baby you send me

The N: PM dawn is playing at Jammin Java in January

The G: SHUT UP. we're going. totally.

made out with a guy new years eve/proved to everyone I wasn't a tease

1. If you aren't listening to the 2006 "Paper Thin Walls" mix, you can download it. It's out there. Work for it.

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.

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!

If you’re a dude and your imagination came of age sometime between Ugnaughts and Krang, then there is nothing more thrilling than finding a package shaped like this under the Christmas tree.



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.

2006 IN REVIEW!

Ha ha ha, just kidding.

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.

Six Simple Words

Loudoun Valley High

Class of 2011

French fries, French bread, French dressing, and to drink: Peru!

On my commute citywrds I questioned the sanity of dressing like a French twee songstress from 1964 (croppity pants, striped boatneck, bow-bedecked flats, headband) to go into an empty building for work this AM. First, I kind of look stupid, and second, in a cute way, and third: I am wasting cute-stupid on an empty building. Boooo.

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.

1,000,000% Guapo

It seems that there are two types of people in my family: People who like the idea of a husband giving his wife a sparkly blue and silver Mexican wrestling mask for Christmas and people who are befuddled/somewhat hostile toward the concept.

The Former:

• School Principal
• Cousin in technology something or other, perhaps modem business

Latter:

• FBI Agent
• Circuit Court Judge
• Real Estate Agent
• Spokesperson
• Most Cousin-Moms

Current:


BLLLLAAAARRRRRRGGG!

lets go play some golf

Godspeed, little doodle.

note where "reunion" is sandwiched

Just noticed: when you log into Snapfish, the system lists all of your "friends albums" - anyone who's sent you an email inviting you to look at their photos within the past few weeks/months. It organizes by date a person sent you an email, not necessarily by people's individual photo albums. Right now my list reads:

Christmas 2006
Halloween
Our Honeymoon
Auschwitz
Reunion
Krakow
Wedding2!
Maine vacation

twirl, twirl twirl

Dial-A-Song: sure, way more charming when you were calling from the back of the snack bar you worked the summer you were 15, but still kind of funny to listen to on the web.

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.

fairytale of dc-metro area

Besides a soul-rending case of depression over my ineptness at gift-giving, I came away with some pretty sick loot this year. A pair of boots i will never take off, an ASU teeshirt that just says STATE in giant letters, a messenger bag, veronica mars dvds so i can, 8 years too late, figure out what the hell you people are talking about, some books, and a Luche Libre mask (Blue Demon, for those interested.) I plan on wearing it to work every day of January. Related, my new boots look suspiciously like wrestling Asics, so I'm pretty sure that my mother and husband have made some sort of pact to influence my next career move. Like I said, sick loot.

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.

night, rider.

In other news, I've booked a week + at Paris for mid-April (work related), and then am flying thru Chiboogie for the weekend after (booze related).

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 don't know what to say, except it's Christmas and we're all in misery."

Every year I say to myself: self, do not let the merriment of the season get to you.

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.

Merry Holidays.

* * *

Sloop John B always makes me tear up. I'm assuming it's not just me, or my raging seasonal affective disorder?

file under sporting

depressing fact: I am too old to know what a libero is.

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.

The cone of silence has descended over the better half of this site relating to our recent trip to the most South-Central of southern-fried states. Everyplace we went, everything we saw, every spoken word of the English language that was tortured and slain by the state’s denizens could be documented in blogform.* I fear that this taciturnity is the result of the fact that some of this trip cut a little too close to the quick for the Governess. The comical recounting of the weekend’s events has occurred within a small circle of friends and family and random bar attenednts. But putting them to “paper” (even anonymously) has left a feeling of unease. This mirror’s reflection has maybe glared back a little too intensely, resulting in only scant mention and single picture of barely digestible food.

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.



There.

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.

