So one of my dream jobs/careers would be to write for a living. I’ve really idealized it into this existence where I would sleep until 9am each morning, and then I’d get up and sit in front of my computer, snuggled in some artful cardigan sweater, cradling my steaming coffee cup, tremendous and excellent words pouring out of my fingers into my next great novel. And I make big, fancy money and magical benefits, and I’m creative and inspired and get to travel to fabulous places to have fans tell me how much they loved my last book. And I would always feel fulfilled and sure of my place in the universe and I would love what I do for a living.
Now of course this dream is ridiculous and impossible. I hate coffee, and I bet authors never get dental, so clearly this is a fantasy. (and the first one of you that points out that you’ve been reading my words for some time now and have yet to be inspired or moved, or even particularly clear on what the hell I’m talking about, gets an e-sock on the side of your e-head!)
The other reason that this idea seems impossible is that it’s all that I can do to try to keep up here on this blog. I’m so embarrassed when I see that many days have passed and I have no new words. All the time I’m coming up with something that seems very post-worthy on the way home from work or standing in the shower, but I can’t actually compose the post on the bike or in the shower and making other times happen is hard! Or I’ll start a post, but when I come back to it much later I have no idea where the heck I thought I was going with that thought. OR I write down the initial thought, but can’t find any associated thoughts that want to come play with the initial thought. My creative thoughts apparently don’t play well with others.
Not that I’m willing to cut other bloggers any slack when they don’t post. I have blogs that I check every day and periodically there will be a day when NOBODY has done a new post. And do I say “oh gosh and golly, I’ll bet that he/she had a long day at work or had to go to tap class or was kidnapped by the Burmese Liberation Army (notorious for still connecting to the web via dial-up) and just couldn’t get a new post written. I understand completely.” Yeah, because I’m ever so reasonable and level-headed. You must be new…
I have a friend who blogs (blogged long before I did actually) and who will take these occasional long, big gaps in her blogging, which would be fine except for three things: 1) I love to read her blog and when she doesn’t update I have no new blog to read; 2) sometimes when bloggers you know update their blog they mention you and I seriously crave the attention!! and 3) due to her non-lovin’ of writing emails or chatting on the phone or living less than 90 minutes away from Hippyville the way I know what’s going on in her life is when she updates her blog! (and she knows who she are and she also knows that “where the heck does Femtastic get off telling me to hurry up and blog when she knows that I have 2 kids and a husband and a job and 2 Etsy stores and 47 hobbies I’m currently trying to do as well as another 236 that I’ve not yet found the time to do and when was the last time she mentioned ME in HER blog and YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!!” Which are all excellent, fair and good points. Maybe she would like to blog about them?)
On those nights when I’m sitting on my couch, watching dreadful tv and falling asleep, while knowing that I should be in the office squeezing thoughts out of my tiny brain onto this page, I think this: if you are ever going to have a career instead of a job; if you’re ever going to do what you enjoy rather than feeling like you’re wasting your time; if you’re ever going to be able to sleep until 9am on a Tuesday without being unemployed you must GET OFF YOUR ASS AND WRITE SOMETHING.
Either that, or learn how to curve the bullet to become a super-cool rockstar assassin. Your choice.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Baby's First Diva Tantrum
My 14-yr old nephew’s band asked me to take some pictures of them, which was good because I’d been BEGGING them to let me take their picture for like a year. I figured I’m a photographer (well ok, I’m photographeresque at least) and I’ve been all about rock and roll forever and I’m super-cool, so how would there be any problem with me playing Annie Leibovitz to their U2 or Rolling Stones or Guns & Butter?
So I ask the band to meet me at a local park at 9:30am one Saturday morning. Now before you say it, I KNOW that getting up early on a Saturday morning is not rock and roll! I know this! It should have been a midnight shoot in a back alley or the top of some abandoned building or a desert in Arizona! But cut me slack – there were summer vacations to be scheduled around. And curfews. In order to do my part to make it as rock and roll as possible, I stayed up all night the night before and showed up drunk and with a prostitute. I suffer for the art.
There are 6 little dudes in the band (and by “little” I mean “seriously, stop looking me in the eye, I changed your diapers, that’s enough being tall out of you. And that goes double for your little friends.”); of those six most of them were pretty easy to work with, one didn’t show up because he didn’t have a ride (yeah, because that is SO rock and roll) and then there was the Lead Singer. And like all Lead Singers, this kid was drama. D-R-A-M-A.
I’m thinking of simple shots, straight forward, and with really only one rule: no smiling. I’m doing shots like “up against the chain link fence” or “sitting on the picnic bench” or “under the tree” and I’m getting stuff that I think will work. Lead Singer is asking for things like “can you take a picture of our instruments and put it with a picture of fire and make it look like our instruments are on fire?”
Now I was so gonna let that go! But this was just the beginning.
LS: “Here’s what I want: we’re all standing on the grass and we’re pointing in the air. And they won’t know what we’re pointing at.”
FT: “…I’ll take that picture if you want. However you should know that in photography circles that’s called the ‘Sears Catalog Shot’. But I’ll take it if you really want me to.”
The Band: “NO!”
LS: “Here’s what I want: if you can just make sure that there are no cars coming down the road, and then we’ll all walk across the street like we’re just crossing the street.”
FT: “Are you talking about Abbey Road?”
LS: "Oh you know it?”
FT: “I’m not ripping off Abbey Road! What is WRONG with you?”
LS: “Here’s what I want, and I hope that nobody’s too religious but whatever: We do like the last supper picture (oh boy), but with our heads over the regular heads (ok, that’s not THAT bad I guess). And I’ll be Jesus.”
FT: “NO! And do you know why "No!"? Because “And I’ll be Jesus.”! That's why!"
While setting up the shot “standing on and around the 2 swings (an exploration of childhood, mirth and rock n’ roll)” Lead Singer is acting all hinky and I ask him what’s up. And he says to me this:
“nobody’s gonna want these pictures is all.”
“why, because they’re not cool enough?”
“they’re just not rock and roll.”
And sadly, at that moment, I killed him with the laser beams, ROCK AND ROLL laser beams, from my eyes. Had to be done.
OK, I didn’t kill him. I said to him this: “Dude (because that shows that I’m young and hip), I have been seeing rock and roll pictures and listening to rock and roll music and going to rock and roll concerts LIKE THESE GUYS (and I point at my chest, and my strategically selected Police t-shirt which I just got last summer because I am THAT COOL) since long before you were filling diapers. So if you could just give me half an ounce of trust that would be excellent.” (and then the rock and roll laser beam from the eyes.)
250 pictures. Very, very cool pictures. And even MORE important: no lives were lost. So I am a SAINT.
So I ask the band to meet me at a local park at 9:30am one Saturday morning. Now before you say it, I KNOW that getting up early on a Saturday morning is not rock and roll! I know this! It should have been a midnight shoot in a back alley or the top of some abandoned building or a desert in Arizona! But cut me slack – there were summer vacations to be scheduled around. And curfews. In order to do my part to make it as rock and roll as possible, I stayed up all night the night before and showed up drunk and with a prostitute. I suffer for the art.
There are 6 little dudes in the band (and by “little” I mean “seriously, stop looking me in the eye, I changed your diapers, that’s enough being tall out of you. And that goes double for your little friends.”); of those six most of them were pretty easy to work with, one didn’t show up because he didn’t have a ride (yeah, because that is SO rock and roll) and then there was the Lead Singer. And like all Lead Singers, this kid was drama. D-R-A-M-A.
I’m thinking of simple shots, straight forward, and with really only one rule: no smiling. I’m doing shots like “up against the chain link fence” or “sitting on the picnic bench” or “under the tree” and I’m getting stuff that I think will work. Lead Singer is asking for things like “can you take a picture of our instruments and put it with a picture of fire and make it look like our instruments are on fire?”
Now I was so gonna let that go! But this was just the beginning.
LS: “Here’s what I want: we’re all standing on the grass and we’re pointing in the air. And they won’t know what we’re pointing at.”
FT: “…I’ll take that picture if you want. However you should know that in photography circles that’s called the ‘Sears Catalog Shot’. But I’ll take it if you really want me to.”
The Band: “NO!”
LS: “Here’s what I want: if you can just make sure that there are no cars coming down the road, and then we’ll all walk across the street like we’re just crossing the street.”
FT: “Are you talking about Abbey Road?”
LS: "Oh you know it?”
FT: “I’m not ripping off Abbey Road! What is WRONG with you?”
LS: “Here’s what I want, and I hope that nobody’s too religious but whatever: We do like the last supper picture (oh boy), but with our heads over the regular heads (ok, that’s not THAT bad I guess). And I’ll be Jesus.”
FT: “NO! And do you know why "No!"? Because “And I’ll be Jesus.”! That's why!"
While setting up the shot “standing on and around the 2 swings (an exploration of childhood, mirth and rock n’ roll)” Lead Singer is acting all hinky and I ask him what’s up. And he says to me this:
“nobody’s gonna want these pictures is all.”
“why, because they’re not cool enough?”
“they’re just not rock and roll.”
And sadly, at that moment, I killed him with the laser beams, ROCK AND ROLL laser beams, from my eyes. Had to be done.
OK, I didn’t kill him. I said to him this: “Dude (because that shows that I’m young and hip), I have been seeing rock and roll pictures and listening to rock and roll music and going to rock and roll concerts LIKE THESE GUYS (and I point at my chest, and my strategically selected Police t-shirt which I just got last summer because I am THAT COOL) since long before you were filling diapers. So if you could just give me half an ounce of trust that would be excellent.” (and then the rock and roll laser beam from the eyes.)
250 pictures. Very, very cool pictures. And even MORE important: no lives were lost. So I am a SAINT.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Of course you realize that this means war...
It was one thing when you sent me, tra-la-la, down the scary, cement fire stairs. Tricky, but I survived. And I knew it was ON.
Then all those times when you tried to bring me down off my bike seat. You tried, OH YOU TRIED, but you missed. And you left all those big purple dents on the inside of my thigh. But still I survived.
But this time you go after my mother? A person’s MOTHER? Well this time you have gone too far, Gravity. This time it is WAR.
No kidding – my Mom was doing her daily walk of fitness and goodness and getting of the exercise last week, just like a good girl should (and this girl never, ever does), and she just caught the tippy tip of her toe on an uneven patch of pavement and went DOWN. Face FIRST down! And somehow she had left the house without both of her hands or something, because only one of them got out to break her fall. So. To recap: she broke her quick, forward, sidewalk-bound decent with her right hand and her left face.
This is something you are going to want to avoid. Think of this as a PSA or something: the more you know about not smashing your face into the sidewalk (and now the swirly gold star and it’s rainbow friends and the four piano chords of knowledge…) She looked SO BAD! And actually the badness came in waves of badness.
First night she just looked like somebody very much not her. Big, fat mouse under the eye, and big fat chin to go with it (a matched set – you get a much better price if you get them together) and the rarely-seen split lip both outside AND INSIDE the mouth. The amazing thing was how specific all the damage was located! I approached her from her right side and thought “wow, she doesn’t look bad at ALL! This isn’t such a- WOAH!!!!” and then she turned around and facial fatness all up and down her face. So not right!
All that first night the question was “get a stitch inside the lip or not? Yes? No? Still bleeding, still bleeding, STILL bleeding…” The thing was we knew that if she went to the ER for the fat, ever-bleeding lip they’d want X-rays and other stuff and she’d be there ALL night long, so she really needed to want that lip stitched up for this to be worth it. Instead we went old-school and stuck a tea bag in her mouth for a couple of hours. Luckily she likes tea – were it me there’d be that pesky gag reflex to keep having to deal with on top of the tummy full of my very own blood.
(hey, are you going to finish eating that?)
So then the next day her face went back to being really close to the right size and shape, but by then the color had arrived. Oh the array of reds and purples and almost-blacks! I told Dadtastic that he might want to avoid going out with Momtastic for a while because it did NOT make him look good! (but what can I say? Sometimes she just doesn’t LISTEN! [too soon for the domestic abuse jokes? Sorry. My bad.])
But wait, we're not done. A week goes by and the purples are starting to get green and yellow at the edges and the face it just about the right shape all the way around. Yay! So, to celebrate, Momtastic decided to go out to her alley garden, get her foot caught up in her bean trellis and GO DOWN AGAIN! FACE GODDAMN FIRST!!! So she comes to the Father’s Day bar-b-que with fabulous new purple on her already-purple, freshly fattened-up chin, plus a big, red gash all scabbed over. You know, it’s what all the cool kids are sporting these days.
I have told her that if anything else falling-down-related happens I’m going to get her a football helmet and insist she wears it from now on. I am SO not kidding about this. Oh, and Gravity?
Bring it, bitch.
Then all those times when you tried to bring me down off my bike seat. You tried, OH YOU TRIED, but you missed. And you left all those big purple dents on the inside of my thigh. But still I survived.
