed into the town’s only non-pickup to go shopping at Dillard’s (and ruin everyone’s Christmas by purchasing things for themselves that they told Santa they wanted and he’d already bought for them), the men drove across county lines to possibly the most appropriately named “town” in all the USA.
This whole post was just an excuse to say that I’ve been to Goobertown. And it would be teh sweetness to say I bought booze in this town of goobs but even though there is a drunk peanut on their store’s sign, we still weren’t across county lines. Fortunately, the building proprietor was able to grunt out direction to the nearest boozehouse.
This store’s employees were equally nice enough fellas, with their hunting waders and the way they demanded to know who was getting married before we could buy anything and their requests to come the wedding. And also their guns, which I assume were there to discourage shoplifting but also work at scarring little baby bloggers. Their selection of hard alcohol was impressive, considering the size of their establishment, but their beer collection was sparse. It went Beast, Beast Light, Natty Light, Natty Ice, then jumped up a level to Miller Light, Bud Light, MGD and finally maxed out at Red Dog (which I didn’t even know they made anymore and because of the whole Batman/Catwoman thing was too awesome for kids to handle.)
I bought beer. Dad-in-law bought gin and vodka. And you’d be impressed that we waited an entire wedding before we started drinking. It was quality brown bad, parking lot in our suits drinking and at first it was just the guys since the G’s entire lady relative collective were inside fighting. But once they heard the seal crack on the plastic gin bottle, they came a-runnin’.
Finally, we don’t know that it was actually illegal to possess liquor at the abandoned Laser Tag arena where the reception was held but it certainly felt wrong. Damn the moral majority and their minions in our nation’s musical fraternities. Good thing the G’s brother has long arms and can reach way under the table. Bad thing the punch ran out before we got there and they Laser Tag lady didn’t refill it until after I was forced to take several straight shots.
Wow. I said “forced” like I had no choice in the matter. It almost sounded like I could somehow handle my wife’s family without hard alcohol.
Anyblay. We all got a little Joe Namath drunk and I won $50 dollars from my mother-in-law because she bet me I couldn’t do a cartwheel. (How it escaped her notice that I won the silver Medal in the 1995 Virginia boys gymnastic championship, I’ll never know.) In the end, we all felt bad about ourselves and no amount of Airborne could mend the Crisco inflicted wounds to our immune systems.
Was it a backwoods wedding success? Indeed.
(two days in a row with Cure lyric post titles. Nothing like the holidays to get a person cheery and shit!)
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
* * *
The N: why do we do stpid memes
theyr the crappy chainletters of today
only less guilt from the one Australian chick you know
The G: I know I know
The N: who sends you one every year
The G: haha
* * *
It's okay, Catherine, look: I still do it! meme! meme! Bahh, bahh!
I've been in a meeting all day. I'm crotchety.
Also, I don't like internet rules, so here is more than five.
Also, I am boring as hell.
* * *
I know all the words to "All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You" by Heart, and somewhere is an answering machine tape that belongs to a gay German opera major named Dan. On it: me scream-singing "All I Wanna Do is Make Love to You." Other musical admissions/questionings/embarrassments: why don't karaoke machines have White Zombie? I love "More Human Than Human."
In 1994, S. and I stole massive amounts of loose change from the console of Pete N's unlocked VW bug when it was parked out behind the gym during track practice. We took his money and went to 7 Eleven and bought Fun Dip.
I, too, played french horn in junior high. The tune "Hot Cross Buns" is an epic family joke to this very day because it was the only song I knew for at least my first full school year of playing. I used to have to walk to the bus stop, and then RIDE THE BUS, with a french horn case the size of Nebraska. My house, and therefore the walk to the bus stop, was on a major highway. One time, a truck full of construction workers whistled at me (the first time that ever happened in my life), and then promptly threw an empty Big Gulp at my head. You may recall on this here blog I once questioned taking up the French Horn again, and since I was called a nerd practically immediately, I didn't. Also, I didn't really mean it.
I once "filmed" a spoof version of Mortal Kombat with my high school guy friends. The only female in the film, I played the girlfriend of the lead character (played by a lanky blond named J/sh.) I was only in the first scene before being "killed", and throughout the rest of the movie my death was explained as "being frozen to death in a restaurant freezer and then having her titties cut off!" The film then continued with J/sh's character avenging my death by battling K/le, dressed in longjohns; Scott, who's face was covered with tin foil; and Matt, who wore Nick's dad's bathrobe and an upside-down basket on his head.
J/sh is now the lead singer in a mildly successful Ffx county band that rips off 311 and Blink 182, they have legions of 15 year old fans across the Midatlantic. When I saw him at my high school reunion he was high as a kite. K/le lives in smelly ol' Florida & is a mailman. Matt and Scott are MIA, but I've got five bucks on them both still living with their folks, and I seriously think Scott was 23 or 24 when this went down, so dude's gotta be pushing mid/late thirties. Whoever has this video: call me. I want it destroyed. I'll never be Mayor with that thing floating around.
I just changed my cell phone wallpaper to a frightening photo of a USS Enterprise model.
The last fight the N and I were in re: his use of a Blackberry WHILE. DRIVING.
I can draw bunnies really well. Most of my notes I take at work, during meetings, concalls, etc. are covered with doodles of frolicking bunnies. Sometimes humping bunnies, but very often a like: bunny rainstorms. Bunnies falling from the sky. Related: I have a weird thing for Easter decorations.
I was 28 before I worked for anything other than a hardcore Republican. I used to have a top secret clearance, which is a riot. I don't any longer, but getting it back would be pretty easy because despite my punk rock appearance (heeee), I have an incredibly dull background. Dear recent college grads: no one gives a shit that you smoked pot way back in the 90s.
My favorite conversation was held with my husband's ex-roommates. Besides, like, my wedding day and blah blah, I think my happiest life-moment ever was sitting around in the backyard as they smoked cigars one winter evening. I was wrapped in a Star Wars blanket, and they were reminiscing about glam rock, Canadian college drug availability and Hammer of the Gods: The Led Zeppelin Saga.
I am known for drunken crafting. I cut the tags off my college rommate's black Doc Martens once by accident and then drunkenly tried to glue them back on. I know how to make these stupid things, the D and I once constructed an entire sockdog army of them during the snowstorm of '03 ('04? I can't remember) and then tried to invade the living room from the dangerous trenches of the kitchen. God, I know. However, the best sockdog is one I sewed while totes smashed, it is now BD's toy and referred to as "the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Sockdog." This weekend my v. proper MIL saw it, leaving me to explain that I sew drunk sometimes. That probably did not go over as well as it could have. Related: I
My grandmother was married 8 times, twice to the same man.
