As predicted, we haven’t seen a movie as a couple since the blessed event. The G took advantage of my boundless generosity to escape to the district Monday night and partake in some sexy teen vampire time for girls and their moms and their weird neighbors. The G played the role of weird neighbor.
Relief is on the way. Grandmas are going to be aplenty this weekend and the question is not which movies to we want to see but how many? Actually, that’s not right, since my bride only wanted to see Twilight and that itch has been scratched. I’ve been watching commercial extra closely to see what are options are. They seem limited. And I don’t even know if these are even in the theaters anymore. Or if they’ve even opened. As far as I can tell, these are our choices:
1. The one where Paul Rudd beats children
2. James Bond. I’ve read one review and it said it was good. But when I tried to argue another point of the reviewer’s blog post it was rejected. In other words, TOM LEE IS A CENSOR.
3. Keanu Reeves remakes one of my favorite movies and probably ruins it. I was intrigued by the ads but they raise a question: when did it become standard science fiction policy that aliens/robots are incapable of using contractions? Data couldn’t do it. It appears that Keanu can’t do it in this movie. Why would an off-worlder bother to learn only 99% of our language?
I was an actual member of an actual wedding party last weekend although my only responsibility was to escort old ladies to their seats. I pwned those grandmas too and not a single one wandered off or sat in the wrong seat. And when one casually teased my sister, I put her in her place with the gentle ease of a down comforter.
OK. It wasn’t really an insult. The D walked by in heals and grandma said -
“You sure couldn’t eat soup off that girls head.”
You sure can’t, grandma. Because I’m not really sure what you’re talking about.
But before any of that went down, we in the groom’s party did our damndest to force the wedding planner into a psychotic meltdown. We arrived two hours early for several rounds of photos but only managed to get in the way of the caterers, staff and other hangers-on. We were ushered from room to room in an effort to keep form being under foot and ended up in the library of the mansion where the wedding was being staged. It was also where the beer was being hidden.
So we started to get drunk.
The library was of high shelves made of dark wood. The room was very dark. One of groomsmen turned to me and asked “What does the room remind you of?” I spent a few seconds scrolling through my memory banks, looking for an instance when we’d been in a similar library. Coming up blank, he bellowed “Atonement!” Without warning he pushed another groomsman up against the wall and began dry humping him furiously.
The windows started shaking. Books began to fall off the shelves. The molested groomsman (unfamiliar with the movie) rolled with it. The wedding planner walked in and all hell broke loose. I’ve never seen an angrier woman.
They took our beer away and banished us to the basement until moments before the wedding started. But the jokes on her, because she was so angry she didn’t cue the groom to approach the alter until the bride had already gotten down the aisle. I almost ruined the whole day!
Anyway, Charles from the City Veins was there also.
The list of places I’ll never go keeps getting longer…
- Wedding on the Pakistan/Afghanistan border - Overcrowded Indonesian/Philippine ferry - Hindu pilgrimage near steep cliffs - Haitian elementary schools - Hot Topics
I’m actively going out of my way to know and learn nothing about the Twilight. I refuse to participate in any public discussion on the matter. There are probably reasons to like it. There are probably more reasons to mock it. It seems that most people like to hate on it. I know that the G read one of the books. And she told me some of the basics about it.
She’s like “So there’s this pale girl and some more pale vampire and a werewolf maybe and they have some forbidden love. And then one the vampires…” But I stopped her before she could add further details.
I must remind the world that I was aggressively mocked for taking the day off to see both Underworld and Underworld 2: The Werewolf KooKajoo. In fact, the abuse was so intense the G had to use up a sick day from her job as a Sotheby’s auctioneer because her voice was raspy and dry. And yet, the plots between these two films (and the Kate Beckinsale-less Underworld prequel coming out soon) and Twilight sound exactly the same.
You can all go to hell.
Anyway, the commercials make the movie look like a huge sack of crap. And I ought to know since my exposure to huge sacks of crap has increased 100 fold over the last 2 months. And I don’t also don’t understand how NPR allowed it to be the underwriter of some of their segments. But I'm not paying attention to any of that.
So have fun this weekend, jerks, seeing your teenage vampire movie that I don't know anything about except Kate Beckinsale is not having sex in it.
- our internet has been massively fucked and was finally fixed yesterday by, I swear to god, Rodney King. Rodney King now works for Comcast, fyi.