But this time you go after my mother? A person’s MOTHER? Well this time you have gone too far, Gravity. This time it is WAR.
No kidding – my Mom was doing her daily walk of fitness and goodness and getting of the exercise last week, just like a good girl should (and this girl never, ever does), and she just caught the tippy tip of her toe on an uneven patch of pavement and went DOWN. Face FIRST down! And somehow she had left the house without both of her hands or something, because only one of them got out to break her fall. So. To recap: she broke her quick, forward, sidewalk-bound decent with her right hand and her left face.
This is something you are going to want to avoid. Think of this as a PSA or something: the more you know about not smashing your face into the sidewalk (and now the swirly gold star and it’s rainbow friends and the four piano chords of knowledge…) She looked SO BAD! And actually the badness came in waves of badness.
First night she just looked like somebody very much not her. Big, fat mouse under the eye, and big fat chin to go with it (a matched set – you get a much better price if you get them together) and the rarely-seen split lip both outside AND INSIDE the mouth. The amazing thing was how specific all the damage was located! I approached her from her right side and thought “wow, she doesn’t look bad at ALL! This isn’t such a- WOAH!!!!” and then she turned around and facial fatness all up and down her face. So not right!
All that first night the question was “get a stitch inside the lip or not? Yes? No? Still bleeding, still bleeding, STILL bleeding…” The thing was we knew that if she went to the ER for the fat, ever-bleeding lip they’d want X-rays and other stuff and she’d be there ALL night long, so she really needed to want that lip stitched up for this to be worth it. Instead we went old-school and stuck a tea bag in her mouth for a couple of hours. Luckily she likes tea – were it me there’d be that pesky gag reflex to keep having to deal with on top of the tummy full of my very own blood.
(hey, are you going to finish eating that?)
So then the next day her face went back to being really close to the right size and shape, but by then the color had arrived. Oh the array of reds and purples and almost-blacks! I told Dadtastic that he might want to avoid going out with Momtastic for a while because it did NOT make him look good! (but what can I say? Sometimes she just doesn’t LISTEN! [too soon for the domestic abuse jokes? Sorry. My bad.])
But wait, we're not done. A week goes by and the purples are starting to get green and yellow at the edges and the face it just about the right shape all the way around. Yay! So, to celebrate, Momtastic decided to go out to her alley garden, get her foot caught up in her bean trellis and GO DOWN AGAIN! FACE GODDAMN FIRST!!! So she comes to the Father’s Day bar-b-que with fabulous new purple on her already-purple, freshly fattened-up chin, plus a big, red gash all scabbed over. You know, it’s what all the cool kids are sporting these days.
I have told her that if anything else falling-down-related happens I’m going to get her a football helmet and insist she wears it from now on. I am SO not kidding about this. Oh, and Gravity?
Bring it, bitch.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Big Finish, now with more JAZZ HANDS!
SO MANY THINGS! This weekend was chockoblock FULL of STUFF, to the point where I just couldn’t keep up with all the post-worthy items. There were monumental accomplishments like college graduations, and silly little things like photo-shoots for baby rock bands and suddenly it’s Tuesday night and MUST POST! So here I am, but it’s gonna take me a few days to catch up. Bare with me, my peoples.
Remember months ago when I was giddy-gleeful over my shiny, tappy tap shoes? And how excellent it was that I was taking a tap class? Well shine me up, my people, because I done did it! From September to June I tapped and tapped and TAPPED, all working towards the goal of last Saturday. Saturday night I pulled on the least flattering, spandex-and-silver-glitter costume ever made, along with my now-broken-in, soft-and-comfy tap shoes, and I ROCKED the KASBAH, peoples!
(an aside to the people who pick out the costumes: Please note the figures of your students in the future and avoid things that accentuate, nay HIGHLIGHT, tummies that could honestly be compared to semi-deflated soccer balls? Also, no silver glitter. In fact, let's just say no glitter period. No matter how snazzy it might look in the catalog, the costume owner lives in fear of freeing it from the sealed ziplock bag for fear that they will never get all the shedded glitter out of their house. Or car. Or driveway. Or anything ever good god it is EVERYWHERE.)
I wish I could say that the packed theater of about 300 or so audience members was there just to see me prance around for a solid 3 minutes, 21 seconds. Except that would be absurd and also that much pressure would lead to excessive wetting of my spandexy pants. See, here’s the deal: the dance school through which I mastered the art of the tap, the punch, the paddle, the shim-sham, well they teach a pile of classes! Tap, but also jazz and ballet and hip-hop and hip-hop and HIP-HOP-HIP-HOP-HIP-HOPHOPHOP! (no kidding, there were a whole lot of hip hop classes) And at the end of the 9 months of classes we all shake our trained booties in a big, fancy show on stage at the local performing arts center!
Not the local high school. Not the tiny repertory theater. This place has hosted rock bands and traveling broadway shows and Garrison-frigging-Keillor! The BIG TIME! And where Garrison stood and spoke folksy-but-eloquent wisdo-humor I scuffed and chugged and shuffle-box-stepped. Here are some things that I learned from this experience:
Remember months ago when I was giddy-gleeful over my shiny, tappy tap shoes? And how excellent it was that I was taking a tap class? Well shine me up, my people, because I done did it! From September to June I tapped and tapped and TAPPED, all working towards the goal of last Saturday. Saturday night I pulled on the least flattering, spandex-and-silver-glitter costume ever made, along with my now-broken-in, soft-and-comfy tap shoes, and I ROCKED the KASBAH, peoples!
(an aside to the people who pick out the costumes: Please note the figures of your students in the future and avoid things that accentuate, nay HIGHLIGHT, tummies that could honestly be compared to semi-deflated soccer balls? Also, no silver glitter. In fact, let's just say no glitter period. No matter how snazzy it might look in the catalog, the costume owner lives in fear of freeing it from the sealed ziplock bag for fear that they will never get all the shedded glitter out of their house. Or car. Or driveway. Or anything ever good god it is EVERYWHERE.)
I wish I could say that the packed theater of about 300 or so audience members was there just to see me prance around for a solid 3 minutes, 21 seconds. Except that would be absurd and also that much pressure would lead to excessive wetting of my spandexy pants. See, here’s the deal: the dance school through which I mastered the art of the tap, the punch, the paddle, the shim-sham, well they teach a pile of classes! Tap, but also jazz and ballet and hip-hop and hip-hop and HIP-HOP-HIP-HOP-HIP-HOPHOPHOP! (no kidding, there were a whole lot of hip hop classes) And at the end of the 9 months of classes we all shake our trained booties in a big, fancy show on stage at the local performing arts center!
Not the local high school. Not the tiny repertory theater. This place has hosted rock bands and traveling broadway shows and Garrison-frigging-Keillor! The BIG TIME! And where Garrison stood and spoke folksy-but-eloquent wisdo-humor I scuffed and chugged and shuffle-box-stepped. Here are some things that I learned from this experience:
- No matter when I last went #1, within 5 minutes of stepping on stage I will still have to pee.
- Making a mistake? Acceptable. Saying “Oh crap, I screwed up!” on stage? Not so much.
- If you’re 4 years old and wearing a dress that looks like it could also be a blue-and-yellow wedding cake you don’t need to take a single dance step; you’ll still bring down the house.
- As uncomfortable as “suck-everything-in” underwear are normally, they are an unholy experience once they’ve been wedged into normally sealed areas via dancy-dance movements.
- The ones who have all the fun are always more entertaining than the ones who think they’re hot shit. Even if they are actually hot shit.
- I don’t care HOW old I am! I performed, and now someone better take me to get ICE CREAM!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
What I should be when I grow up, chapter 1
The other day I came home from work to find a great, big box from one of my best buddies who doesn’t live in Hippyville. (she was my excellent boss when I lived in the big city, and she’s OBNOXIOUSLY smart, especially since I’m older than she is so in THEORY I should be smarter about something, SOMETHING, but no, she knows everything. And also she is always so danged on top of everything and prepared and organized and at a certain point I realized that I either had to choose to hate her INTENSELY with the fire that only a combination of envy and intimidation can provide, or to find her amazing and cool and follow in her footsteps whenever possible. I chose option B, but because of option A I’m going to call her Goofy (and also because she has mad love for all things Disney. But mostly its just the 'being perfect' thing. Revenge at last!)
I was not expecting a box, but the Goofster has been known to spontaneously send little awesome packages, so ‘YAY!’ When I opened it I found a great and excellent homage to French Canadian, spandex-clad, bendy-twisty fabulousness! (In other words: Cirque du Soleil stuff! Woo Hoo!) We're talking CDs and books and cool, cool stuff. And did I mention it was spontaneous?
Goofy and I discovered the magic and majesty of Cirque many years ago w/ Saltimbanco, and we’ve both been ape for them ever since. Like SUPER ape! We go see the shows, but we also wear the clothes and listen to the soundtracks and walk the walk and talk the talk and Cirque, Baby!!
(note: ok, we don’t really walk the walk, because I’m pretty sure that walking the Cirque walk would involve putting one’s legs behind one’s neck, and possibly one’s head up one’s rear-area. Which we just aren’t doing. And we also don’t actually talk the talk, because I believe the Cirque talk would be French. And I’m more likely to be able to put my head up my rear-area than be able to speak French.)
Anyway, I don’t know what this box means. I don’t know if she’s giving me all of her awesome Cirque bounty, mayhaps because she’s decided that she’s received all the magic that she can from our French-Canadian heroes of contortion and flying? Or did she hit the Ebay motherload on Cirque stuff, thereby totally completing the entire Cirque collection, and these are the things she already had? Or did she decide that she wouldn’t be able to be my friend anymore if I didn’t have just a bit more Cirque coolness? Or possibly this is pre-emptive willing, due to a premonition that her time is nigh? Picture me on my living room floor, surrounded by this jackpot of Cirque fabulousness, rolling around on soundtracks and programs but afraid to like it too much just in case it’s actually a portent of badness!
And then I thought this: maybe Goofy has sent this as a form of career guidance! Maybe she believes that she has found the right career path for me! And it involves juggling fire! Hanging myself from my earlobes! Hot Human Pretzel Action! And EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!
(the sane and rational among you have probably already started crafting your helpful emails suggesting that maybe I could just call or email Goofy and ask her the story behind the fabulous box of Cirque goodness. Emails I will ignore because sanity? Rational thinking? HAH!! Since when do I traffic in such goods?!?! DOUBLE-HAH!!) Now pardon me while I figure out how one limbers up one’s earlobes…
I was not expecting a box, but the Goofster has been known to spontaneously send little awesome packages, so ‘YAY!’ When I opened it I found a great and excellent homage to French Canadian, spandex-clad, bendy-twisty fabulousness! (In other words: Cirque du Soleil stuff! Woo Hoo!) We're talking CDs and books and cool, cool stuff. And did I mention it was spontaneous?
Goofy and I discovered the magic and majesty of Cirque many years ago w/ Saltimbanco, and we’ve both been ape for them ever since. Like SUPER ape! We go see the shows, but we also wear the clothes and listen to the soundtracks and walk the walk and talk the talk and Cirque, Baby!!
(note: ok, we don’t really walk the walk, because I’m pretty sure that walking the Cirque walk would involve putting one’s legs behind one’s neck, and possibly one’s head up one’s rear-area. Which we just aren’t doing. And we also don’t actually talk the talk, because I believe the Cirque talk would be French. And I’m more likely to be able to put my head up my rear-area than be able to speak French.)
Anyway, I don’t know what this box means. I don’t know if she’s giving me all of her awesome Cirque bounty, mayhaps because she’s decided that she’s received all the magic that she can from our French-Canadian heroes of contortion and flying? Or did she hit the Ebay motherload on Cirque stuff, thereby totally completing the entire Cirque collection, and these are the things she already had? Or did she decide that she wouldn’t be able to be my friend anymore if I didn’t have just a bit more Cirque coolness? Or possibly this is pre-emptive willing, due to a premonition that her time is nigh? Picture me on my living room floor, surrounded by this jackpot of Cirque fabulousness, rolling around on soundtracks and programs but afraid to like it too much just in case it’s actually a portent of badness!
And then I thought this: maybe Goofy has sent this as a form of career guidance! Maybe she believes that she has found the right career path for me! And it involves juggling fire! Hanging myself from my earlobes! Hot Human Pretzel Action! And EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!
(the sane and rational among you have probably already started crafting your helpful emails suggesting that maybe I could just call or email Goofy and ask her the story behind the fabulous box of Cirque goodness. Emails I will ignore because sanity? Rational thinking? HAH!! Since when do I traffic in such goods?!?! DOUBLE-HAH!!) Now pardon me while I figure out how one limbers up one’s earlobes…
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Policy planning at milepost 2.5...
(my favorite cousin and I are walking her cool dog on the newly-opened walking trail and pass a motorcycle cop chatting with one of the organizers of the walk/run/thing...)