I don't know how to play poker, and no, I don't want to learn. But thanks for asking, Whole Entire World.
I hate bananas. They are fucking disgusting and if you like them then you are probably a bad person. Occasionally I will choke one down just because I know they are good for me, but that does not mean I condone them in any way.
I don't find Joanna Newsom particularly charming.
My sister-in-law insists I am the only person who buys Mitchum deodorant. I nicknamed my dog "Budge" for no real reason. I'm terribly impatient and bossy and a know-it-all. I occasionally flirt with my office doorman, a mid-60s guy who looks like a bum-legged Fred Sanford. I don't listen to voice mails, if it says I missed a call from you I'll just call you back, so don't ask if I've listened to your message because I probably haven't. One of my favorite movies ever is The Grifters.
I once duct-taped a girl to a rolling hot dot cart and then pushed the cart down the handicapped ramp of a swimming pool.
One of my favorite things ever written online:
I believe in Iggy, Jimi, Chryssie, and Joe Strummer, the Parents Almighty, Creator of heaven on earth; I believe in Malcolm McClaren and Sid Vicious, His only Son. I believe in punk, lo-fi and gangsta, indie, post-punk, indie-pop, rock, singer-songwriter, and insurgent country, conceived by Uncle Tupelo, born of Jeff Tweedy who suffers, as does Lou Barlow. I believe in Squirrelbait and Johnny Cash. I believe in the Motor City. I will respectfully love and fear Tad. I believe in Superchunk and PJ Harvey. I believe in new bands and will never pretend to know music I have never heard, so my mind may stay open and I will sitteth at the right hand of Mission of Burma so I may one day ascend to heaven, where I will be greeted by Sonic Youth, Eazy-E, and Mike Watt. I will not listen to rock critics, but trust my own ears. I believe in DIY, zines, Yo La Tengo, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of Cobain, and rock everlasting.
In the reptile world, we’ll now have to denote the years as either BLJ and AK. (Before Lizard Jesus and Anno Komodo) It’s a Christmas Dragon miracle! And a little bit scary.
PS – Now that I’ve entered my fourth decade, it now takes only three pieces of See’s Christmas chocolate to make me want to berf. And not even the groady coconut-filled ones, but regular ol’ nougat. This is the first negative and caramel-y reaction I’ve had to turning 30.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Hi. We just met tonight, and I have to say: things didn't go well. Granted, I have not been to open play for a few months. Bad Governess. I've vowed to change, in order to improve my game, let my teammates know that no, really, I'm serious about playing better, and work off the 45 extra pounds of Hershey's Kisses I ate today in one sitting. But that's neither here nor there, unless there is my ass, in which case: oh yes, there it is.
Where was I.
Ah, yes: practice. Friendly open court time. I've always found it to be a welcome, happy place- smiles greet ye when the court is vacated by pre-teen ponytailed basketball phenoms, 4 inches over-tall from all the hormones in their Taco Bell products, for us aging people who wear kneepads. Well, some of you wear kneepads, I am hardcore. Once playing, I find the group to be... adult. You know: competitive enough to break a sweat, a casual curse word or two flung about when one inevitably-n-occasionally screws up, an occasinal mocking trash talk across the net between friends (but never between strangers, because that would be rude.)
So when little boys like you show up and throw fucking tantrums about the most MILD of things, and get so ridiculously vein-poppy you actually have to leave, please to be pardoning me as I flick you my middle finger, tall and proud, when you slam the gym door behind you. I'm sorry that there are occasionally some competitive, competent women in your life who can return your serve, buttmunch. It's not that great. Perhaps everyone until now has just been nice about your self-assumed athletic prowess. Must be hard to face reality. Anyways. PONY UP, or go home to your cowering wife who I'm sure just tells the entire neighborhood "but he really loves me" when your quarter-inch fuse blows over her skirt being a smidge to short, and she ends up with strange bruises.*
PS, also, I wasn't going to say anything but now I don't care: you look like Jeff Gannon crossed with a certain Eric Stoltz character, and I'm pretty sure you know which character I'm referring to.
Good day. I SAID GOOD DAY.
Yr Worst Nightmare
* this is terribly insensitive and plain wrong, and yet you know EXACTLY the kind of meathead I am talking about when I describe him as such. Admit it.
hint: it's because they've used the same photo of polo players in 3 different issues of their stupid publication for lamewads.
Holidays are slow.
(Full disclosure: neither the N or I have driven my car in days/weeks, and so it sits in front of the house slightly abandoned, a defacto storage unit filled with giant blocks of styrofoam, towels covered with muddy dogprints, and empty shopping bags. So, right now, I'm just assuming those 4 or 5 CD's are still in there. We're disgusting.)
So, excitement! New blood for the questionably-working car CD player!
* * *
Lloyd, I'm Ready to be Heartbroken - Camera Obscura
We Used to Vacation - Cold War Kids
Pull Shapes - The Pipettes
Smash Your Head - Girl Talk
Skeleton Suit - Birdmonster
Did I Step on Your Trumpet - Danielson
Rivalry - Figurines
Launch Yrself - Adem
To Go Home - M. Ward
The Us Beneath - Fog
The Zookeepers Boy - Mew
Monsters - Band of Horses
Shade & Honey - Sparklehorse
Walk in the Park - Oh No! Oh My!
Kissing Families - Silverspun Pickups
Back in the Day - Figurines
Us Ones In Between - Sunset Rubdown
I Called You Back - Bonnie Prince Billy
and last and least:
What's This? - Fall Out Boy
* * *
We won't discuss that last addition.
Anyhoos, this comes just in time, because I admitted to someone just the other day that I recently downloaded "Fool in the Rain" unironically. Getting old hard? Preach on, brah.
UPDATE: Finished with first round of listening - this is some seriously pansy music, even for well renowned pansy such as myself. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but holy crap, where is the rock? At the vry. least, this has reaffirmed my like of Silverspun Pickups, so that's good.
Monday, December 18, 2006
This modern work of Crayola art was part of an assignment where the class imagined themselves as Time’s Man of the Year. (Those were the zestful days before we were forced to waste syllables by saying “person.”) We cut the centers out the red-bordered magazine and glue-sticked our pictures in. They were on the walls for the parent/teacher conferences.
With a realistic understanding my limitations, I projected myself winning the honor in the future. But not Artie N. He wanted the award now. 1987 now and screw Gorbachev. But since he couldn’t draw he took his red frame and glued it to the glossy side of a piece of tin foil. Instant crappy mirror. It looked like shit.
And it still does. But I looks like Artie was quite the visionary.