- I'm not at work nor do I leave the house often/at all. Seriously, can we briefly touch on mommyblogging, which is a bigger mystery to me now than ever ever ever before? As much as I love my offspring with all my soul, shit be boring. I am fairly certain you do not want to hear about TLC's daytime television programming (mind-numbingly terrible) or trips to Target (brief) or on average what time the mailman shows up at my house (later than you'd imagine!) or who the Spawn takes after (me, most definitely. He is blond, pretty curmudgeonly, has already outgrown clothing meant for humans months and months older than him, and only my husband can make him smile. It's like a goddamn mirror.) Also: I have rewatched all seasons of Veronica Mars. Man, those first two were good. Oh but look, I just told you all about that stuff anyway!
Do you ever stop and consider how much you have in common with Henry Paulson? For instance, the Treasury Secretary and I are both Eagle Scouts. We attended Ivy League colleges as undergrads, were both members of Phi Beta Kappa and got our Master’s degree at Harvard business school. I’m also rich, completely bald and became the CEO of an international bank holding company in my 40s. And I put my signature on every dollar bill in my wallet.
But we are also very different. He’s a Christian Scientist. I’m Presbyterian. When he dislocates a finger he doesn’t go to the hospital to have it put back.
We are not really comfortable touching on politics around here. We both get annoyed when the robots call during dinner and we both voted toady. But I seemed to be the only one who got upset when they let that pregnant lady cut in line at the polls. Bah! I waited an hour and 20 minutes! It’s not like she’s voting for two.
But we are comfortable talking about sci-fi around here, though. And there’ve been some intersections of late.
----------
I won’t embed someone else’s video but I did watch the “Vote Lando for President” bit on Funny or Die. Verdict: meh. But who knew Calrissian loved himself so much turquoise jewelery and giant rings? And I understand why these fake campaign ads would place him outside Cloud City or that one planet from the first one. But why is he in the Metro for the second one?
I guess Federal Triangle does have that lived-in retrofuturism look that Lucas craves. And the thought of a giant fireball shooting down the tunnel isn’t that hard to imagine. Especially if there are wet leaves on the tracks, which is apparently the most deadly thing that can befall the entire Metro system.
------------
Whenever someone is questioned about the effect race will have on the election they will either a) tell the truth or b) cover up their anxiety by giving a gradually absurd list of skin colors that don’t bother them. It usually goes “I don’t care if they are black, white, yellow, purple, whatever. I’m not racist.”
I have a problem with this. Purple skinned people are the worst. And Purple Man was just about the most awful President we’ll ever have. He had Peter Parker and Matt Murdoch executed. Then he shot Captain America in the head before sending him 400 years into the past. And then he did worse things.
Bottom line – purples are the only group it’s okay to be racist against.
----------
Oh, Liddy. What did you do your face in fours years since we last heard from you?
What did I do to your face? Someone's seriously needs to take photoshop off this computer.
Last week, Amanda dreamt that a hundred internet weirdoes descended on a small turkey farm in rural Maryland and wreaked havoc with impractical shoes and fruit cannons.
A sign indicated there were 15,000 turkeys in there. 15,000 filthy, disgusting turkeys.
On Saturday, we tried to make her hallucination a reality. Unfortunately for her, our car showed up an hour early, didn’t get lost and made all the farmers sigh with our adorableness. The people who did end up making to Thurmont showed up hours later and missed all my inspiring feats. It wasn’t what she had in mind, exactly, but it did sate her appetite for mayhem for at least a week or two.
Winter Brook Farm has two things going for it. First, there’s the corn maze. Corn mazes are cloyingly sentimental holdovers from a bygone time when the thought of getting lost in a field was terrifying for your parents. And I have to admit that when you’re a few hundred yards in and there’s nothing but silence and cornstalk rustling it can be a bit spooky. But then you remember you can just Kool-Aid Man your way out of there because it’s only a field of corn. Sort fun, I guess.
The real draws to Winter Brook Farm are the two modified tractor/bulldozer/howitzers that shoot pumpkins and apples hundreds of yards with unpredictably explosive results. I’ve shot belt fed M60s at old Jeep carcasses doused in gasoline that caused giant scorching fire balls after a single round. This was better.
The double barreled apple cannon blew stuff up real good, especially if knocking over bleach bottles is your thing. But for my money, I wanted to inflict more damage than your average middle school bully with a sack of rotten produce.
You could actually feel the pumpkins impact when they exploded on the boat or car or lawnmower. It was even impressive when Amanda missed the target 20 feet high and her pumpkin came to rest a quarter mile later. I think she got and extra 30 yards off a cart bounce but it was a remarkable shot none the less.
I’m not saying that I’m the greatest pumpkin cannon shot ever but I did take out 55 gallon drum from 75 yards away. If only there was a way to use these powers for good.