Cool Cuz (CC): I think that cops should only be allowed to pull over people on the same mode of transportation that they’re on.
Femtastic (FT): You mean motorcycle cops should only be able to pull over people on motorcycles?
CC: right, but also bike cops should only pull over people on bikes.
FT: interesting...
CC: And mounted police should only pull over people on horseback. Of course I guess the bike cops are a self-limiting thing anyway. I guess they could also ticket people on foot.
FT: Oh no, I’d say only beat cops should be pulling over people on foot! I think you’re totally on to something here.
CC: well foot cops could ticket people. Not so much ‘pull them over’ You know, since they’re on foot.
FT: oh see, but I also think that all cops should be required to use lights and sirens when pulling someone over. If they’re not in a vehicle with gumballs then they should have to wear a helmet with a big flashing light on top…
CC: …and a siren!
FT: Man, we should SO run for public office…
Cool Cuz (CC): I think that cops should only be allowed to pull over people on the same mode of transportation that they’re on.
Femtastic (FT): You mean motorcycle cops should only be able to pull over people on motorcycles?
CC: right, but also bike cops should only pull over people on bikes.
FT: interesting...
CC: And mounted police should only pull over people on horseback. Of course I guess the bike cops are a self-limiting thing anyway. I guess they could also ticket people on foot.
FT: Oh no, I’d say only beat cops should be pulling over people on foot! I think you’re totally on to something here.
CC: well foot cops could ticket people. Not so much ‘pull them over’ You know, since they’re on foot.
FT: oh see, but I also think that all cops should be required to use lights and sirens when pulling someone over. If they’re not in a vehicle with gumballs then they should have to wear a helmet with a big flashing light on top…
CC: …and a siren!
FT: Man, we should SO run for public office…
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Walkies!
OK, I know this doesn’t sound like me, but there was this walk/run/thing on Saturday to commemorate the opening of this new trail that runs around our new, FUTURISTIC AND FABULOUS hospital. And I did it. And I did it VOLUNTARILY. No weapons of any kind were put to my head! It was kind of a work thing, in that the people that I did it with were pretty much work chums. Since it’s so not me to get up early on a Saturday at all, let alone to walk 5k, I’m not sure why I joined in. Whatever.
Now even though I, myself, started this by saying this doesn’t sound like me it was still super-annoying how many people acted like it was some kind of modern miracle that I was going to do it. And there were a bunch of people who offered to come get me in their cars on the path if I couldn’t finish it. (they were probably kidding. Still annoying!) Come on people, I do bike 30 miles to and from work each week! I tap dance for a couple of hours a week! I chase after my best friends kids whenever I can. And, most importantly, I RARELY use sound judgment when deciding what to do with my body! Case in point: right before the walk I’m surrounded by people eating healthy breakfasts and drinking out of their healthy water bottles, as I sit in my car finishing my ice-cold Pepsi and McDonalds hashbrown. So a spontaneous 3.1 mile stroll sounds JUST like something I would do.
Tangent: I stopped off at the McDonalds for my strategically planned breakfast food (because I already had the Pepsi perfectly chilled, but can’t just drink a Pepsi with nothing salty to go with it! That would be CRAZY!! And so OBVIOUSLY that meant McDonalds hashbrowns) and I’m perfectly on time and only a few blocks from the trail, right? But then I watch as the dude in front of me (who spent a LONG TIME giving his order, so I knew he was either getting a LOT of food or had asked for the nutritional breakdown on every single item on their breakfast menu) pull up and get handed a petite little bag. Much too small for all his ordering. But just the right size for one woman’s morning hashbrowns. And then I watched the interaction between this guy and the confused and fairly shellshocked (or still hung-over?) drive thru girl and it became clear that they’d somehow lost his whole order. But they had my hashbrowns! And the clock’s ticking and I’m now officially into the “running late” window and he’s STILL talking and she’s even more confused, and has tried to give him my hashbrowns a second time and I HAVE GOT TO GO!!! Finally I pulled out of line, pulled up next to lost-his-order guy and got out of my car. I walked around the nose of his car and started to knock on the now-closed window, completely freaking out everyone inside the place, who are clearly all discussing how people are just not supposed to walk up to the window and DEFINITELY aren’t supposed to knock on the window, and who has to go talk to the crazy, intense and hungry-looking crazy lady? At last they open the window and I ask for my paid-for and ready-to-go little bag of hashbrowns there on the counter right there, right next to the bigger bags, no not that one, no the little one, the one you keep trying to give to this guy (who starts to assure me that he never did anything to my hashbrowns, like I’m afraid he managed to lick them during one of the times they pushed them at him – not worried, buddy!) GIVE ME MY HASHBROWNS I HAVE TO GO!
Needless to say, I got my hashbrowns and arrived just barely in time. End of tangent.
I will have you know, my friends and scoffers alike, that I finished that 5k walk! And I did it in UNDER an hour! And that my feet didn’t even hurt and I didn’t fall down in a heap or come home and collapse or anything! That is right! Take that, people who may or may not have been kidding when they offered to come rescue from my ill-thought-out spontaneous exercise!
Now even though I, myself, started this by saying this doesn’t sound like me it was still super-annoying how many people acted like it was some kind of modern miracle that I was going to do it. And there were a bunch of people who offered to come get me in their cars on the path if I couldn’t finish it. (they were probably kidding. Still annoying!) Come on people, I do bike 30 miles to and from work each week! I tap dance for a couple of hours a week! I chase after my best friends kids whenever I can. And, most importantly, I RARELY use sound judgment when deciding what to do with my body! Case in point: right before the walk I’m surrounded by people eating healthy breakfasts and drinking out of their healthy water bottles, as I sit in my car finishing my ice-cold Pepsi and McDonalds hashbrown. So a spontaneous 3.1 mile stroll sounds JUST like something I would do.
Tangent: I stopped off at the McDonalds for my strategically planned breakfast food (because I already had the Pepsi perfectly chilled, but can’t just drink a Pepsi with nothing salty to go with it! That would be CRAZY!! And so OBVIOUSLY that meant McDonalds hashbrowns) and I’m perfectly on time and only a few blocks from the trail, right? But then I watch as the dude in front of me (who spent a LONG TIME giving his order, so I knew he was either getting a LOT of food or had asked for the nutritional breakdown on every single item on their breakfast menu) pull up and get handed a petite little bag. Much too small for all his ordering. But just the right size for one woman’s morning hashbrowns. And then I watched the interaction between this guy and the confused and fairly shellshocked (or still hung-over?) drive thru girl and it became clear that they’d somehow lost his whole order. But they had my hashbrowns! And the clock’s ticking and I’m now officially into the “running late” window and he’s STILL talking and she’s even more confused, and has tried to give him my hashbrowns a second time and I HAVE GOT TO GO!!! Finally I pulled out of line, pulled up next to lost-his-order guy and got out of my car. I walked around the nose of his car and started to knock on the now-closed window, completely freaking out everyone inside the place, who are clearly all discussing how people are just not supposed to walk up to the window and DEFINITELY aren’t supposed to knock on the window, and who has to go talk to the crazy, intense and hungry-looking crazy lady? At last they open the window and I ask for my paid-for and ready-to-go little bag of hashbrowns there on the counter right there, right next to the bigger bags, no not that one, no the little one, the one you keep trying to give to this guy (who starts to assure me that he never did anything to my hashbrowns, like I’m afraid he managed to lick them during one of the times they pushed them at him – not worried, buddy!) GIVE ME MY HASHBROWNS I HAVE TO GO!
Needless to say, I got my hashbrowns and arrived just barely in time. End of tangent.
I will have you know, my friends and scoffers alike, that I finished that 5k walk! And I did it in UNDER an hour! And that my feet didn’t even hurt and I didn’t fall down in a heap or come home and collapse or anything! That is right! Take that, people who may or may not have been kidding when they offered to come rescue from my ill-thought-out spontaneous exercise!
New, shiny white walking shoes: $45
Walk registration fee: $15
Official walk t-shirt: $5
McDonalds hasbrowns: $1
20-minute mile bragging rights: priceless.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.
My recurring readers (and really, unless I know you personally I cannot FATHOM what keeps bringing you back! For that, and for so much more, I give you WOVE, WOVE, WOVE!!!) will remember that back in December I had some super trips to the dentist. (and by “super” I mean “G-A-A-A-A-A-A-H!!!”). After all the dental visits that I did tell you about I had one a few weeks later which I did NOT tell you about (or did and just can’t find the post anywhere, and how sad is that?) where I went back to my dentist, whom I love very much even though his is a dentist, and he put on my new, shiny, white crown where all the other stuff had happened. And everything after that was perfect, happily ever after THE END.
Except that the new crown (wow, having a major déjà vu that I’ve already told you guys about this. Maybe you beloved recurring readers should go get a soda or something?) didn’t fit right. There was a gap between it and it’s neighbor, which my dentist identified right as he seated the new crown. And he said to me “oh gosh and golly, there’s a gap here which just might collect food. If it DOES just let us know and we’ll have a new crown put on. We’ll keep the molds and we’ll just take this one off and put the new one on and it will be easy-peasy, eggs and cheesy, hip hooray and let’s have cake!!”
Of course what I heard was “this crown is golden and perfect, and if there IS a gap it’s no big deal and you could just buy a bunch of those flossy sword things and there’s no reason to come back at all, maybe ever, ever again amen and thanks for the money good bye.”
Sadly the gap WAS a food collector. I even found myself calling the dentist one day and begging him to SQUEEZE ME IN in order to remove some bit of apple-stuff that was so tightly wedged down into that gap as to be both unflossable and EXCRUTIATING! They took pity on me, got me into the chair that day and proceeded to remove the apple bit, plus endless other bits of food which my good dentist eventually described as “half of a box lunch” crammed in there. This was despite all my flossy good actions! Needless to say at that point the jig was up and I had to admit that there was food cramming issues with the gap and yes, I should just go ahead and schedule an appointment to come in and have the gappy crown replaced.
Oh my beloveds, I did the right thing! (eventually) I called and scheduled an appointment for my new crown! (several weeks later) I drew on my inner strength and my knowledge of what was right and wrong and made the call! (after my Dad called me at work and completely shamed me into calling. Which is the down side of having the same dentist as your parents. And who isn’t above tattling.) Today I trekked to my cheery, always smiling (of course, because his smile is obviously perfect, isn’t it!) dentist for the changing of the crown.
He had told me that it would be an easy deal, but I had my heart broken before, so I still brought my CD player, headphones and a new dental mix (track list below). AND I trimmed my nails so as to reduce the damage done to their armrests! They put back the chair, I plopped on the tunes and they started terrible things inside my mouth. Between songs I heard the phrase “cut it off” and tried very hard to swallow my tongue for a quick death (stupid suction hose thingie!!). Finally, though, they were done and I thought “whew!, it’s almost over!” They plopped on the new tooth, ran floss one either side of it and announced:
“now there’s a big gap on BOTH sides.”
SERIOUSLY?????
So apparently the artists, the geniuses, the miracle-workers who make dental crowns did the exact OPPOSITE of what they were supposed to do. I attempted to make the argument that maybe these larger gaps would be easier to floss and therefore I could just live with this new crown and please, PLEASE do not make me do this a third time!
I have to do it a third time.
Right now I have a temporary crown in there while they send the 2 wrongish ones back. You guys know about the excellence that is the temporary crown, right? Never bites quite right, feels lumpy in your mouth, tastes like chalk? Yeah, good times. And tomorrow I have to call and ONCE AGAIN voluntarily make an appointment to go back to the danged dentist for what is SUPPOSED to be the third time, and therefore the charm.
Femtastic’s 2008 Dentist Chair Mix:
“Wine Red” (by A Hush Sound)
“Keep me in your Pocket” (by Charlotte Martin)
“Heavy” (by Holly Brook)
“Spinning” (by Anne Heaton)
“Love on the Rocks” (by Sarah Bareilles)
“Headlock” (by Imogene Heap)
“A Dark Congregation” (by A Hush Sound)
“Pigeons” (by Genesis)
“Bruised” (by Ben Folds)
“Every Time it Rains” (by Charlotte Martin)
“Sunrise” (by Simply Red)
“Heal Over” (by KT Tunstall)
“Breakable” (by Ingrid Michaelson)
“When I Grow Up” (by Pussycat Dolls)
“Spinning” (by Zero 7)
“Waiting Under the Waves” (by Kris Delmhorst)
“So Sorry” (by Feist)
“Kalamazoo” (by Ben Folds)
Except that the new crown (wow, having a major déjà vu that I’ve already told you guys about this. Maybe you beloved recurring readers should go get a soda or something?) didn’t fit right. There was a gap between it and it’s neighbor, which my dentist identified right as he seated the new crown. And he said to me “oh gosh and golly, there’s a gap here which just might collect food. If it DOES just let us know and we’ll have a new crown put on. We’ll keep the molds and we’ll just take this one off and put the new one on and it will be easy-peasy, eggs and cheesy, hip hooray and let’s have cake!!”