Yesterday was the N's birthday, and thanks to everyone who participated in Sat. morning wargames on the side of a LC mountain (paintball: where boys are men and girls are... targets?) Actually, I'll have you know that the womenfolkz fared extremely well, even when pitted against such enemies as the Capital Offense Paintball Collective (coordinated team with laser-guided weapons, embroidered, personalized flak jackets, and camo on EVERYTHING.) My Adidas stripes were glaringly obvious, now that I'm comfortable with brandishing a paint-filled weapon, expect face paint next time. I liked it more than I should have.
Don't Touch that Jukebox
And then D. showed up at our house bearing slightly pornographic cards and a bottle of Grey Goose; we went out to get drankin with some people we knew and some we didn't but who seemed awesome all the same. The night turned into a rotating "This is Your Life, Drinking Beer" style function. Thanks again for showing up. For those of you who left early-ish, I am just sorry that you missed the wave of rowdy folks who brought glorious things like "Clash of the Titans" on DVD and their storytelling abilities. (totally enraptured, btw.) Also a super-freakout between the N's old coworker and myself when we realized we grew up in the same county and spent time babysitting each others friends and siblings in the same village composed of 30 PEOPLE, prompting an OBNOXIOUS squeal-fest that included drawing maps of our childhood hangouts and where we used to build forts and stuff. Totally, totally, totally obnoxious.
Award-winning conversation of the night:
"So I dated this guy in college who..."
"I thought you said, 'I dated this gynecologist..."
"Wow, the story would have been much better that way."
I spent all day yesterday folding laundry and watching shows on primordial dwarves. Last night the family was over at our house. 7 hours were spent trying to teach Gramps how to work a cell phone, til he exclaimed he didn't give a damn and threw it on the floor. I have never eaten so much food as I have the last two or three months of my life. 740 pounds of pure sweet Governess action. The N got a camcorder, so: my apologies, You Tube.
(extra special happy birthday edition to you too, btw.)
Friday, December 15, 2006
<--- (this, friends, seems to be an okay holiday party story.)
* * *
I am prone to overexaggertion, proven fact. But I used react to acquaintances "Here is My Horrible Stereotypical Office Party Description" with kind of a yawn. I'm a bitch. I have seen Office Space, 700 times, yo, thank you. I KNOW, I know, I know. Pass the cake, Milts, etc. It can't be that bad. But now? Now, I know.
Now you will come to me, and I will cradle you. I will hold you in my loving arms, and we will cry together at the memory of so much innocence lost. I feel you, Holiday Party Suffrs. Let me be yr Oprah.
* * *
Last year I worked in a soul-anihilating job at a brain-withering company, an office built from cold hearts and gray-n-mauve patterned carpet and young skinny pale peons who flinched when you raised your hand above your waist. I didn't realize just how bad it was til I left - it's like I'm still going through Stockholm Synd. rehab.
I barfed in a trash can my first day on the job.
One of my bosses consistently called me "Lily." Not my name.
The company holiday party in short: the food was bad, the boxed Chard was watered down, and the HR people grunted menacingly as they thrust holiday bonus checks into yr hand (the only good thing to ever come of that work experience, and even the CHECKS were mean-lookin') Also, they gave us lawn chairs with the company logo on it, leftovers from a failed promotional campaign. Merry fucking something something. At the throwdown in the 7th floor conference room, I talked to the one person I vaguely knew, met a spouse of another employee (the Mrs. was wearing a sticky angora sweater and kept wanting to talk about the rabbit pens she kept in her backyard), ate some dry satay-on-a-stick, and then left early down the back staircase- cleverly, I thought, inserting myself the smokers on their way down to the parking deck. My supervisor (homophobic homosexual, Republican, meaner than a snake) gave me the stink eye as I escaped.
No one knew each other in our department. We were all contractors and didn't work in the actual office most days, only spending a bizarrely silent afternoon once or twice a month together filling out timesheets and stuff in shared windowless rooms. No one decorated their walls. I had a computer, a set of files, and a dead plant on my desk.
One time I came into the office, and my computer was gone. The IT guys had just given it to someone else.
I started an internet blahhg because it was either that, or take some sort of sharp weapon to my own skull.
To spread the cheer, a department holiday function was also held (3:30 to 4:45 PM, group cleanup til 5). Think a few short minutes of potluck scarfing, followed by 45 minutes of berating (because SOME employees didn't bring their mandatory company notebooks to the POTLUCK, even though it's still a TEAMBUILDING function, and we HOPE THAT'S NOT HOW YOU ACT ON CLIENT SITE, TOO because you must have FORGOTTEN that it is your job to WRITE and that means recording EVERYTHING even at HOLIDAY PARTIES now DOESN'T IT??????????), followed by the dessert table in the office supply room. No really, you must try Patricia's mallowbars. No, really. IT IS COMPANY POLICY THAT EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM TASTE A MALLOW BAR. You like having a job, no?
A month or two later, and the project I was assigned to was still sucking my will to live despite management snarks that "this can only get better," the money was tight, and every third employee was being laid off.
* * *
This is where I become a beacon of hope, a light at the end of yr Holiday Office Party Tunnel. You, oh damaged employees, pissed upon and downtrodden: now is the time of year to reevaluate! you, too, can quit yr job!
I escaped, I am happier x eleventy billion. I work for a nice ol' Dem now, not known for bouts of pas-aggress pouting and snarky opinions on my home remodeling projects and strange political rants and weird nonsequitor declarations about how he used to be a surfer-model in Cali. I no longer have to take bizarre government-funded trips to sexist, terrifying events (Ask me about how the US reaallllly spends money, besides playing war!)
Last night I ate like a champ at one of the city's best restaurants. That is how we roll here in the newest career digs. The only scarring I have to show for it is blisters from a 15 block walk in heels (???i know???) because A) I am too mentally limited to find a cab B) I don't know how to wear high heels and C) and by the time I started walking, I was like: eh, fuck it.
I like my now-oldish new job.
Happy Holidays, Cubesisters and brothers, far n wide.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
1. Go out of town for three weekends for a wedding, Thanksgiving and a wedding. Remain uncomfortably full for the entire time.
2. Complain that pants are too tight.
3. Sprain ankle to limit exercise.
4. Allow spouse to buy South Beach friendly foods.
5. Follow diet for two days: salad, salad, salad.
6. Accept case of heavy, seasonal Sam Adams beer as a gift from co-worker.
7. Spectacular fall of diet wagon when spouse attends volleyball game one night: Drink several beers, eat entire box of Wheat Thins, a couple of pizza slices and half gallon of orange juice.