A year ago tonight we lay/below this same remembering sky

Thirty five years ago today, my mom donned her finest miniskirt and white patent platforms, my dad left his basketball pickup game early, and the kids went and done got hitched. It was a Tuesday. My mom had to call my dad that morning to ask him what his middle name was for the marriage certificate. They had only known each other a few weeks/months, so I guess that's a reasonable question. Happy anniversary, dummies. You know, if I had ever pulled a stunt like that, marrying a stranger and whatnot, you totes would have grounded me.

(two days in a row with Cure lyric post titles. Nothing like the holidays to get a person cheery and shit!)

thangs n thangs/staring at the sea

Courtesy The Grapes of Cath: a meme! a hateful hateful meme that reminds me i'm not interesting at all!

* * *

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.

* * *

1.

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."

2.

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.

3.

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.

4.

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.

5.

I just changed my cell phone wallpaper to a frightening photo of a USS Enterprise model.

6.

The last fight the N and I were in re: his use of a Blackberry WHILE. DRIVING.

7.

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.

8.

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.

9.

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.

10.

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 once several times sold my school books back early for beer money.

11.

My grandmother was married 8 times, twice to the same man.

12.

I don't know how to play poker, and no, I don't want to learn. But thanks for asking, Whole Entire World.

13.

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.

17.

I don't find Joanna Newsom particularly charming.

18.

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.

19.

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.

20.

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.



Amen.

God-zilla (or my God has a mouth full of poisonous needle teeth)

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.

the death of athletic civility

Dear Assface McGillicutty, King of the Fucktards:

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.

Love,
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.

oooh, fun. Big For-Real Professional Media People are playing "guess the blogger?" Next up, Capitol File editors google themselves and tries to figure out why I think they are teh sUcKiest!!!1OMG.



Holidays are slow.

there's a light in yr eyes that is shining

Every year, my friend Justin, who has better taste than me in most everything except for haircuts, sends me a padded envelope with his year-end mix CD. I am too lazy to make mixes anymore (I really stopped caring once my Mom learned how to burn CDs - I thnk we're all in agreement that cassettes hold the real magic.) My poor Honda doesn't have the capacity to handle the extreme hottttttness that is the Governesspod, so I end up listening to the same years-past mix CDs he has previously jammed in his Christmas cards (woot woot, 2002!) a few D-Plan discs, and a v. v. worn copy of "99.9 F" I picked up for 22000 lira. (Sure, it gets old, but it's still a great album.) They live under the front seat of my car with the fossilized McD's french fries. All cases are, obviously, broken into tiny clear plastic daggers from years of me slamming on the brakes w/ them lurking underneath. Crunch crunch.

(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!

* * *

2006

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.

A picture of me with paint on my face: MAN OF THE FOREVER!

In third grade, I drew a picture of myself getting killed by a dinosaur. Rest assured there was plenty of blood and no hue of red crayon was spared. I came to this end after I had successfully invented a time machine but had then been too careless in my exploration of Rhaetian Stage in the Triassic Era. Alas.

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.

you win, internet

(best search ever: coloring pages for rill werewolves? I vote yes. Glad we could help.)

all i want for christmas is a TANDY

I'm truly curious, & it's come up a few times recently: why does Radio Shack still exist?

You have to learn how to die, if you wanna be alive

The War on War



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."

Good Eats

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.)

BREAKING NEWS

CatAn and I: not writers, but certainly idea women.

More as our awesomeness unfolds.

In the meantime, read this. I am kind of speechless.

cram it, yolanda

It is holiday party week, where people you know will be making nice in an office, eating snacks off napkins; there will be catching up and loud music, so why not. You can do worse than small talk and bummed smokes. You go and it is all of those things and because it is winter, you have forgotten a little about being around people. You know about being around plants and cats, you know about their careful feeding and minor barfing problem. You go to one party and you revel in free food and someone to put a cut lime in yr water, which is reason enough leave the house anyhow: ice cubes & limes & the water that bubbles. It feels like a virgin experience.

<--- (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.