Of course what I heard was “this crown is golden and perfect, and if there IS a gap it’s no big deal and you could just buy a bunch of those flossy sword things and there’s no reason to come back at all, maybe ever, ever again amen and thanks for the money good bye.”
Sadly the gap WAS a food collector. I even found myself calling the dentist one day and begging him to SQUEEZE ME IN in order to remove some bit of apple-stuff that was so tightly wedged down into that gap as to be both unflossable and EXCRUTIATING! They took pity on me, got me into the chair that day and proceeded to remove the apple bit, plus endless other bits of food which my good dentist eventually described as “half of a box lunch” crammed in there. This was despite all my flossy good actions! Needless to say at that point the jig was up and I had to admit that there was food cramming issues with the gap and yes, I should just go ahead and schedule an appointment to come in and have the gappy crown replaced.
Oh my beloveds, I did the right thing! (eventually) I called and scheduled an appointment for my new crown! (several weeks later) I drew on my inner strength and my knowledge of what was right and wrong and made the call! (after my Dad called me at work and completely shamed me into calling. Which is the down side of having the same dentist as your parents. And who isn’t above tattling.) Today I trekked to my cheery, always smiling (of course, because his smile is obviously perfect, isn’t it!) dentist for the changing of the crown.
He had told me that it would be an easy deal, but I had my heart broken before, so I still brought my CD player, headphones and a new dental mix (track list below). AND I trimmed my nails so as to reduce the damage done to their armrests! They put back the chair, I plopped on the tunes and they started terrible things inside my mouth. Between songs I heard the phrase “cut it off” and tried very hard to swallow my tongue for a quick death (stupid suction hose thingie!!). Finally, though, they were done and I thought “whew!, it’s almost over!” They plopped on the new tooth, ran floss one either side of it and announced:
“now there’s a big gap on BOTH sides.”
SERIOUSLY?????
So apparently the artists, the geniuses, the miracle-workers who make dental crowns did the exact OPPOSITE of what they were supposed to do. I attempted to make the argument that maybe these larger gaps would be easier to floss and therefore I could just live with this new crown and please, PLEASE do not make me do this a third time!
I have to do it a third time.
Right now I have a temporary crown in there while they send the 2 wrongish ones back. You guys know about the excellence that is the temporary crown, right? Never bites quite right, feels lumpy in your mouth, tastes like chalk? Yeah, good times. And tomorrow I have to call and ONCE AGAIN voluntarily make an appointment to go back to the danged dentist for what is SUPPOSED to be the third time, and therefore the charm.
Femtastic’s 2008 Dentist Chair Mix:
“Wine Red” (by A Hush Sound)
“Keep me in your Pocket” (by Charlotte Martin)
“Heavy” (by Holly Brook)
“Spinning” (by Anne Heaton)
“Love on the Rocks” (by Sarah Bareilles)
“Headlock” (by Imogene Heap)
“A Dark Congregation” (by A Hush Sound)
“Pigeons” (by Genesis)
“Bruised” (by Ben Folds)
“Every Time it Rains” (by Charlotte Martin)
“Sunrise” (by Simply Red)
“Heal Over” (by KT Tunstall)
“Breakable” (by Ingrid Michaelson)
“When I Grow Up” (by Pussycat Dolls)
“Spinning” (by Zero 7)
“Waiting Under the Waves” (by Kris Delmhorst)
“So Sorry” (by Feist)
“Kalamazoo” (by Ben Folds)
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Can't Touch This.
I bring you this month's fabulous desktop enjoyment, in the form of dancing catness. And we all know that this image was taken with some kind of sneaky nanny-cam. Kitties never get their groove on in front of people like this...
(courtesy of I Can Has Cheezburger)
(courtesy of I Can Has Cheezburger)Sunday, June 01, 2008
Speed Dating Report Card
So the results are in, as they say, and the “interested parties” from all the dudes I speed-datified with are:
Dudes 2 and 3. Or, for those of you who really don’t feel like clicking the link and re-reading the previous, super-long, super-rambly post, “lawyer/politician, huge head, tiny teeth, maybe no eyes at all” and “Navy guy, has possible crush on Dude 2.” Winners. Really.
Someone asked me why I wondered if Dude 3 was smitten with Dude 2, and the answer was simple: that was all he talked about. Why was he doing speed dating? Because Dude 2 asked him to. What does he do? He’s a law student, just like Dude 2. Where has he lived? Here, and also in Washington state. Which, by the way did he happen to mention, is a place where Dude 2 had also lived? And didn’t I think that Dude 2 was dreamy? And couldn’t you just dive into the limpid pools of his blue eyes? Sigh… (wait, he has eyes? Are you sure?)
So I’m a little confused that those two opted to meet again. Here’s my conclusion: Dude 2 opted to talk again with ALL the women because that’s how he rolls (and because, with his squinty, possibly-non-eyed eyes and non-stop talking about the law and politics and SO DANGED INTERESTING, RIGHT?, he had no idea what any of the women looked like or said so best to paint a WIDE SWATH). And Dude 3 opted to talk to me again because he’s hoping it will be some crazy 3-way date. And I won’t show up. (know what I’m sayn?)
Really Very Extremely needless to say I’m not planning to connect w/ tiny teeth or his special man-friend. So thus endeth speed dating. Bleah.
Dudes 2 and 3. Or, for those of you who really don’t feel like clicking the link and re-reading the previous, super-long, super-rambly post, “lawyer/politician, huge head, tiny teeth, maybe no eyes at all” and “Navy guy, has possible crush on Dude 2.” Winners. Really.
Someone asked me why I wondered if Dude 3 was smitten with Dude 2, and the answer was simple: that was all he talked about. Why was he doing speed dating? Because Dude 2 asked him to. What does he do? He’s a law student, just like Dude 2. Where has he lived? Here, and also in Washington state. Which, by the way did he happen to mention, is a place where Dude 2 had also lived? And didn’t I think that Dude 2 was dreamy? And couldn’t you just dive into the limpid pools of his blue eyes? Sigh… (wait, he has eyes? Are you sure?)
So I’m a little confused that those two opted to meet again. Here’s my conclusion: Dude 2 opted to talk again with ALL the women because that’s how he rolls (and because, with his squinty, possibly-non-eyed eyes and non-stop talking about the law and politics and SO DANGED INTERESTING, RIGHT?, he had no idea what any of the women looked like or said so best to paint a WIDE SWATH). And Dude 3 opted to talk to me again because he’s hoping it will be some crazy 3-way date. And I won’t show up. (know what I’m sayn?)
Really Very Extremely needless to say I’m not planning to connect w/ tiny teeth or his special man-friend. So thus endeth speed dating. Bleah.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tiny, bite-sized pockets of KILL ME.
For all you nay-sayers who think I’m not adventurous. Not brave. Not daring. Not “Putting myself out there!” I give you:
SPEED DATING!
Oh yes, yes, I totally did so! Last night I put on my fancy-pants clothes, popped a handful of mints into my mouth and braved the wacky world of 6-minute power-judging. Come, I will tell you about it!
Firstly I was able to find an age group this time into which I actually fit, and there was no obligation that I be able to touch my toes or climb Mt. Anything, so these were both good things. The location was one I’d been to before – a low-key jazzy bar attached to a nice restaurant, decorated in black and blue shades, all sorts of mellow and hip – so that seemed like a helpful atmosphere. I got to the restaurant part a little early (because that’s what they SAID to do! And I follow directions, people!) and registered there with the tremendously, fabulously, possibly radioactively bubbly host lady.
A note: I know I normally change names to protect the innocent, but I’m bending that rule this time for two reasons. One: the name is just too excellent to change and Two: No host of speed dating can be considered innocent.
Host lady’s name was Porsche, but she very specifically pronounced it “Por-Shay.” It was SO HARD not correct her every time she introduced herself. “you’re saying that wrong. I don’t care who’s name it is, you are saying it WRONG.” Porshay didn’t stop smiling the entire 2 hours we were there, and was about 4000% more excited about the idea of an evening of speed dating than any of we attendees. And let me tell you, she REALLY wanted to thank us for coming. Like 5 or 6 times. She was so very, very appreciative. (I really want to make a sexual joke here, but I’m resisting. For now.)
I hit the ladies room before things started and then went into the bar-part where the actual speed dating was to happen and oh hey, look at that! My nice, simple jazzy club is now a North African bar/club/place/thing/deal. And it’s also full of pillows, pillows, pillows! And there are gauzy curtain/drape things hanging everywhere, including places not so curtainy/drapey! And bar-ware with sequins and fancy colors, because apparently that’s how things are in North Africa? And it’s BRIGHT! With lights of COLORS! And there are THINGS EVERYWHERE.
No sooner had I made peace with the fabu new décor I noticed that the place was full of tables. And the tables each had a number. And each numbered table had a dude sitting there. Each one. Had a dude. One dude. That’s it.
Tables with dudes. Dudes all staring at me. Is it. Doooooooods.
THERE WERE NO WOMEN.
I wasn’t early anymore (what with the precautionary tinkle I took) and there were 7 tables full of guys and, counting me, there was a girl-total of ME. So I did the only reasonable thing.
I turned around and walked out.
And by the way, in the time it took me to count all the dude-heads and all the lack of dame-heads and make my classy escape I assure you that all the dudes noticed me too. And noticed my classy escape. So I’m off to a great start here, what with my entrance, panic and retreat. Yeah, right off the bat I was LOVING this speed-dating thing.
I walk back into the restaurant and I’m thinking “ok, so did I get this wrong? Is this maybe the all-dude gay speed dating night? Didn’t the registration lady notice that I’m not a dude? Maybe she couldn’t see me over the glare of her scary white toothy smile? What if I’m the only woman who signed up? What if they want me to go from table to table all night? Just me? What if I spontaneously explode from the hating of a single moment? THERE MUST BE OTHER WOMEN AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE!!”
Sure enough, when I went to the bar in the adjacent restaurant there were a whole BUNCH of women! Drinking and chatting and enjoying that last cigarette, and with Porshay begging them to haul their big butts into the room full of waiting men! I have no idea what the deal was with the various women, or why it is that it took another 10 minutes after I bit the bullet and returned to the little corner of Africa for any of them to wander in! But I can say that sitting there, at table number four, with Dude number four, and with an entire room of ladyless tables and ladyless other dudes staring at me, I developed a significant hatred for every single one of those women.
OK, moving on...
For those of you who have never done speed dating I first say GOOD CALL!!! And then I explain to you how it works:
Dude 1: “really shy, really nervous, may burst into flames before end of night.”
Dude 2: “lawyer/politician, huge head, tiny teeth, maybe no eyes at all?”
Dude 3: “Navy guy, has possible crush on Dude 2?”
Dude 4: “Network guy, has never been out of Hippyville, probably for the best.”
Dude 5: “real estate lobbyist, thinks this is a competition, VELOUR SHIRT? REALLY?”
Dude 6: “QA for Yahoo. Movie snob. Shiny, shiny, oh-so-shiny head.”
Dude 7: “sports fan, possibly CIA operative, super-cool dude. Just ask him.”
I started with Dude 4, and found it really hard to pay attention to him because over his shoulder, up on a decorative ledge, was a big, stuffed goat. Wearing a gauzy scarf. STARING AT ME. Like he was saying “I have to be here, it’s too late for me. What’s your excuse?” At least once I actually wondered what would happen if, while the guys were shuffling around between bell-rings, I just walked out and went home? But I stuck it out to the bitter (seriously, bitter) end!
It took me only a few minutes to realize the massive flaw in this whole concept, which is this: The worst part of a date, in my experience, is the beginning when you’re just figuring out what to say or how to sit or even if this person has a funny smell or maybe is actually a trained monkey. Speed dating takes that most uncomfortable first few minutes and makes you repeat those, and only those, over and over! You never get past the awkward beginning part to find out if the other person might be worthwhile at all! It’s pretty much “stiff, uncomfortable, awkward, yucky, am I sitting up straight?, wow at least he’s stopped tapping his toe, maybe I could ask him- DONE!” and repeat till crazy! What could there be to rave about in the 1 inch notes section?
When I came home I jumped onto the speed dating website and entered my scores (7 “No Thanks!”, 0 “Let’s Talk!”) and in the next few days I’m supposed to get an email telling me who, if anyone, thought I was awesome. I sure hope I can sleep in the meantime from the excitement. And just in case anybody is still wondering, I will NOT be doing another speed dating night. EEEEVVVVVEEERRR. But I totally get “putting myself out there” points for this one!
SPEED DATING!
Oh yes, yes, I totally did so! Last night I put on my fancy-pants clothes, popped a handful of mints into my mouth and braved the wacky world of 6-minute power-judging. Come, I will tell you about it!