8. Contract stomach virus*, stay in bed, sleep, watch Slither and/or Ice Pirates.
9. Lose 8 pounds.
Success! Enjoy the laughter with your friends as your pants fall off in a comical fashion!
Bring on the eggnog for skinny!
*the Taco Bell comment has already been delivered. But I did waste a few seconds trying to remember if I had eaten there. Or at Taco John’s, the Canada of fast food Mexican restaurants.
After some serious QT with my television set last night, I have decided: who cares about dogs? Not me. My dog? Frankly, after over a year++, he is still not earning his keep. I ask him to fold one load of laundry while we're gone during the day. Or sweep the kitchen. This is not rocket science. Instead, he just flops around the couch watching his stories and taking an occasional TV break to munch on some antiques. Ass.
My new obsession is "Growing Up Walrus." Holy freaking crap, walruses! Giant skinbags who's faces resemble John Bolton, or my dad-in-law! They do tricks! I LOVE YOU WALRUSES. You are making me roll over and die of cuteness. I totally need me a walrus.
Almost as cute as walruses: K's niece, so enamored of meerkats that she dressed up like one for Halloween. Sure, sure. You've got your standard-issue princesses, a punk-rocker or two, maybe a hippy. But a 9-year old after my own heart is the one who makes a statement: do not be lame, embrace yr inner meerkat.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Reason number 754 why you should kind of love this city.
Oh, you're right, I forgot the agism, too. Thanks for pointing that out.
I'm like, barely recovered and only one cup of coffee in this morning, so I guess everyone should just be glad I didn't bust out a "honky" while I was on a roll.
Hello, I am a total embarassment, how are you today.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
- Top 50 Music Videos
- The Economist Books o' the Year
- Top Movie Posters
- Top College Photography
- Top Gadgets Nerds Love
- Top Cat Fights
* * *
I am excited that Brandy
Oh, here's a question totally unrelated to anything I typed above: you think my neighborhood association newsletter would dig a monthly column? I'm gunning to be the Jean Teasdale of the inner NoVa burbs.
I have never been to the 930 club where chairs were involved, nor such a crowd of responsible and polite young men and ladies in pressed denim. PURSES! Ladies brought purses! Because they had seats to sit on! It was a wonder to behold. I stayed true to 930 roots and kept my license in my shoe.
I kept thinking I was going to see John Legend all day yesterday, even though I don't know who John Legend is, and therefore stage-whisper-screamed "WOOOOOOT JOHN LEGEND" probably 104 times in our friends ears. It was obnoxious. For that, I apologize.
The N. apologizes for calling the opening act "Tristan Fairyfeather, Girl Detective." TFFGD was, according to the very careful notes I took on my cell phone text message draft function: "joni mtchll female jack jhnson sarah mclachlan @ lilith fayre?????"
Tristan, her website notes, likes to surf and draw in the sand. Also, her last name is not Fairyfeather.
We were home and in bed no later than 12:10 pm, and while I enjoyed every minute of barefoot acoustic Ani-guitar and transient-like mumbling between Joe Cocker covers (really, I'm not even trying to be a big asshole. who doesn't love Joe Cocker?), I have officially decided to buy GWAR tickets the next time they come round. I missed them Sunday, and I am sad I did not have the chance to be covered in piss and blood.
Life's delicate balance n stuff.
* * *
In other news, I am slowly breaking free of the Deep South accent that has taken over my body like some such parasite. It's taken a few days.
* * *
G's brother: there is a certain kickass band playing a specific kickass show in a certain kickass city on New Years Eve, where a certain kickass dude's girlfriend happens to originate, er, from. Said dude found an extremely cheap ticket to that city, and is finalizing plans to break in the New Year with a Killer Party. Your jealousy may begin.... now.
The G: i hope you liked to be punched in the stomach til you cry like the baby douche you are.
That's okay, I'm spending my NYE on the beach.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
I haven't driven through the greater Memphis area in at least a year; that alone is always good for a story or twelve. Or at least catfish n serious bbq.
(Also noted: I'm beyond ecstatic that Catherine was able to provide me a theme song for said trip. If ONLY we were going to LR. But that is the big city, folks, and we are simple country mice.)
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Tysons II - Main Parking Lot – Level One
I’m glad there was only one (negative) pink line because I steadfastly believe pregnant woman shouldn’t even be allowed to go to the mall. And not for any selfish or accurate reasons but because there is no way breathing Gappy mall air can be healthy for a fetus. Ladies, while it surely falls well below other proven dangers, I strongly suggest you stay away from the Fashion Center at Pentagon City if you are preggers. Those Great Steak & Potato Company and Panda Express airborne food particles are going directly into your baby’s bloodstream.
Here are my unscientific rankings of environmental dangerous facing an unborn baby:
Falling down stairs
Riding un-oiled carnival Tilt-a-whirl
Having someone swing you around in circles by your arms until you get sick or the baby shoots out
Xenu demanding hourly ultrasound scans
Breathing mall air
Laser pointer aimed directly into bellybutton
1. The Wrens @ Black Cat, Halloween
Fucking retardly awesome.
2. The Hold Steady @ Black Cat, February
See above. Really really really rilly rill for rill amazing. I don't care what Ryan Avent says. :) This show was, granted, better than last month's effort.
3. Head Roc @ Ft. Reno
Only because the N and the D and I took a 3 and a 4 year old to this concert, which is pretty fantastic of us in a "we're-totally-unfit-to-procreate-and-we-know-it" kind of way. Also, kickass dreadlocks. Actually, anything at Fort Reno is on the list because it's Fort Reno!! Meredith Bragg, Benjy Ferree, Etc: Heads up!
4. Okkervil River @ the Ottobar
I love these guys.
5. The Eels @ 9:30 Club
The show itself was great, and would really have only been better had the giant-assed guy in front of us with the extensive flatulance problem been, oh.. I dunno, executed. Which reminds me - I've been cracking up about this NPR story since yesterday's morning commute, where they described a plane that had to land because of "unusual fumes." Turns out they found matches, and some lady had been lighting them during the flight to cover a BO problem. Quoth the airline rep: "She had a medical condition in which she was not able to control the quality of the air around her." That is the best news statement of the MILLENIUM, folks.
6. Middle Distance Runner @ The Baltimore Marathon
When was the last time you were one of three people watching DC's darlings at 9:30 in the morning in a parking lot in running shorts eating free fig newtons? Never, that's the last time. And they still brought it.
7. G. James and Deleted Scenes @ DC9
I am one of the few and bizarre who actually likes Georgie James less the more I listen to them (sorry, I know.) But that's okay, I'm sure they are very nice people. Deleted Scenes, though? I have a super creepy old lady crush on them.