Certain members our quiet Alexandria parish go out of their way each year to destroy Halloween. Some are well-intentioned busy bodies who leave sacks of candy on your doorsteps weeks before the 31st with notes that instruct you to pay it forward forward until everyone in the neighborhood has sacks of candy. (We did not comply because we are shallow and hate forced social interaction) Others are ill-intentioned adult grifters who carry their own adult-sized pillowcases and demand their own candy after their poorly-costumed child have gotten theirs. (An Insane Clown Posse t-shirt is not a costume.)
And then there are the squirrels.
Last year, I mentioned that I was unaware that squirrels craved pumpkin flesh the way Bunnicula craves carrot juice. For a week now, out entire neighborhood has been ruined by the carcasses of jack-o-lanterns. They rot on the sidewalk and are later run over by lawn mowers leaving an orange, pulpy mess on everything. It’s gross.
But it’s also the way things are. Squirrels are going to eat pumpkins because squirrels like tasty things and pumpkins are tasty as shit.* We don’t leave other food stuffs on our front steps and then expect them not to get eaten. In fact, our insane neighbor message board is rife with people complaining about rats and crows and, I swear to God, buzzards getting into peoples trashcans. Why is everyone surprised that our delicious gourds are slowly being gnawed to death after leaving them outside for 3 weeks?
Not me.
Once I came to accept this fact, I realized there is no reason why someone couldn’t exploit this situation. Why couldn’t man and squirrel work together to create Halloween excitement instead of destroying it? Accordingly, this year I have decided to embrace our furry demolitionist friends. Halloween should be about interspecies teamwork.**
So, without further ado, I present Project Squirrel-o-lantern.
Start with a standard $4.99 Safeway pumpkin.
My contribution was very simple. All we need is your basic eyes, nose, and mouth. I stuck with rectangles because it’s well documented that squirrels hate right angles. My fuzzy associate will do all he can to remedy the sharpness of my design.
Then I just re-introduced the pumpkin into the wild. (I tossed in a few bread crumbs to tempt my partner away from the dozens of other cucurbitaceous temptations around the neighborhood.)
Sure enough, I awoke the next morning to find my Squirrel-o-lantern collaborator hard at work.
Well done squirrel! But I was a little concerned about the oral fixation. The eyes and mouth needed some work too. So I stuffed a gag into the Squirrel-o-lanterns mouth in an effort to encourage other parts of the project to be explored.
Again, success!
Humans find symmetry attractive. They find asymmetry disconcerting. With the obvious effort extended toward making the eyes uneven and unnaturally large, it’s clear that the squirrels in our neighborhood have at least a basic understanding of human psychology. The layering is a nice touch too.
But the real test is to see how it looks when illuminated.
Honestly, I don’t think this could have worked out any better. I think I can safely say that this is the best looking Squirrel-o-lantern ever presented to the trick-or-treating public.
In conclusion, I want to thank my squirrel friend for helping out this year. I know we’ve had a strained relationship in the past. And if the dog ever does manage to catch you or one of your relatives, I will still allow him to violently shake your body until your neck snaps. But until then, know that I respect your talents and look forward to working with you again next year.
*Why is the idea of homemade roasted pumpkin seeds so much better than the reality of homemade roasted pumpkin seeds?
**You ring the doorbell, I’ll light the bag of poo on fire.
The driving unpleasantness from Saturday was the result of a trip to see the G’s parents in Faraway, VA. But it wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing that happened that night.
Narcoleptic is how I’d best describe our functioning condition. And we haven’t had much time to ourselves. So when I came of from her parent’s basement after a beer or two and saw her standing with her back to me, I thought I’d be cute and flirtatious.
Remember, we are both very sleepy.
But that’s still no excuse FOR PINCHING MY MOTHER-IN-LAW’S ASS!!!!!
My favorite X-Files episode is the one about the 3 inbred Peacock brothers who keep a limbless Mother Peacock alive under a bed to ensure their incestuous Peacock line. It was so terrifying that Fox only aired it twice and the second time featured major parental warnings due to frakked-up content.
My second favorite is Drive, the one where Malcolm in the Middle’s dad has to keep moving in a westerly direction in a paneled station wagon or his brains will blow out his ear. Or: "Police arrest a man driving dangerously, moments before his wife's ear explodes. Leaving the police station, he kidnaps Mulder and forces him to drive West, whilst (really?) Scully attempts to prevent him from suffering the same fate."
“Driving dangerously”
“Wife’s ear explodes”
“Suffering”
Yeah. That pretty much sums up our Saturday night.