Firstly I was able to find an age group this time into which I actually fit, and there was no obligation that I be able to touch my toes or climb Mt. Anything, so these were both good things. The location was one I’d been to before – a low-key jazzy bar attached to a nice restaurant, decorated in black and blue shades, all sorts of mellow and hip – so that seemed like a helpful atmosphere. I got to the restaurant part a little early (because that’s what they SAID to do! And I follow directions, people!) and registered there with the tremendously, fabulously, possibly radioactively bubbly host lady.
A note: I know I normally change names to protect the innocent, but I’m bending that rule this time for two reasons. One: the name is just too excellent to change and Two: No host of speed dating can be considered innocent.
Host lady’s name was Porsche, but she very specifically pronounced it “Por-Shay.” It was SO HARD not correct her every time she introduced herself. “you’re saying that wrong. I don’t care who’s name it is, you are saying it WRONG.” Porshay didn’t stop smiling the entire 2 hours we were there, and was about 4000% more excited about the idea of an evening of speed dating than any of we attendees. And let me tell you, she REALLY wanted to thank us for coming. Like 5 or 6 times. She was so very, very appreciative. (I really want to make a sexual joke here, but I’m resisting. For now.)
I hit the ladies room before things started and then went into the bar-part where the actual speed dating was to happen and oh hey, look at that! My nice, simple jazzy club is now a North African bar/club/place/thing/deal. And it’s also full of pillows, pillows, pillows! And there are gauzy curtain/drape things hanging everywhere, including places not so curtainy/drapey! And bar-ware with sequins and fancy colors, because apparently that’s how things are in North Africa? And it’s BRIGHT! With lights of COLORS! And there are THINGS EVERYWHERE.
No sooner had I made peace with the fabu new décor I noticed that the place was full of tables. And the tables each had a number. And each numbered table had a dude sitting there. Each one. Had a dude. One dude. That’s it.
Tables with dudes. Dudes all staring at me. Is it. Doooooooods.
THERE WERE NO WOMEN.
I wasn’t early anymore (what with the precautionary tinkle I took) and there were 7 tables full of guys and, counting me, there was a girl-total of ME. So I did the only reasonable thing.
I turned around and walked out.
And by the way, in the time it took me to count all the dude-heads and all the lack of dame-heads and make my classy escape I assure you that all the dudes noticed me too. And noticed my classy escape. So I’m off to a great start here, what with my entrance, panic and retreat. Yeah, right off the bat I was LOVING this speed-dating thing.
I walk back into the restaurant and I’m thinking “ok, so did I get this wrong? Is this maybe the all-dude gay speed dating night? Didn’t the registration lady notice that I’m not a dude? Maybe she couldn’t see me over the glare of her scary white toothy smile? What if I’m the only woman who signed up? What if they want me to go from table to table all night? Just me? What if I spontaneously explode from the hating of a single moment? THERE MUST BE OTHER WOMEN AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE!!”
Sure enough, when I went to the bar in the adjacent restaurant there were a whole BUNCH of women! Drinking and chatting and enjoying that last cigarette, and with Porshay begging them to haul their big butts into the room full of waiting men! I have no idea what the deal was with the various women, or why it is that it took another 10 minutes after I bit the bullet and returned to the little corner of Africa for any of them to wander in! But I can say that sitting there, at table number four, with Dude number four, and with an entire room of ladyless tables and ladyless other dudes staring at me, I developed a significant hatred for every single one of those women.
OK, moving on...
For those of you who have never done speed dating I first say GOOD CALL!!! And then I explain to you how it works:
- There are tables with numbers, and each dude gets a number, and each dame gets a number. Numbers are crucial in this system. You also get a scorecard where you keep track of the numbers and names of the people you meet, as well as any notes that can fit into a line about 3 inches long.
- Everyone starts at the table corresponding to their number.
- You chat or flirt or whatever with your table-mate for 6 minutes. At that point super-bubbly Porshay rings a bell and the dudes all move one table up the list. (so for example the dude at my table moved to table five, and I was joined at my table by dude number three. Get it?) The women don’t move, which is lucky given how DAMNED LONG it took to get these betches to move in from the other bar!!!
- When the dude moves on, and before the next one sits down, you’re supposed to circle one of two responses on your scorecard: “Let’s Talk!” or “No Thanks!” (or as I preferred to see them, “Seriously?” or “tag and release back into the wild for research”)
Dude 1: “really shy, really nervous, may burst into flames before end of night.”
Dude 2: “lawyer/politician, huge head, tiny teeth, maybe no eyes at all?”
Dude 3: “Navy guy, has possible crush on Dude 2?”
Dude 4: “Network guy, has never been out of Hippyville, probably for the best.”
Dude 5: “real estate lobbyist, thinks this is a competition, VELOUR SHIRT? REALLY?”
Dude 6: “QA for Yahoo. Movie snob. Shiny, shiny, oh-so-shiny head.”
Dude 7: “sports fan, possibly CIA operative, super-cool dude. Just ask him.”
I started with Dude 4, and found it really hard to pay attention to him because over his shoulder, up on a decorative ledge, was a big, stuffed goat. Wearing a gauzy scarf. STARING AT ME. Like he was saying “I have to be here, it’s too late for me. What’s your excuse?” At least once I actually wondered what would happen if, while the guys were shuffling around between bell-rings, I just walked out and went home? But I stuck it out to the bitter (seriously, bitter) end!
It took me only a few minutes to realize the massive flaw in this whole concept, which is this: The worst part of a date, in my experience, is the beginning when you’re just figuring out what to say or how to sit or even if this person has a funny smell or maybe is actually a trained monkey. Speed dating takes that most uncomfortable first few minutes and makes you repeat those, and only those, over and over! You never get past the awkward beginning part to find out if the other person might be worthwhile at all! It’s pretty much “stiff, uncomfortable, awkward, yucky, am I sitting up straight?, wow at least he’s stopped tapping his toe, maybe I could ask him- DONE!” and repeat till crazy! What could there be to rave about in the 1 inch notes section?
When I came home I jumped onto the speed dating website and entered my scores (7 “No Thanks!”, 0 “Let’s Talk!”) and in the next few days I’m supposed to get an email telling me who, if anyone, thought I was awesome. I sure hope I can sleep in the meantime from the excitement. And just in case anybody is still wondering, I will NOT be doing another speed dating night. EEEEVVVVVEEERRR. But I totally get “putting myself out there” points for this one!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Girly Stuff 101
OK, so it occurred to me that if I’m looking for a guy I should probably do something to make me seem more like a non-guy. (dame, skirt, gal, chick, etc.) I ran through the various options (sewing, cooking, ovulating, pushing something the size of a basketball out of my cooch, did I mention cooking?) and picked “Painting my toenails” Then I needed to find someone who had done that EVER to help me out.
Yes, that’s right. I said it. I’ve never painted my toenails. Or at least in my memory I’ve never painted my toenails. (which frankly, with my memory, means I’ve not painted my toenails since last I slept. Memory is hard.)
So lucky me, I have The Queen to help me with all things girly. For she is knowledgable and experienced in the ways of the girl. She wears make-up and does things all a-fancy with her hair (colors and the like) and wears pretty shoes AND she paints toenails! Perfect! Plus, as an added bonus, she already knows that I was born without most of the girl stuff (To CLARIFY: Girl PARTS = yes. Girl STUFF = not so much.) and accepts me anyway and doesn’t judge me when I never use moisturizing goo on my face and instead let it get all chapped.
(Well, doesn’t judge me very much. It’s just a thing for her is all. But if I never wear earrings? No judgment! I’m pretty sure no judgment. Very little judgment.)
So I went to The Queen and told her that I thought that it would be a super idea if she painted my toenails. And amazingly enough, she AGREED! What’s more, she took the spirit of the event to the next level and combined it with a chick flick and a whole girls night thing and it was so danged girly that the room was thick with estrogen and smelled like perfume and lingerie and diet soda!
And can I just say thank GOD that she was there to walk me though this, because there was way more to this then I knew. I mostly figured if I went to her she’d help me with the three things I was not equipped to handle:
First we put fancy powders into big bowls of hot (sorry, meant that to be HOT!) water and put our feet into the big bowls of HOT! water. Which is not exactly the thing – for her it was “and put our feet into the big bowl of HOT! water.” For me it was “put my foot in, and then out, and then just the bottom, and then up to the middle and then back out and man, this is really HOT!, and then more foot into water and then foot ALL THE WAY IN THE WATER and then foot totally back out of the water (and should it be that red? Look how not red the other foot is? What does it look like when you give your foot third degree burns?) and finally the right foot all the way in, and then the left foot all the way in and SERIOUSLY, THAT IS SUPER HOT WATER!…” Once the feet were both in the water we left them there for 10 minutes. I believe this was either to clean the feet or to soften them up or season them to seal in all the juices for when we grilled them over an open flame. Either way it smelled nice.
Afterward her Highness had a tub of stuff that looked like diaper rash cream but smelled like sun tan lotion. It was a cocoa butter stuff, and we rubbed it into the feet. At first I was freaked out because no matter how much I rubbed and rubbed and RUBBED the feet still felt gooey. I have always had a problem with moisturizers because of the gooey feeling. But being experienced, she sensed my freak-out and calmed me and made me STOP WITH THE RUBBING. It will soak in. Yes it will. Trust me. Deep breathes. Seriously, could you show me your uterus just for a second?… just checking.
Then we had to pick a color and The Queen had several to chose from. At first I went straight for the exact color she, and I, and anybody who knows me, would have expected, which was this super-pale pink, almost not a color at all. But at the last second I went nuts! Went for a real pink! A Mauve, in fact! (I really was swayed by the name of the color, and I don’t remember anymore what the color was. It was “SOMETHING mauve”, like “Magical Mauve” or “Maniac Mauve” or “Make-Me-Seem-Girly Mauve” Hopefully The Queen will remember the name and put it in the comments. HINT!) Lookit me, and more specifically my toes: See? I’m a GIRL!
So the last part was, of course, the actual painting of the toes. She was an artist. Colored totally within the lines, and when she DID have a rebel blob of polish she had this whole trick with polish remover and a Q-Tip and everything… I watched, but I don’t think I could fly solo even with all the watching I did. So now I have to figure out something I can do for her periodically in return for the future fancy nail polishing I plan to ask her for. Maybe set the time on her VCR or open a jar of pickles. Manly stuff.
Yes, that’s right. I said it. I’ve never painted my toenails. Or at least in my memory I’ve never painted my toenails. (which frankly, with my memory, means I’ve not painted my toenails since last I slept. Memory is hard.)
So lucky me, I have The Queen to help me with all things girly. For she is knowledgable and experienced in the ways of the girl. She wears make-up and does things all a-fancy with her hair (colors and the like) and wears pretty shoes AND she paints toenails! Perfect! Plus, as an added bonus, she already knows that I was born without most of the girl stuff (To CLARIFY: Girl PARTS = yes. Girl STUFF = not so much.) and accepts me anyway and doesn’t judge me when I never use moisturizing goo on my face and instead let it get all chapped.
(Well, doesn’t judge me very much. It’s just a thing for her is all. But if I never wear earrings? No judgment! I’m pretty sure no judgment. Very little judgment.)
So I went to The Queen and told her that I thought that it would be a super idea if she painted my toenails. And amazingly enough, she AGREED! What’s more, she took the spirit of the event to the next level and combined it with a chick flick and a whole girls night thing and it was so danged girly that the room was thick with estrogen and smelled like perfume and lingerie and diet soda!
And can I just say thank GOD that she was there to walk me though this, because there was way more to this then I knew. I mostly figured if I went to her she’d help me with the three things I was not equipped to handle:
- Having nail polish (as I have none and she has more than none)
- Picking a color (does it have to match your socks? Do you change it for the outfits? Confusing!)
- Reaching my toes (I do NOT want to talk about it.)
First we put fancy powders into big bowls of hot (sorry, meant that to be HOT!) water and put our feet into the big bowls of HOT! water. Which is not exactly the thing – for her it was “and put our feet into the big bowl of HOT! water.” For me it was “put my foot in, and then out, and then just the bottom, and then up to the middle and then back out and man, this is really HOT!, and then more foot into water and then foot ALL THE WAY IN THE WATER and then foot totally back out of the water (and should it be that red? Look how not red the other foot is? What does it look like when you give your foot third degree burns?) and finally the right foot all the way in, and then the left foot all the way in and SERIOUSLY, THAT IS SUPER HOT WATER!…” Once the feet were both in the water we left them there for 10 minutes. I believe this was either to clean the feet or to soften them up or season them to seal in all the juices for when we grilled them over an open flame. Either way it smelled nice.
Afterward her Highness had a tub of stuff that looked like diaper rash cream but smelled like sun tan lotion. It was a cocoa butter stuff, and we rubbed it into the feet. At first I was freaked out because no matter how much I rubbed and rubbed and RUBBED the feet still felt gooey. I have always had a problem with moisturizers because of the gooey feeling. But being experienced, she sensed my freak-out and calmed me and made me STOP WITH THE RUBBING. It will soak in. Yes it will. Trust me. Deep breathes. Seriously, could you show me your uterus just for a second?… just checking.