8. French Toaast @ Black Cat
Actually, I didn't see this, I''m speaking for the N. I guess I could also put Rancid into this category, too.
and the whatever:
- New Porn and B&S @ 930 remain unranked, becauase frankly, Mr. Newman, you guys sucked it up big time that night.
- Beck, becuse I am the loser who left 2 minutes before doors opened, after standing in line for 2 hours. Who's rad? I'm rad.
- Once again, did not make it to MacRock this year. GOD.
- Wilco is always good. We see them 700 times a year. They never fail, but they don't make lists because they are Wilco.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
god. it's almost as if I'm feeling ill or something.
* * *
things I've learned on the internet today:
- "Mobiles are a traditional craft in Denmark, but the modern mobile was created in 1954 by Christian Flensted and his wife Grethe. Christian became known as the "Uromager", which means a "maker of things mischievous and always on the move"."
- Also, via AM, today is Repeal Day.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Grandma Pyggy reports that the town is appropriately upset at the passing of Dewey Readmore Books** as he’s been a comforting sight for the hundreds of children that sated their Sarah, Plain and Tall appetites. She also noted that the library is thinking about getting a new cat but they didn’t want that reported in the MSM. It seems they’re afraid that people will donate kittens by stuffing them in the overnight book drop, again.***
Obviously, overnight book drops are not for cats but for the discarded fliers that your local third party candidate hands out explaining his platform. He’s the one out there no matter what time of year it is and you feel bad so you take his Green Party leaflet, printed on green paper, and pretend to read but throw it away in the nearest overnight bin because it’s unlocked. A better solution would be to put the kittens through the mail slot at his house.
*As a wee one, I was unaware of the layaway counter’s true purpose other than a repository for lost children. If we got separated for our parents, say at TJ Maxx or Zayres’, we were told to head to layaway for eventual pickup. That’s some solid parenting.
**The second best pet name I’ve heard this week. Number One goes to “Captain Moonlight” who I guess was just adopted from the Alexandria Animal Shelter since his ridiculous adorable wide-angled photo has been taken down. However, “Ben” is still available after an entire year and it breaks my little heart.
***This may be the library that my pop’s has his name carved into the wall. It’s either there or at the bank, one of the two buildings he helped construct during one glorious summer full of mischief and swimming holes and hog slaughters.
I don't know if you are still maybe shopping for me for the holidays but I was thinking what I'd really like is to be devoured.
No, seriously. That last product is amazing.
- if you are not keeping up with LPTJ lately, then you are missing out on one of my favorite blog series ever.
- The N has procured a pretty hilarious videotape of myself and the D. taking a Christmas tree cart out for a spin. We went a lovely farm near Paeonian Springs to Christian Family Bond yesterday. The ride, and subsequent wreck, was good times but the resulting quickly-spreading bruise on my right calf is going to be epic.
Okay, Pitchfork. "The most divisive rock record of the year" is a bit of a stretch, no?
* * *
I guess I could also plug in a "weekend review" right now, it being Monday morning and all, but no one wants to read about me drinking a few bottles of wine, watching "Nacho Libre" and then getting sensible 8 or 9 hours of sleep. OR DO YOU.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Also, a site I found when I googled "Clown College Pics." I'd link to it, but it might give the collective Internet a heart attack. Should you choose to follow my path, I'd seriously consider your faith in God before clicking that link. I've spent 45 fascinating, breathtaking, and slightly horrifed minutes on that page.
2. Neglected to mention - my bro's GF brought this to Thanksgiving dinner. I was unaware that our monster had some sort of brew-fame attached to his visage.
3. Last night, i saw a business-dressed woman pushing a doll in a miniature stroller down 21st st. no child with her. actually, no children anywhere. in my mind, I have this fantastic scenario playing out, where she would rush the doll into the GW emergency room and scream "MY BABY!"
4. 8 days and counting til my spouse experiences ingesting a Memphis catfish dinner alongside my father. It is a truly disgusting experience not to be missed, and only for the strong of heart. Naturally, I can't wait.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
- Deleted Scenes had an off night, although I like their new song they closed with. The lead singer was dressed like Harry Potter-sans-specs, so that was nice.
- Mikal Evans has a very pleasant voice. Like if Bjork stopped sucking helium and was from Appalachia or something instead of Reykjavik.
- Guest appearances by the C. the bouncer I totally don't recognize anymore because he's so skinny, Middle Distance Runner, the bartender from GH who I want one of my friends to marry simply because he has that old Fort Reno teeshirt I want AND says "cheers" unironically when he gets your a beer AND just seems like a nice guy, and a blogger (unconfirmed spotting.)
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
I went to the MySpace page of Mr. Pollis? And I'll be goddamned, but HE AND I HAVE THE SAME EFFING STYLIST!!!! Seriously. For those of you who know where to find my Flickr photos? Where there exists a picture of me punching my friend T. in the face during a wedding? You know. You SO know. We are TWINS, except he is a skinny DJ in Williamsburg or whatever and I am a housefrau with a cube job who is wearing a stretched-out TJ Maxx sweater set! Or maybe I'm his mom, although you'd think I'd remember something like that.
I'm not usually one to sport coathangers and Mr. T bling, but screw it. If that gets me in with My Chemical Romance, then count me in. Swooooooooooooon.
If the internet can start convincing me to post photos of myself, it might just be worth it to chronicle my transformation into this kid. I am so close, I can taste it. I just need to learn to stomach the Scissor Sisters, and score me some skinny jeans. Smells like EXCITEMENT in here!!!!!
no seriously, i will fly myself to India to fix your goddamn servers which have been broken for 5 days
As I'm screaming on the phone to Computerland Customer Service in "Business Governess" voice (and people who know this voice RELISH THE EVERLIVING POO out of it, it is like the choicest vocal styling you can imagine), my boss overhears me say "I DON'T REALLY CARE to hear EXCUSES, Chris, I'm BLEEDING MONEY OVER HERE!" and starts giggling like a Harajuku pre-teen:
1. I don't work for a for-profit type deal, so I'm a liar
2. I totally sounded like a James Spader character in an 80's movie. I called a customer service rep by name! "Ghost?" "Sex Lies Videotape?" "Less Than Zero?" (was he even in that?) Anyways, one of them.
In the midst of anger-n-chaos: beauty. Who's up for coke later?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Emails from paradise: Uggg - I'm so sorry. I wonder if I infected all 200 guests! Robutussin and shots of Jameson most likely evoked my cousin's quote: "You were like Grace Kelly. Only brunette. And drunk."
Most apt description yet.