We now live in a world where sanity is only maintained if our car is in constant motion. Red lights will be run, lanes will be changed unexpectedly, and the longer route will be mapped to make sure we’re traveling at least 40mph at all times.
Seriously, get the fuck out of our way. Our ears are about to explode here and we're going either to crash our car into yours or drive off a bridge. It's in your hands.
I’ve been to enough weddings by now to know that no mater how bad the lone water serving waiter stinks, I shouldn’t just drink wine when I’m thirsty. Even when the reception is at a winery and the waiter is especially stank. I also shouldn’t wear H&M slim fitting European-style shirts when I dance because they will split down the back like I had just pushed a teenager out of the way of a gamma radiation explosion.
Obviously, I still did both of those things on Saturday night. My punishment was not limited to stumbling around the Shenandoah Valley looking for a store willing to sell a man wearing a suit and no shirt some hangover-curing aspirin. I was also forced to eat breakfast at a place that served pork chops as a side dish.
But I discovered two things:
- Dry heaves are good for exercising your core. - This.
Big Number 753 is really haulin’ tail. The caption is just vague enough to imply that this kid just run 10 miles. But it's specific enough to say that he’s only two years old. Is that what we’re doing now with toddlers? Making them wear tank tops and racing? I'm not really the competitive type but if I ever have a son this means he's going to have to hit the track the day after he can lift that giant melon of his off the ground. Do they make baby treadmills?
Also, Jesus and Big George will sell your house in 90 days.
So, this? Kind of totally disgusting, right? I mean, just... gross. I hadn't even heard of the term until someone mentioned it a few months ago and just.... a thousand shivers up my spine. Nast.
Here's an idea. Don't buy me anything. Save that money for the imminent demise of our savings and social expenditures (hello, daycare. field trips. braces. tuxedo rental for prom. college tuition. junior year abroad. wedding. paying for my early retirement. yacht. helicopter pad. etc.) Instead of gaudy jewelry or $300 designer jeans two sizes bigger than what I used to wear or a diaper bag made from the skin of an exotic and/or mythical creature, I requested that please, for the love of god, don't get me anything. Get me: three hours of sleep when I am a sobbing mess. A glorious present such as that cannot be bought.
The N. complied. Kind of.
He did gift me something so awesome I find it difficult to describe my delight. The unfortunate part of said gift is that it doesn't fit.
For the first time in months, it is not girth, it is length. I am too tall for the youth size large glow-in-the-dark tan and green dinosaur print fleece footie pajamas.
That's right. I said youth size large glow-in-the-dark tan and green dinosaur print fleece footie pajamas.
However, they would definitely fit a slim-ish female or male under, say, 5'8".
The tag is off (doh) but I swear - brand new. Never worn. And now, up for grabs! I suppose I should make this some sort of contest or something, really make you work for these wonders of apparel, but I hate it when blogspot blogs pull that shit. First come, first serve. It may take a while for me to package them up and ship them to you, but the wait will be worth it. Imagine a cold winter cuddled up in this beauty. GLOW IN THE DARK. IMAGINE A CAMPING TRIP IN THIS!
technology has decided to make us it's bitch lately. the cordless phone is busted, the modem on the computer is working only sporadically, my cellphone is (finally) working again, kind of, after battling Verizon for the right to buy anew battery, and i spent last night/this morning watching 3 am tv programming on rabbit ears. soon, you will be able to visit the entire pyggie family on a compound somewhere in appalachia where we churn butter to sell to tourists and weave our own clothes on a loom made from gathered twigs. also, no buttons.
You know how when you buy expensive medical equipment or exotic African fruits or a handgun with attachable laser targeting and a modified clip allowing for 22 rounds, they come in Pelican cases with custom foam inserts? Or maybe you don’t know.
Either way, do you think they could modify a large foam insert to fit a human snuggly into a small compartment? Not even a large human. Say a human the size of a Boston Terrier. And the compartment would be roughly the size of a crib. And while the case would need to be soundproof it would allow a free flow of air. Because seriously, enough of the crying already.
Mattos brings up the NPR piece on "Jolene", not my favorite Parton song*, but a good one. Timely because today I was IM-discussing the fact that what I really want to be is the cast of "9 to 5" for Halloween. I would play Doralee, naturally. Given my haircolor and sweet as pie southern disposition and whatnot.
In the market for a Dabney type, I highly doubt the N will be willing.
Minister of Finance Hank Paulson gave some speech today that I didn’t understand. But he did use my favorite new word of the past week, which I also don’t totally understand: illiquidity.
As in “Boy, I would sure like to drink this inanimate carbon block. To bad carbon’s illiquid, for all intents and purposes, or I’d guzzle it down”