Then we had to pick a color and The Queen had several to chose from. At first I went straight for the exact color she, and I, and anybody who knows me, would have expected, which was this super-pale pink, almost not a color at all. But at the last second I went nuts! Went for a real pink! A Mauve, in fact! (I really was swayed by the name of the color, and I don’t remember anymore what the color was. It was “SOMETHING mauve”, like “Magical Mauve” or “Maniac Mauve” or “Make-Me-Seem-Girly Mauve” Hopefully The Queen will remember the name and put it in the comments. HINT!) Lookit me, and more specifically my toes: See? I’m a GIRL!
So the last part was, of course, the actual painting of the toes. She was an artist. Colored totally within the lines, and when she DID have a rebel blob of polish she had this whole trick with polish remover and a Q-Tip and everything… I watched, but I don’t think I could fly solo even with all the watching I did. So now I have to figure out something I can do for her periodically in return for the future fancy nail polishing I plan to ask her for. Maybe set the time on her VCR or open a jar of pickles. Manly stuff.
Friday, May 23, 2008
I am Shiva, the Destroyer!
I have stories for you, my peoples. STORIES!
I am a RABBLE ROUSER!
I am an INSTIGATOR!
I am a HIRED ASSASIN!
(I am also pretty amped. Sorry about that.)
I am loathe to ever blog about my work (having learned at the knee of the wise and powerful Dooce/Heather Robinson) but so overflowy am I with energy I must, MUST share with you. So I’ll just be super vague.
Basically there was a problem here at the office with a boss-ish-type person who was wreaking havoc and being generally more of a problem than a solution, and I roused the rabbles into action! I said (in a dramatic and awe-inspiring tone, which should have had some reverb if there were any justice in the world) that we’d had enough and that something had to be done and that we were the ones to do it! That it was the right thing to do and no better time than TODAY!! That we had nothing to fear but fear itself (which I totally made up myself, but do plan to stitch onto a throw pillow)! That my uncle had a barn, and I had a box of costumes, and hey, let’s do the play right here!!
I should probably consider it a bad thing that I get very jazzed by these kinds of moments. Where others get nervous and flitty and sweaty-of-palm, I find these moments, when the goal seems righteous and the battle noble, to be so enervating! We went to the powers that be and had our smooth, clear, concise say and they listened and they praised our smoothness and our clarity and our concisity (or whatever) and I honestly think they’re going to follow our suggested solution!
I just really like being presented with a wrong and charging into battle to right it. I think I need a dragon and a great, big sword. Don’t you think I’d look completely right on a dragon? And also with a sword? And I need a noble crest with a lion on one side (signifying how I’m lion-hearted and fearless and ferocious!) and a big, flapping mouth on the other side (signifying how I have no idea when to shut up and think that I can say just about anything and sell it, no matter how TOTALLY WRONG a thing it is to say), and with the words “Bring it, Betches!!” in latin (except “betches” probably doesn’t need to be translated because it’s universal). The crest would be purple (stands for purity), red (stands for passion) and white (stands for the creamy filling in a Twinkie. Mmmmmm, pure, passionate twinkie…..) and have wings in the corners to show how free of fear I am AND a parachute or big net to show how afraid of heights I am and also POLAR BEARS BECAUSE THEY ARE SO COOL!
(if someone actually creates a crest for me with these things and sends me the image I will send them a prize. I honestly will. AND I’ll add the crest to the blog. AND THE PRIZE WILL BE COOL! POLAR BEAR COOL!)
Bottom line of all this is that who needs a partner when I’m so amazing and valiant and brave AND humble AND jazzy (my tap teacher even said so last night! I’m jazzy!) and any dude who might come along and think him my equal would have a MIGHTY BIG DRAGON to measure up to!
(also if you have someone who is messing with you? Call me, I’ll totally take ‘em down.)
(and if you, yourself, are a big old bully or such you should LOOK OUT, because I’m comin’ for you.)
(and finally, where do you go to get a super hero outfit? With no cape, of course – they make my butt look big.)
I am a RABBLE ROUSER!
I am an INSTIGATOR!
I am a HIRED ASSASIN!
(I am also pretty amped. Sorry about that.)
I am loathe to ever blog about my work (having learned at the knee of the wise and powerful Dooce/Heather Robinson) but so overflowy am I with energy I must, MUST share with you. So I’ll just be super vague.
Basically there was a problem here at the office with a boss-ish-type person who was wreaking havoc and being generally more of a problem than a solution, and I roused the rabbles into action! I said (in a dramatic and awe-inspiring tone, which should have had some reverb if there were any justice in the world) that we’d had enough and that something had to be done and that we were the ones to do it! That it was the right thing to do and no better time than TODAY!! That we had nothing to fear but fear itself (which I totally made up myself, but do plan to stitch onto a throw pillow)! That my uncle had a barn, and I had a box of costumes, and hey, let’s do the play right here!!
I should probably consider it a bad thing that I get very jazzed by these kinds of moments. Where others get nervous and flitty and sweaty-of-palm, I find these moments, when the goal seems righteous and the battle noble, to be so enervating! We went to the powers that be and had our smooth, clear, concise say and they listened and they praised our smoothness and our clarity and our concisity (or whatever) and I honestly think they’re going to follow our suggested solution!
I just really like being presented with a wrong and charging into battle to right it. I think I need a dragon and a great, big sword. Don’t you think I’d look completely right on a dragon? And also with a sword? And I need a noble crest with a lion on one side (signifying how I’m lion-hearted and fearless and ferocious!) and a big, flapping mouth on the other side (signifying how I have no idea when to shut up and think that I can say just about anything and sell it, no matter how TOTALLY WRONG a thing it is to say), and with the words “Bring it, Betches!!” in latin (except “betches” probably doesn’t need to be translated because it’s universal). The crest would be purple (stands for purity), red (stands for passion) and white (stands for the creamy filling in a Twinkie. Mmmmmm, pure, passionate twinkie…..) and have wings in the corners to show how free of fear I am AND a parachute or big net to show how afraid of heights I am and also POLAR BEARS BECAUSE THEY ARE SO COOL!
(if someone actually creates a crest for me with these things and sends me the image I will send them a prize. I honestly will. AND I’ll add the crest to the blog. AND THE PRIZE WILL BE COOL! POLAR BEAR COOL!)
Bottom line of all this is that who needs a partner when I’m so amazing and valiant and brave AND humble AND jazzy (my tap teacher even said so last night! I’m jazzy!) and any dude who might come along and think him my equal would have a MIGHTY BIG DRAGON to measure up to!
(also if you have someone who is messing with you? Call me, I’ll totally take ‘em down.)
(and if you, yourself, are a big old bully or such you should LOOK OUT, because I’m comin’ for you.)
(and finally, where do you go to get a super hero outfit? With no cape, of course – they make my butt look big.)
Monday, May 19, 2008
Act Five: The Family Tastic!
OK, so I know I started this last week and there were supposed to be 5 acts and there were only 4 and hey, what the heck happened to act 5 please? And I already knew what the fifth act was because oh look, I actually named it at the end of Act 4 so you’d really think that I knew what the hell I was doing!
But what you don’t know is that I started Act 5 several times. Bunches of times, in fact. I thought this would be the easiest one because it’s the one I know the best: my family! And yet SO HARD!
I started it and I’d write about fun things that happened with the family but they were already covered by games or food or WHALES! and I couldn’t figure out what the heck my point was. Which is dumb, because it’s only my point. It’s not like I’m being graded here – make your point, Femmie! Only when other blog posts began backing up behind this one, which refused to be written, could I really look at this question and see the problem. Which is this: it’s not about what I do with my family or stories of family fun times. It’s about the pure, magical excellence of just BEING with my family. Unfettered, uncomplicated, unobstructed family time.
OK, like this: I often take naps during the coast weekend. Naps right there amidst the fun and food and all, with people milling about and noise and singing STUFF. Because to me there is no better sleep in the world than sleeping in a room full of people. Your people. The weekend in the coast is like spending three days snuggled up on the bed of grown-up coats at a holiday party. Three days of just knowing that everything is ok and will be until you have to re-pack the car and go back to the real world.
I know to enjoy one’s own family so much is lunacy akin to naked power-walking over broken glass for most people. This lunacy has been my whole life and I’m super-jazzed that I get to watch the next couple of generations growing up being the same odd ducks with their friends. Forever will the family Tastic be those crazy people who enthusiastically spend days hanging out with their family members and hooray for us!
And thus endeth, AT LAST, Act 5! Back to our regularly, un-schmaltzy, even acerbic blog posts. Pardon the gush, y’all!
{OK, I know that this didn't actually hit the web until Wednesday, but I wrote it on Monday, but then there was this thing and also some other stuff and I THOUGHT it was all up and posted and "yay! done!" and then here I was looking at this post calling itself Act 5 but being a draft and ummmmmm... what? So I don't know what happened, but I'm still posting this on Monday. Hmph!}
But what you don’t know is that I started Act 5 several times. Bunches of times, in fact. I thought this would be the easiest one because it’s the one I know the best: my family! And yet SO HARD!
I started it and I’d write about fun things that happened with the family but they were already covered by games or food or WHALES! and I couldn’t figure out what the heck my point was. Which is dumb, because it’s only my point. It’s not like I’m being graded here – make your point, Femmie! Only when other blog posts began backing up behind this one, which refused to be written, could I really look at this question and see the problem. Which is this: it’s not about what I do with my family or stories of family fun times. It’s about the pure, magical excellence of just BEING with my family. Unfettered, uncomplicated, unobstructed family time.
OK, like this: I often take naps during the coast weekend. Naps right there amidst the fun and food and all, with people milling about and noise and singing STUFF. Because to me there is no better sleep in the world than sleeping in a room full of people. Your people. The weekend in the coast is like spending three days snuggled up on the bed of grown-up coats at a holiday party. Three days of just knowing that everything is ok and will be until you have to re-pack the car and go back to the real world.
I know to enjoy one’s own family so much is lunacy akin to naked power-walking over broken glass for most people. This lunacy has been my whole life and I’m super-jazzed that I get to watch the next couple of generations growing up being the same odd ducks with their friends. Forever will the family Tastic be those crazy people who enthusiastically spend days hanging out with their family members and hooray for us!
And thus endeth, AT LAST, Act 5! Back to our regularly, un-schmaltzy, even acerbic blog posts. Pardon the gush, y’all!
{OK, I know that this didn't actually hit the web until Wednesday, but I wrote it on Monday, but then there was this thing and also some other stuff and I THOUGHT it was all up and posted and "yay! done!" and then here I was looking at this post calling itself Act 5 but being a draft and ummmmmm... what? So I don't know what happened, but I'm still posting this on Monday. Hmph!}
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Act Four: Call Me Ishmael…
One of the things I most love about the beach by our beach house (and therefore I call it “OUR beach” because really it is) is that it often has whales. Honest to goodness whales. For those of you not recognizing the term, whales are hugely-huge water beasties which are largely considered to be both some of the most awesome things ever earth-invented and also sweet and amazing and everybody who knows whales love whales. And I know whales, and I REALLY love that each year we have excellent whale potentials at our beach! This year we had hints of whale here and there, but nothing to compare to the great whale extravaganza of ought-five. Oh such whales did we see that year! They were not just spouting, but also tail slapping and breaching and waving “howdy peoples in the beach house!” with their shiny little fins! (and by “little” I mean probably as long as me. And by fins I mean… well gosh, I sure hope it was a fin…) There is no better family for such whale shows as my family, because we respond like a circus crowd! We just lose our shtuff! Here is the normal process for whale-siting amongst the Tastic clan:
- One eagle-eyed family members sees something on the horizon and shouts the traditional ‘I’ve seen a whale’ call, of “Spout!”, accompanied by spastically pointing out to the ocean. In case any of the group thought that maybe the spouting whale was on the beach, or maybe sitting on the deck or doing the dishes.
- There’s a mad dash for the various pairs of binoculars all over the dining room table (or for me, I grab my camera and trusty zoom lens. Taking a moment now to reflect on how much I love my camera. And trusty zoom lens. …) and everyone starts scanning the ocean for plumes. And the one who saw it initially starts trying to explain where we should be looking. It normally sounds something like this:
- “OK, so you see on the dune out there, where it points up? No, right there, where there’s the point-up, kind of like a look pointy point? No, to the right of that. More,… more,… ok, so now look right over that pointy point and to the right, and maybe ½-way to the horizon… see it? See it? Anyone see it? Well no, it’s not spouting right now, but if it were you’d totally see it!”
- Eventually there’s a new spout and cheers of “FLOOOM!!!!” and now the hunt is ON!