PS, is it Fall 2005 in here or what? I have not posted this much on this here blog since I was 12 years old.
(When you google "high on the hills with a lonely goatherd" you get to Bulgaria. Um, yay?)
You need a guy like this around.
Although he lives in O-town and I only see him once a year when he comes back to mooch off his Ma for the holiday season, he remains one of the most genuine awesome guys in all the southland. Despite living in O-town. He could probably slaughter puppies and I'd still be all "awwwww." Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike Orlando? No reflection on the great people of that city, I just hate it there. Every time I have been to Orlando, which is approxmiately 8 million times, it smells like a giant fart. Okay, I don't hate everything about Orlando. I have been known to wax poetic about the Target near the Millenium Mall. It is the cleanest Target I have ever been to. It is the one thing Orlando has going for it. Oh, and also the Italian themed hotel at Universal. They have great bathrobes and Vespas bolted down at the entrance. Fake Portofino is kind of hilariously awesome, woot!
It's okay, Orlando, lots of people love you. You don't need me.
Where was I?
Oh! B! B's ladypal!
His girlfriend, (full disclosure: I've never met her but I'm sure she's like, a total hottie and smart as balls or whatever; B has impeccable taste), has just started up her own bananers fashion photography partnership business thing. Also, she is moving to NYC soon according to B's email. No elaboration on whether he follows in true superboyfriend style; I know he loves Florida.*
(Also, not to give any trade secrets away or anything, but this lady is like 11 years old, so now is the time where you should start feeling bad about your oldperson crusty untalented selves.)
If I owned a house with a game room, I'd request a giant print made of the oujia board girls for Yule.
* No, seriously. Loves Florida. Lots of people do! I'd love an explanation, I'm not even trying to be snarky or anything, I'd just really like to be in the know.
Monday, November 27, 2006
In other things, Network Solutions? You make my life hell. I get yelled at because of you. Yr service makes me weep bitter computer tears.
Also, although my review of THS on Saturday was glowing only in the way that awesome High-School-Diary-me can make it, I will backtrack and say twice today I've said "they were better last time" on IM. Gawwd, suckiest fangirl evar.
I'LL DRINK TO THAT.
I spent my senior year in high school wearing black turtlenecks, dating a guy I didn't like very much but who was in a punK band who's style was a sunglasses-and-neckties combo, and writing "dangerous" missives about classmates I hated during study hall in a leatherette journal. And trying to learn to love MxPx. And copying Robert S's AP English vocab homework.
The very last day of school, I climbed into this kid Nick's red Escort, joining a handful of people I still talked to at that point. Just a chlorine-soaked summer away from leaving forever, or so I really believed in my sloppy teenage heart. (A few days earlier, I had been at my former BFF's house for some sort of team sports/school booster meeting [do these even still exist???], and her mom n her had started talking about how exciting College was going to be, what with the sororities and parties and boyz and no curfeeeeewwww and omg my little girl's growing-up-blahisms. And her mom turned to me and was all "AREN'T YOU SO EXCITED?!?!?!?" and I looked at her total stony-faced and said "I'm going to study hard and not waste my parents money." And the entire dining room of teens-n-parents fell silent, you could actually hear the accompanying soundtrack/album-needle screech, and they all went back to throwing handfuls of glitter into booster club packages and curling gift ribbon and shit. I've always felt kind of bad for that, esp. since it was hypocritical and I stayed up way past bedtime and I think failed math that first year, I was a liar; and also that particular mom was always nice to me and it was not necessary to be a total bitch to her, even if I was 17 and everyone is a total bitch when they're 17.)
So we were in the back of this hatchback and going nowhere in particular, I had picked up my paycheck the day before, and didn't have to work that day. So we went to the Party Bridge. Which, as recent high school grads (15 minutes prior) was totes lame and for Sophomores but whatever. We'd hit Taco Bell afterwards and pretend like all this never happened.
Has there ever been a lame-er name for a teenage hangout than "The Party Bridge?" It sounds like a Christian Youth Center (close - ours was actually called "the Cave" and featured earnest trying-to-be-cool twenty-something employees/pastors named Cliff, and afterschool concerts of x-edged bands, before we even knew what straightedge really was.) I tried googling "the Party Bridge" and all that came up was some MySpace memes and a Wikipedia entry on Wayne Crookes.
The Party Bridge* - a... bridge...out in rural-ish Loudoun. I'm sure it's long gone, or at least surrounded by townhomes at this point, so I don't feel like I'm breaking Teen Code and giving away a giant secret to Old Square Bloggers. You went to the Party Bridge to jump off the Party Bridge. That was about it - sometimes people brought their older sister's hidden stash of Beast, but for the most part, you went to jump into the creek below. The Bridge was just low enough to not get hurt, and just high enough to feel truly lawless. Also, the cops showed up every 20 minutes or so to bust up the entire Jump Op 3000, so - thrilling illicit anticipation! Potential neck-breaking death with every leap! Or at least a sprained ankle!
One much needed piece of information prior to jumping- if the cops came while you were still in the water, you grabbed onto one of the cement supports and held on like a water koala or something while you treaded, hiding behind it as the authorities gathered everyone up and took names and called frustrated parents at their desks trying to finish up client calls. You, the treader, escaped Scot free.
I think we were there all of .25 seconds before the cops showed up. We had just parked off the gravel road in the woods, and S. and I headed down the banks to see who had already jumped and was in the creek.
We sat on the banks and watched as this really nast kid Ben - who I remember because he was just BAD ASSNESS. He was my age, but certainly hadn't finished high school that day, nor ever. The fact that he was wasting time jumping off some pansy ass suburban bridge when he had more important things to do; like copious amounts of meth and knocking up 15 year olds and robbing his dad's business; just kind of floored me.
So the cops are up on the bridge bustin' chops and collarin' keedz, and us two girls are sitting on the bank watching Ben tread water and hide behind the pillar. A choice - do you walk up the bank and get busted? Do you wait under the bridge with the trolls and the dead fish and Ben? Do you risk having the cops come down and see Ben's reflection in the water, and then you become the girls who Got Ben Busted Again and rish having yr car keyed at Nick's house some summer night? Do you just sit there, paralyzed with unexplainable youth joy, waiting for your heart to explode from the ridiculously minor yet somehow breathtaking situation you have found yrself in?
In the few moments that followed: Nick & his Escort may or may not have abandoned us under the bridge when the cops told him to get out of there (I can't remember), and I think Ben winked at us, and my Chucks filled with mud seep, and once we found Nick again he drove us home, talking the entire time about his first sexual experience with another girl he had just offered a ride home, and my head nearly burst open with anticipation- that soon, I didn't have to be here anymore and I could maybe, MAYBE, go get arrested with pure abandon in some other town for a minimum of four years as long as I kept my grades up, and arrested not for jumping off some shit-ancient train trestle. At the very least, an open container charge. Something, anything.