Berf

The Pyggy household has embarked on a post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas diet nicknamed “No Eggnog for Fatty,” and while I can’t speak for The G, as I’m concerned it has been a stunning success. Here’s how it works:

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.

Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long

News flash:

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.

The N re: Kids These Days

"There are two pop culture things I totally do not understand: all things Madea, and High School Musical."

DC PSA

"We would like to hear why you would like to kick a guy in the nuts! I think that's a good start. Also, please attach a pic of yourself."

Reason number 754 why you should kind of love this city.

hypermodernism has a posse

i think it's already swept the interwebs by now, but Leslie Harpold, she of the world's greatest online Advent Calendars, among other things, has passed away. I didn't know her, but trust me when I say how much that sucks.

up on the ladder/they sing how high

I definitely just made a vaguely racist remark in a meeting. On a 1/10 scale, how bad is it to, when asked to describe the general makeup of an organization, you reply "mostly old white men?"

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.

weekend recap, short version #2

if you can identify part or any of the foodstuffs above, then I'm probably related to you. how YOU doin, white gravy. long time no see.

top o the pops

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 Augerback Agerback Agerbeck has condensed all her GF work onto one site- maybe I am just dumb, but I couldn't find it all in one place bfore. Although I haven't looked at her site in a long time. Seriously, it's like a dream job. GF was my favorite class in college even though it was taught by a prof who was clearly out of his gourd, and this is probably the only book I kept from school that I will occasionally still open.

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.

seagulls screaming kiss her, kiss her

XTC Become Action Figures.

Ray, uh, LaFountainhead- live

Friends got us concert tickets for last night.

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.

weekend recap, short version

no punches were thrown. consider the entire affair a smashing success.

sham wedding/hoax funeral

off to sell fried chicken all over the southland for a few days. Older relatives have banded together, and somehow convinced younger relatives that as adorable as Chucky Cheese is, they shouldn't hold their wedding reception there. I CALL BULLSHIT. Totes disappointed.

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.)

come on, it really is

you know what never stops being funny? when yr spouse sends out evites inviting people to go fuck themselves.

in other news, tevin campbell is 30.

whaaat.

Better luck next time?

Today’s modern, robotic mothers-to-be know that merely juggling two things at once will not get their future kids into Georgetown Day School. (pre-K–8th grade; $22,620-$26,085 per year) Modern multi-taskers require at least three and usually five simultaneous activities if they want to feel productive. That’s why I salute the ambitious self-starter who tackled the holiday mall crush at Tyson’s and a significant life moment at the same time. Bet she waited until she really, really had to pee.


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:

Alcohol
Pharmacy Bar
Polonium-210 ingestion
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
Zombie bites
Seafood
Breathing mall air
Mercury gargling
Laser pointer aimed directly into bellybutton

lifestyle question

seriously, if there was an old-West style Saloon for sale in a town you once temporarily resided in, and it came with an apartment and RV hookups, and only cost 94k, and I'm pretty sure it has SWINGING SALOON DOORS, you'd consider buying it too, right? Even if it meant like: crippling your life as you knew it?

we didn't go to concerts this year

If everyone else jumped off a bridge would you?

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.

turbomax

I know, I know. I'm amazed that I have nothing to say about this, too.

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.

Yeah, I don't vote in whatever district you're running in.

According to Google News, the biggest headline out of my old man’s hometown of Spencer, IA is a wedding announcement, an ATV dealership that’s moving into the old K-Mart and Wal-Mart ending their layaway program.* But then the cat that lived at the library died and things got all sorts of fucked up.

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.

"R. Kelly cant piss all over Fabreeze here, because ice cream cone know no pity"

Dear Ma,

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.

Thanks.

Thirty Short Poems About My Favorite Black Metal Band

I do have more to say:

- 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.

giant statements

"But they had this band and I asked them if they were rock, and they were like, "We want to be, but if you're not any good it's easier to be emo or hardcore."

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.

insane clown posse

1. Thangs to read: Sketchfighter, Didion on Cheney, Color Commentary.

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.