- With each new spout there’s new cheering. Better yet, when there are multiple whales we go CRAZY! We’re better than free-beer and liquid cheese night at the small-town ballpark! Clapping, hooting, happy-spouting-whale dances… good times!
This year, with the general lack of verified whale sitings we tried to recreate our enthusiasm with a pair of brown bunnies who would pop their heads up somewhere on the dunes between house and beach. And so desperate were we for wildlife adventures we’d all lose our minds with “Bunny! Bunny! Brown bunny, there on the grass! There! There! THEEERRREEEE!!!!” We even chased one poor bunny from the back deck to the carport in front and back around. (although you can’t really say we chased it because it got away from us almost immediately, was never actually seen in the carport (and probably never even came to the front of the house) and we were mostly just ‘chasing’ phantom bunnies. Wishing secretly in our heart of hearts that they were whales. But anyway.)
...tomorrow: The Family Tastic...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Act Three: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…
What to do when Mamala Nature takes mother’s day weekend off and leaves you with wet-blanket and terminal killjoy aunt Rainy Pants? I already mentioned games, and also puzzles, and for some there was great joy to be found in the foozball table in the back family room. But when all else fails: FOOOOOD.
But allow me to back-peddle to the weekend before our coast trip, to the entire family sitting around planning the “who brings what” portion of the trip so as to make sure that we do not repeat the ‘weekend of being smothered to deathly death by pile upon pile of TP Rolls while simultaneously having no dish soap or garbage bags (with which we could have fought off the hordes of TP rolls I’m sure!)’ of 2005. And in that conversation we assigned snacks. ASSIGNED SNACKS. Because somebody actually decided that there was some kind of badness to fear from having not one but MANY bags of Lays thick cut potato chips or a MULTITUDE of cookie-foods or some possibility that our weekend would eat up all of the peanuts in the peanut-eating free world.
I understand the planning for the necessities, but let snacks be free, people, chosen of the whim of the shopper as they wander down the aisles of movie candy or crackers or even snacky fruit! One man’s trail mix is another man’s “Thank God I brought a one gallon carton of cheddar cheese goldfish!”
And so, despite our attempts to control and limit and impose our will on the snacks when the weekend arrived the balance of the munchie-consuming world was returned with each non-sanctioned additional back of cheese-powder-covered pretzels and cheap, generic, but still scrumptious bags of “orange slices” candy that was pulled from various bags and bundles!
All these snacks were in ADDITION to the fabulous meals already planned for the weekend. We attack both dinners (Friday and Saturday nights) with small, united forces of family clumps. “you guys are making a burrito bar with nachos and big, mexi salad on Friday while WE make chicken picata, with extra many and extra HOOGE capers and bread and veggies and pasta and CAPERS on Saturday” and hey, pass me that bag of grapes and the dark chocolate M&Ms please!
And lest we forget the culinary star of the weekend/show: the mother’s day breakfast/brunch, which is planned out by all the non-moms (or really is SUPPOSED to be planned out by the non-moms, but it’s just super hard for moms to not get involved! I believe it will be necessary to strap our various moms down in chairs in order to let the kids, dads and assorted non-mothers to do their things completely w/out help.) This year much was made of the need to reel things in a little bit, on account of this thing we were gonna do on the way home and which would require our bugging out early. AND YET still the mother’s day morning feast was eggs made ON DEMAND (as in “I’d like 2 eggs over easy and my friend here will have like scrambled with cheese and these seven dwarves will have seven petite omelets!”) PLUS fresh-baked pecan rolls and croissants and fruit salad and home-baked bread toast and fancy breakfast meat! Never ending, non-stop breakfast foods of good and glorious and WANTON abandon. And a happy mother’s day to you mothers you! And a non nom nom NOMMY NOMMY NOM!
And then maybe? Chocolate-covered orange slice pretzels dipped in cheese-powder and ranch dressing as a post-brunch SNACK!
May 15, 10:47am, edited to add: ALL HAIL THE FANCY BREAKFAST MEATS! I have pined for their bacony, brown-sugary majesty ever since writing this last night. Now I nom, nom, nom my own hand and wish it were fancy breakfast meat. I'll never make it to next May...
…tomorrow: Call Me Ishmael…
But allow me to back-peddle to the weekend before our coast trip, to the entire family sitting around planning the “who brings what” portion of the trip so as to make sure that we do not repeat the ‘weekend of being smothered to deathly death by pile upon pile of TP Rolls while simultaneously having no dish soap or garbage bags (with which we could have fought off the hordes of TP rolls I’m sure!)’ of 2005. And in that conversation we assigned snacks. ASSIGNED SNACKS. Because somebody actually decided that there was some kind of badness to fear from having not one but MANY bags of Lays thick cut potato chips or a MULTITUDE of cookie-foods or some possibility that our weekend would eat up all of the peanuts in the peanut-eating free world.
I understand the planning for the necessities, but let snacks be free, people, chosen of the whim of the shopper as they wander down the aisles of movie candy or crackers or even snacky fruit! One man’s trail mix is another man’s “Thank God I brought a one gallon carton of cheddar cheese goldfish!”
And so, despite our attempts to control and limit and impose our will on the snacks when the weekend arrived the balance of the munchie-consuming world was returned with each non-sanctioned additional back of cheese-powder-covered pretzels and cheap, generic, but still scrumptious bags of “orange slices” candy that was pulled from various bags and bundles!
All these snacks were in ADDITION to the fabulous meals already planned for the weekend. We attack both dinners (Friday and Saturday nights) with small, united forces of family clumps. “you guys are making a burrito bar with nachos and big, mexi salad on Friday while WE make chicken picata, with extra many and extra HOOGE capers and bread and veggies and pasta and CAPERS on Saturday” and hey, pass me that bag of grapes and the dark chocolate M&Ms please!
And lest we forget the culinary star of the weekend/show: the mother’s day breakfast/brunch, which is planned out by all the non-moms (or really is SUPPOSED to be planned out by the non-moms, but it’s just super hard for moms to not get involved! I believe it will be necessary to strap our various moms down in chairs in order to let the kids, dads and assorted non-mothers to do their things completely w/out help.) This year much was made of the need to reel things in a little bit, on account of this thing we were gonna do on the way home and which would require our bugging out early. AND YET still the mother’s day morning feast was eggs made ON DEMAND (as in “I’d like 2 eggs over easy and my friend here will have like scrambled with cheese and these seven dwarves will have seven petite omelets!”) PLUS fresh-baked pecan rolls and croissants and fruit salad and home-baked bread toast and fancy breakfast meat! Never ending, non-stop breakfast foods of good and glorious and WANTON abandon. And a happy mother’s day to you mothers you! And a non nom nom NOMMY NOMMY NOM!
And then maybe? Chocolate-covered orange slice pretzels dipped in cheese-powder and ranch dressing as a post-brunch SNACK!
May 15, 10:47am, edited to add: ALL HAIL THE FANCY BREAKFAST MEATS! I have pined for their bacony, brown-sugary majesty ever since writing this last night. Now I nom, nom, nom my own hand and wish it were fancy breakfast meat. I'll never make it to next May...
…tomorrow: Call Me Ishmael…
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Act Two: The Games Beach People Play...
OK, so once you get past all the “Wow, we’re at the coast and look there, that’s just a BUNCH of ocean right there is what all that is!” you come to “we gotta do SOMETHIN’ in our faboo beach house!” and also we are a people who love games. We love “you sunk my battleship!” games or “Gin!” games but we also love “super-complex-takes-30-minutes-just-to-comprehend-the-rules-but-SO-MUCH-FUN” games. And right now my special games-loving place has a massive thing-crush for this new concept: collaborative games.
These would be games where instead of it being me against you and you against him and us against them, it’s the players against the game. It’s good against evil. It’s humanity versus evil plagues of deathly-bad-pustulishy-boils and fatal hiccups and gas of death. Which are things you’d want to be against, right? And so finally when I and my favorite people all sit down to play something we get to be nice and friendly and collegial while playing the game the way it’s intended to be played! Genius!
Many games were played during our coast trip, as is always the way. But the two big events were both collaborative games of excellence: Pandemic (which is way more fun than you’d normally expect a pandemic to be!) and Shadows Over Camelot, where my Dad got to REALLY EXPLORE his inner King Arthur! Long story short, all of humanity was wiped out by three nasty plagues (sorry about that – our bad.) but the next night we found the Holy Grail, pulled Excalibur from that bitch in the water and just generally reminded the universe that though Might does not make Right, Knights make KICK ASS, BEOTCHES!!! As a bonus, we got to justifiably use phrases like ‘forsooth!” and “what ho!” and “my liege!” and if I’d had a jerken or cod piece to sport that night I totally would have!
Those that weren’t up for battling Black Nights and speedily-reproducing viruses jumped all over the puzzling portion of the weekend. We laid waste to not one but TWO 1000-piece puzzles because THAT IS HOW WE DO, MY PEOPLE! We are puzzling fiends, and I’m about to tell you the secret: (are you ready? Here it comes!) box lids. Lots and lots of box lids. We horde them in my family – not a single Omaha Steaks box or Avery labels box lid ever goes to waste around here, I assure you – but if you have to you go ahead and steal the tops of every other games box you own because what you want is a different box for every section of the puzzle!
You’re going through the pieces looking for those yellow/orange pieces of dirt road and rice crispies but you sure are finding a lot of the pieces from the giant mouse butt, as well as all that fuzzy, green border that looks like that sweater you hate, so you might as well throw those into their own box as you come across them, right? And that way when someone new comes up to help you can say to them “gosh, you could work on the giant mouse butt. It’s in that box right there.” (because you’ve got dibs on green sweater border, of course.) Sure, there’s a certain amount of turf disputes in our puzzling sometimes, but it’s not a game, people! (those are in the living room, with the people wearing the hazmat suits with built-in cod pieces. And also and by the way, HUZZAH!)
…tomorrow: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…
These would be games where instead of it being me against you and you against him and us against them, it’s the players against the game. It’s good against evil. It’s humanity versus evil plagues of deathly-bad-pustulishy-boils and fatal hiccups and gas of death. Which are things you’d want to be against, right? And so finally when I and my favorite people all sit down to play something we get to be nice and friendly and collegial while playing the game the way it’s intended to be played! Genius!
Many games were played during our coast trip, as is always the way. But the two big events were both collaborative games of excellence: Pandemic (which is way more fun than you’d normally expect a pandemic to be!) and Shadows Over Camelot, where my Dad got to REALLY EXPLORE his inner King Arthur! Long story short, all of humanity was wiped out by three nasty plagues (sorry about that – our bad.) but the next night we found the Holy Grail, pulled Excalibur from that bitch in the water and just generally reminded the universe that though Might does not make Right, Knights make KICK ASS, BEOTCHES!!! As a bonus, we got to justifiably use phrases like ‘forsooth!” and “what ho!” and “my liege!” and if I’d had a jerken or cod piece to sport that night I totally would have!
Those that weren’t up for battling Black Nights and speedily-reproducing viruses jumped all over the puzzling portion of the weekend. We laid waste to not one but TWO 1000-piece puzzles because THAT IS HOW WE DO, MY PEOPLE! We are puzzling fiends, and I’m about to tell you the secret: (are you ready? Here it comes!) box lids. Lots and lots of box lids. We horde them in my family – not a single Omaha Steaks box or Avery labels box lid ever goes to waste around here, I assure you – but if you have to you go ahead and steal the tops of every other games box you own because what you want is a different box for every section of the puzzle!
You’re going through the pieces looking for those yellow/orange pieces of dirt road and rice crispies but you sure are finding a lot of the pieces from the giant mouse butt, as well as all that fuzzy, green border that looks like that sweater you hate, so you might as well throw those into their own box as you come across them, right? And that way when someone new comes up to help you can say to them “gosh, you could work on the giant mouse butt. It’s in that box right there.” (because you’ve got dibs on green sweater border, of course.) Sure, there’s a certain amount of turf disputes in our puzzling sometimes, but it’s not a game, people! (those are in the living room, with the people wearing the hazmat suits with built-in cod pieces. And also and by the way, HUZZAH!)…tomorrow: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…
Monday, May 12, 2008
Mother's Day at the Coast: A Play in 5 Acts...
Prologue
OK, so every year my family cruises over to this rental beach house for Mother’s Day Weekend and we stay there through Friday and Saturday and most of Sunday. There are roughly 16 to 18 of us, give or take, and we have some specific goals each year:
Act One: Photo Phun with the Cool Cousin
I drove over to the beach house (a drive of about 2 hours) with my super-cool cousin. She’s more like a niece, in that she’s almost 20 years younger than I am, but then there’s that pesky fact that her parents are my aunt and uncle, thereby demanding that she be my cousin. There are rules, people.