I'm not from Minneapolis, but you catch my drift. Hearts exploding, heads bursting open.
* "Also covered with poison ivy." - S.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
REVEL in it, folks. This may signal the coming of the Armegeddon or something.
Now, to waddle it all off. The dog and I may send smoke signals if our stomaches distend to the point that our joints no longer function. I'm predicting 200 yds from the front door.
In other news, I have a terrible cold and am losing my voice.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
The G is happy that I missed this. I’m upset because I should have been playing on the line and the guy who replaced me was unequipped for the situation. It’s not that I’m looking to fight someone; it’s more that I think I could have prevented the game getting called and a costly loss.
The retelling of the game’s account through emails, though, has left me itching to play again soon. But we don’t have a game again for weeks. So, to resolve this agitation, I am offering my skull knocking services to anyone looking for protection. For example, say you want to check out a SITCOM but your roommate makes you watch some ridiculous musical episode of a cult television fantasy show. I’ll gladly come by your townhouse and smack the remote out of his hand. And maybe knock off his glasses. But only if you want or he talks sass.
- The Times mastheads
- Hirschorn on reinventing the newspaper
- Newspapers online. It seems like a good (and obvious) idea, but I've already not been able to find two or three newspapers I know are online in this site's database. So.
- On Jay Z's newest: On the lyrical front, Jay hasn’t completely lost his ability to rap, but he does spend plenty of time spinning his wheels (“It’s a new era / So I’ve got a brand new hat”). This is stuff he could come up with in a doctor’s waiting room over a copy of People: Ben and J. Lo, “Angelina Joleezie,” MySpace, Steve Jobs, etc. Granted, this may be the circle Jay-Z runs in these days, but they make for tired punchlines. Exactly.
- My friend MJ's best songs of 2006. I don't agree with them all.
"Phantom Limbs" The Shins
"No Use Crying," Embrace
"Wolves," Josh Ritter
"But I Did Not," Howe Gelb
"Cruelty to Animals," the Pernice Brothers
"Ever Thought of Coming Back," Kelley Stoltz
"Song with a Mission," the Sounds
"Cocaine Man," Baxter Dury
"The Blues Are Still Blue," Belle & Sebastian
"Skip to the End," the Futureheads
"Crush in the Ghetto," Jolie Holland
"My Secret is My Silence," Roddy Woomble
"Is It Any Wonder," Keane
"The Licensee," Channels
"Rise Up with Fists!!," Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins
"Go Go Gadget Girl," the Motorettes
- +/- Review
- Ryan Adams: at least he's consistent
Re: Misc Stuff:
- "Why Comic Sans?" at Connare's website; Connare interview.
- White Castle stuffing
- Public Notice: If you are related to me and haven't updated your Amazon wish list in a year, just be prepared to not receive any gifts for the holidays/your upcoming birthday/etc. Also; I have drawn the name of a bank teller aunt from the rural midwest in the family gift-swap this year. She likes baking cakes and making jewelry. If you have any ideas beyond me going to a craft store and shipping her an assload of fake turquoise, hit me up.
- Cut out of work early
- Holidays w. family; eat and drink
- Buy all sorts of unneeded crap for said family to prep for the celebration of the birth of the baby Jebus
- Drink heavily, *, but not as heavily as the rest of said family, who called me last night on my cell to read "poetry" over the phone.
(Listen! Your aunt has a poem she memorized that she wants to read to you! Yes, over the phone. No, it can't wait until Thursday when we see you. Okay, ready? It's a poem about WINTER!:
Ha hahahahha, wasn't that GREAT???!?!?!?) **
- Hold Steady
- Saturday Night Quinceanera
- Get over New Jersey-contracted cold, which has reared it's ugly head this morning
- Re-read NYT mag blurb on Katharine Jefferts Schori, who I find totally fascinating (former oceanographer!)
* speaking of which, I had not eaten anything all day yesterday, and after three Buds became semi-belligerent in a post-work Solly's Tavern conversational circle: "EVERYONE LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW AS I REMINISCE ABOUT RAX RESTAURANTS. I DON'T CARE IF YOU DON'T CARE. Also, I am going to interrupt you! A lot!" God, I am the worst.
** this over-the-phone poetry slam brough to you by my family and 8 bottles of wine.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
I’ve since developed a loose moral code for my churchy-time electronics use. Everything during priestly directed prayer time is an automatic non-starter but the other situations are more limber. Reading messages during non-prayer time is allowed but responding will depend on pulpit maneuverings.
The time required to attempt your electronic ambitions must be taken into account as well. During some rehearsal down time, I was asked if I knew anything of the 1992 Lobster Boy murder in Gibsonton, FL. I was able to access the internets quickly enough but the priest caught me off guard by asking for a prayer during the specific download. I hope Blackberries operate on a different radio frequency than the one I was praying on or that signal were sure to have gotten crossed with Wikipedia.
The wedding seemed to go well enough but if anything didn’t go as blessed as it could have, well, I guess you can blame me. Also, Lobster Boy.
Remember in the 1970's and early 1980's when terrariums were popular? Me too! I distinctly recall knocking over a giant freestanding white plasticy orb-shaped terrarium at my babysitters house! It was a disaster!
People, we need to bring back terrariums.
Monday, November 20, 2006
The whole shebang was bonkers fun, kind of a given. The mother-o'-the-bride is my new favorite person on the face of the planet ("What do the kids call it these days???? GRASS? WEED? What?" "Ma, it is my wedding day. Please.") The wedding itself was executed to perfection, mostly - the exception being one comical ceremonial misstep made by the bride which she won't live down ever; or at least not for the next few years before our minds melt away into old age forgetfulness. The BM dresses made everyone look like a size 4 (score!) and there was more food than I have EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE, and I have been to Long Island nuptials, so I know food. I tried to tally it all up (crepe station/sushi station/food-with-crab station/wok station/salad station/cheese station/vodka-shot-ice-sculpture-luge station/full-headed roast pig station/martini table/passed fried stuff/and then - oh PS, DINNER) to no avail the next morning. After all that, attendees are lucky I didn't pull a Hulk and physically roar right out of my tafetta top in an appetizer explosion during the mandatory Bridesmaid Freaking of the Groom.
- Part of the meal was spent replacing the wrapped crystal wedding favor with a dinner roll, and then re-wrapping it, and then the elaborate dance of making sure K. received it. She was the lucky recipient of the Bridal Bread! She should have won a prize for that or something. Well, besides the bread.
- We only broke two glasses all night. Woot! The fact that the videographer had to help clean up one mess of gin did make me a little worried, but I think it worked out in the end. Here's to hoping that the bride and groom don't sit down to view this movie thing and get treated to 20 minutes of marble floor as they use the camera light to search for glass shards. I'm pretty sure the red light on his camera was off.
- Afterwards at the bar, I got in a fake fist fight with T. (why are my favorite photos from all my friend's weddings the ones where people are fake punching each other?) after he told a terribly unfunny joke about Ohio State; and everyone tried to play pool before farts suffocated us right out of the room.
All in all, a terribly successful wedding number 364. Upcoming: Thanksgiving weekend, then a bye weekend, and then it's off to another one of these things. Even thought I'm blood kin to the next bride, ain't no one make a prettier gal in white than the Jersey Princess.
* * *
I've covered the basics. One more quick thing:
My paired wedding partner in all this was Todd. Todd.... Todd likes to have a good time. For instance, reports regarding Toddhavior in Las Vegas a few weeks ago:
Just got a random phone call from Kevin and Todd from Vegas. Todd is destroyed and talking about how the hotel gives you some Asian dude for free to hang out with whenever you want, so he and Kevin drank 40 beers with the Asian dude and now they don't know where he is. That's all I have to report.
That above email is really the best description of Toddness. The art of being Todd.
So imagine if you will- the wedding party about to be introduced, walked into a room full of strangers. The blinding photographer's flash and videographer's light in our eyes, hundreds of faces standing and waiting expectantly.
Todd, my escort, took me by the arm, and looked me straight in the eye:
"Listen. You are about to be booed. It is me, it's not you. But you must accept that you are about to be booed loud and hard. YOU MUST POWER THROUGH."
And ladies and gentlemen, he was correct. I now have the distinction of walking into a room of 200 people, and being booed louder than any sporting even you have ever attended. At a wedding. It was kind of awesome.
* * *
Also, we saw Bond last night. Here is my Bond recap:
Daniel Craig has funny ears but a ridiculous body. The end, again.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
But that's just today. As of 10am Friday you can leave a message at the with the bleep as we are off to our 364th of 365 weddings this year. We're just like that lady who wrote a play everyday except we roll up with $50-150 worth of gifts, depending on what you forked over for our magical day. This weekends episode is brought to us by the state of New Jersey and it's ice sculpting industry. I've heard they're going to have chilled vodka served out of a frozen Priapus's wang, like that Tyco guy a few years back, only GIANT.
My only concern over this weekend’s rad-ness is that the guest list includes many of the same partiers as last months Maine wedding/wind revelry. It was the same wedding where my masculinity was called to the mat by strange family members in the bathroom.
Three of us were using the facilities and as a spouse of the bride's friend I was the unknown element. But basic loo etiquette did not prevent one far gone drunk asking the lesser drunk if I was cool. I announced to the room that I was very cool and Little Drunk seemed in agreement. If that's so, queried Big Drunk, then why did I need to unbuckle my belt to go to the little bloggers room?
Well, he got me. My first thought was it kept my pants dry but under further review I wondered if I’d been doing it wrong all my life. Similarly, subsequent retellings of this tale has generated mix responses from the lads and has left us wondering “seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” It seems some of us are unbucklers + unzippers and some of us are just unzippers. On this particular wedding night I happened into a bathroom of mere unzippers.
So where does this leave me? No where, really, because my options are either check out other dudes in the john or blog about it. And if you want to know why this whole situation threatened my masculinity it’s because I forgot to mention I was wearing black lipstick** at the time. I’m not sure why this was less bothersome to my stall-mate than the way I take off my pants.
*In the seconds after this picture was taken the dogs broke free and mauled all the people standing in line for their PS3’s. Or I hope they did anyway.
**Technically, it was Eye Black, the stuff football players put on their faces to cut down on glare. But for unresolved reasons I was wearing it on my lips. And if you want to get in even deeper, later I let some girl put real lipstick on me and it turned out it was the Little Drunk’s girlfriend. Man, that was a crazy night.
this day cannot end soon enough. I probably have an STD on my neck now.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The G, who did not see the greasy thing, defended the Safeway claiming any place with a warehouse of food will have rats. I argued that greeting cards are not food and even if they were this rat was in the store itself, not out back, letting its feces drop where it may. She was nonplussed and but I will only now buy verifiably rat-free food from now on. Like clothespins and kitchen sink stoppers and pipe cleaners and the other random junk they sell in that one section across from the cat food.
There are other grocery stores around but they are no longer options. The Giant is smaller than the dry cleaners and tanning salon occupying the store space next door and the Whole Foods is kinda far away. Just like a good Whole Foods should.
But I think I got my revenge last night while running in the woods when I stepped on a very soft rat or a very hard tomato. Either way, it was a squeaky, red mess.
House is an addict
And a total asshole, too
A jungle plane crash
Really exciting, at first
Now I hate you all
HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER
Ted, puppydog eyes
Now confirmed gay? Not Barney!
(That’s Sworley to you.)
John Krasinski's Jim
Achieves what most men dream of:
Melts panties off chicks
Never watch this show.
Who is Logan? Wow, I’m an
Hot gal; stubborn boss
How many of these are there?
Who are you who who
I have only been able to unearth one internet review of a Captured By Robots show:
"This whole show was really weird and great. It was pretty surreal because it was partially like seeing a combination of the following: the animatronic band at Chucky Cheese, GWAR, a Star Trek blooper real where they cuss a lot, and Tony Clifton. The main guy is obviously retardedly talented, because I think he conceptualized the whole thing AND built the robots. I was extremely impressed and afraid of him, so definitely an awesome show."
If anyone finds any more info out there, please let me know. It looks like the only 2006 touring Captured By Robots is participating in is a wedding circuit in the San Jose area, which leads me to want to post on the SF Craigslist and beg for wedding invites from strangers. Also it makes me complately rethink how I went about this wedding thing.
* * *
Speaking of marital bliss, I'm participating in one this weekend. The bride should be somewhere in Bergen County by now, stressing to the max about the limo arrangements, instead of reading blogs (GET OFF THE INTERNET/I SEE YOU). It will be a rad event, mostly because I just printed off our "handmaiden schedule" and she made sure to bold the Sean O'Casey Irish Pub's last call. Oh, and ice sculptures. Two of them.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
I stand by my curse-word-laden assertion that Osa Johnson, if one is to believe her wikibio, was a woman before her time and therefore is performing Cirque du Soleil in her grave right because of that website.