Anyway, cool cousin (we’ll call her Pepe. She knows why) got into photography after the gifting of a grandparent’s very nice film camera when she graduated from high school and ever since she and I occasionally run off for fun-camera-artsy-adventure-stuff-day-things. Friday afternoon we hit the road and when we reached ocean views we started hunting for cool photo opps. We wanted tide pools, which we found, but we discovered that there were pretty much all under many, many feet of ocean. Some crazy thing about a “high Tide” which I’m pretty sure is environmentalist propaganda to keep nature all to themselves.
Eventually we found some excellent tide pool action amidst all this dramatic lava rock and we climbed hither and flan looking for “that magic shot”. (I never found magic – mostly the photo equivalent of pulling a quarter out of nature’s ear or a ninja smoke bomb) At one moment I was suddenly struck with the COMPLETE STUPIDITY of my clambering over these rocks, my most beloved camera (which I love and have GREAT love for and also wove-wove-wove and would marry if they’d let me) hanging around my neck, just asking for that moment where I trip and HULK SMASH on my precious big lens. Not to MENTION the constant threat of huge ocean waves crashing all over these rocks every 30 seconds, waiting for me to look the other way so that they could sneak up on me and swallow me up WITH THE MOST BELOVED CAMERA. If
I’d ever found photo magic I know it would have been worth it, but since I didn’t it was just temporary insanity.
But it was fun, and I did pull that photo-quarter from nature’s ear, and nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
…tomorrow: the games beach people play…
OK, so every year my family cruises over to this rental beach house for Mother’s Day Weekend and we stay there through Friday and Saturday and most of Sunday. There are roughly 16 to 18 of us, give or take, and we have some specific goals each year:
- eat
- play games with gamey abandon
- seriously, eat
- puzzles, puzzles, puzzles, PUZZLES, puzzles!
- inhale junk food like it’s about to become prohibitive
- optimistically hope for the view of a whale, any whale, out at sea
- hey, are you going to eat that? (yeah, me too)
Act One: Photo Phun with the Cool Cousin
I drove over to the beach house (a drive of about 2 hours) with my super-cool cousin. She’s more like a niece, in that she’s almost 20 years younger than I am, but then there’s that pesky fact that her parents are my aunt and uncle, thereby demanding that she be my cousin. There are rules, people.
Anyway, cool cousin (we’ll call her Pepe. She knows why) got into photography after the gifting of a grandparent’s very nice film camera when she graduated from high school and ever since she and I occasionally run off for fun-camera-artsy-adventure-stuff-day-things. Friday afternoon we hit the road and when we reached ocean views we started hunting for cool photo opps. We wanted tide pools, which we found, but we discovered that there were pretty much all under many, many feet of ocean. Some crazy thing about a “high Tide” which I’m pretty sure is environmentalist propaganda to keep nature all to themselves.
Eventually we found some excellent tide pool action amidst all this dramatic lava rock and we climbed hither and flan looking for “that magic shot”. (I never found magic – mostly the photo equivalent of pulling a quarter out of nature’s ear or a ninja smoke bomb) At one moment I was suddenly struck with the COMPLETE STUPIDITY of my clambering over these rocks, my most beloved camera (which I love and have GREAT love for and also wove-wove-wove and would marry if they’d let me) hanging around my neck, just asking for that moment where I trip and HULK SMASH on my precious big lens. Not to MENTION the constant threat of huge ocean waves crashing all over these rocks every 30 seconds, waiting for me to look the other way so that they could sneak up on me and swallow me up WITH THE MOST BELOVED CAMERA. If
I’d ever found photo magic I know it would have been worth it, but since I didn’t it was just temporary insanity.But it was fun, and I did pull that photo-quarter from nature’s ear, and nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
…tomorrow: the games beach people play…
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Perspective A-New
So there’s this one chick here at work who I think is super-cool. I mean SOOOOOPER COOL. I have a bit of a girl crush on her, and whenever she comes to my office (from her cool office in another building which is cooler than this building if only because she’s rocking that building regularly) everybody around here gets some second-hand cool too. She’s cool like that. I will call her Joette Cool.
She’s cool also because she’s single, like me, and that is rare around here. The only other single people within cat-whacking distance of me in this place are the 16-yr old student intern and a bitter divorcee who wears make-up like Madonna from the 80’s, is almost 10 months into her “change of life” and normally goes to bed at 8:30pm. So I love having at least one other single grown-up with coolness to spare around sometimes. Like we’re the first two members of some single-girl book club, only with less books and more being cool. The "Being Cool and not Really Reading Much in the Way of Books" Club.
Anyway, JC (Joette Cool) came in the other day with an iceberg on her finger like that what sank the Titanic! A rock like that what is forever being pushed by Sisyphus! A new, shiny, FABULOUS best friend riding around on her hand! Some smart dude snatched her up forever and ever, amen, and I couldn’t be happier for her (although I guess I won’t be confessing on my girl crush now!). She was telling the story of how he proposed (took her out to the restaurant where they had their first date, popped the question at the end of the meal, even got down on one knee, no report on whether they still had dessert or not, I’ll keep you posted) and how they took a trip to Denmark, from which he comes, so that she could meet the ‘rents and how there’s now talk of house buying and everything.
Somebody asked how they met, and guess what? ONLINE DATING/MATING/MEET YOUR SPECIAL SOMEONE WEBSITE! I won’t say the name, since someone there might be innocent, so instead we’ll call it E-Melody. (Get it? Get it? How amused am I with my own self? SO AMUSED!) Now I think I’m going to have to come up with a feasible excuse for she and I to go have lunch one of these days (which is only weird because we’ve NEVER, EVER DONE THAT and I’m mostly the admin girl with whom she banters so hiply in this office and who knows, she might not think I’m cool at ALL! AWKWARD…) so I can prick her brain on how someone as cool as she went through E-BunchOfPeopleSingingSimilarNotes and met someone and didn’t feel dorky or desperate and even found a marriable fellow.
Oh, and one more thing? Bitter Divorce says she could never, EVER do an online datey-matey website. She's too precious to do that. So Uber-Cool chick get engaged via online datey-matey and worst possible version of single me is too good for them.
I think I might have to re-evaluate things just a little...
She’s cool also because she’s single, like me, and that is rare around here. The only other single people within cat-whacking distance of me in this place are the 16-yr old student intern and a bitter divorcee who wears make-up like Madonna from the 80’s, is almost 10 months into her “change of life” and normally goes to bed at 8:30pm. So I love having at least one other single grown-up with coolness to spare around sometimes. Like we’re the first two members of some single-girl book club, only with less books and more being cool. The "Being Cool and not Really Reading Much in the Way of Books" Club.
Anyway, JC (Joette Cool) came in the other day with an iceberg on her finger like that what sank the Titanic! A rock like that what is forever being pushed by Sisyphus! A new, shiny, FABULOUS best friend riding around on her hand! Some smart dude snatched her up forever and ever, amen, and I couldn’t be happier for her (although I guess I won’t be confessing on my girl crush now!). She was telling the story of how he proposed (took her out to the restaurant where they had their first date, popped the question at the end of the meal, even got down on one knee, no report on whether they still had dessert or not, I’ll keep you posted) and how they took a trip to Denmark, from which he comes, so that she could meet the ‘rents and how there’s now talk of house buying and everything.
Somebody asked how they met, and guess what? ONLINE DATING/MATING/MEET YOUR SPECIAL SOMEONE WEBSITE! I won’t say the name, since someone there might be innocent, so instead we’ll call it E-Melody. (Get it? Get it? How amused am I with my own self? SO AMUSED!) Now I think I’m going to have to come up with a feasible excuse for she and I to go have lunch one of these days (which is only weird because we’ve NEVER, EVER DONE THAT and I’m mostly the admin girl with whom she banters so hiply in this office and who knows, she might not think I’m cool at ALL! AWKWARD…) so I can prick her brain on how someone as cool as she went through E-BunchOfPeopleSingingSimilarNotes and met someone and didn’t feel dorky or desperate and even found a marriable fellow.
Oh, and one more thing? Bitter Divorce says she could never, EVER do an online datey-matey website. She's too precious to do that. So Uber-Cool chick get engaged via online datey-matey and worst possible version of single me is too good for them.
I think I might have to re-evaluate things just a little...
Monday, May 05, 2008
V-V-V-Vacation
Hey, know where I was? I was on VACATION! WOO HOO!!! And that’s the main reason that I’ve been so quiet. I was off somewhere doing relaxing things and I have no portable computerness. My only computer is plugged into my office and doesn’t travel, so while I was away the blog was quiet. (Right, because it’s been SO very vocal before that. Man, I suck so terribly that Dyson is trying to use me as the prototype for his next fancy Vacuum. Vooooooooommm.)
I've started to explain the vacation, but really it's the kind of thing that was cool for me (and the parents – they came too) but simply boring to anyone but me. In a nutshell, here are the highlights of my few days off:
-fairies in sculpted tu-tus and combat boots who were FEEE-RCE!
-masseuse turned gambler turned thief turned Buddhist monk
-the best basement cuisine west of the rockies
-floppy beach hats and shoes that were on sale, SALE for $80.
-a quick primer on “good luck!” and other things you DON’T say in a theater.
There was this one shop that we visited, which was a classic example of a place stocked by the world’s most excellent catalog shoppers. Pinecone Christmas ornaments hanging side-by-side with fancy art-puppets next to Asian scarves and bags and purses piled up with carved camels and spooky cat gargoyles and this amazingly lifelike sleeping dog, who it turned out was a real and soft and fluffy and super, SUPER mellow sleeping dog. Or possibly dead dog. But I’m rooting for super mellow and sleeping. This place also had these cool singing and dancing bowls. You fill them with water and rub the handles and they moan and groan, and the water dances and it’s just cool! It’s probably the closest I'll ever get to being Zen is with these dancing water bowls. Of course as is the case with all things Zen, it’s Zpendy. (couldn’t resist.)
Anyway, I’m back and all refreshed and springy and light on my feet and my fingers and it’s with this energy that I will rededicate myself to this blog at which I have tremendously sucked recently. Watch this space! SEE how I let you down once again! Watch as I faceplant all over my promises to be better! Or maybe? Maybe I’ll actually be all that I can be? I don’t even know what’s gonna happen next. Let’s watch and see...
I've started to explain the vacation, but really it's the kind of thing that was cool for me (and the parents – they came too) but simply boring to anyone but me. In a nutshell, here are the highlights of my few days off:
-fairies in sculpted tu-tus and combat boots who were FEEE-RCE!
-masseuse turned gambler turned thief turned Buddhist monk
-the best basement cuisine west of the rockies
-floppy beach hats and shoes that were on sale, SALE for $80.
-a quick primer on “good luck!” and other things you DON’T say in a theater.
There was this one shop that we visited, which was a classic example of a place stocked by the world’s most excellent catalog shoppers. Pinecone Christmas ornaments hanging side-by-side with fancy art-puppets next to Asian scarves and bags and purses piled up with carved camels and spooky cat gargoyles and this amazingly lifelike sleeping dog, who it turned out was a real and soft and fluffy and super, SUPER mellow sleeping dog. Or possibly dead dog. But I’m rooting for super mellow and sleeping. This place also had these cool singing and dancing bowls. You fill them with water and rub the handles and they moan and groan, and the water dances and it’s just cool! It’s probably the closest I'll ever get to being Zen is with these dancing water bowls. Of course as is the case with all things Zen, it’s Zpendy. (couldn’t resist.)
Anyway, I’m back and all refreshed and springy and light on my feet and my fingers and it’s with this energy that I will rededicate myself to this blog at which I have tremendously sucked recently. Watch this space! SEE how I let you down once again! Watch as I faceplant all over my promises to be better! Or maybe? Maybe I’ll actually be all that I can be? I don’t even know what’s gonna happen next. Let’s watch and see...
Sunday, April 27, 2008
A week without sugar...
Day One – see the last good post written.
Day Two:
I don’t know why I was making such a big deal about this. I haven’t had any candy or donuts or anything today and I’m fine. Totally fine. I was thinking this was going to be hard, but this is totally easy! Yay for me and for my rock-hard will power which is clearly made of something really solid… like rock or something. Rock hard sturdiness of solid power of my will woo hoo!
Day Three:
Must stay away from candy. Candy bad. Bad candy! Bad! Oh, but so sweet and yummy and tasty and chewy and… oh candy, how I miiiiiss yoooooou! But no, I’m going to be good and walk over to this office and- oh hey, isn’t that a bowl of mini candy bars? And M&Ms? And STAAAAARBUUUUURST????? Oh Starburst, how you tempt me with your chewy, fruity goodness made entirely of sugar and scrumptious chemicals… Give me one pack of Starburst and watch as I chew my way to ouchy mouthness… But no! I walk away from the candy! I walk away! Well, I stumble away. Ok, I crawl away…
Day Four:
OK, the urges are over and I’m fine, and I’m feeling so much better! Bright and clear and full of enerrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggyyyyyyyyyyzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…
Day Five:
OK, the urges are REALLY over now! I honestly think I will be ok, now that I’m over… is that cinnamon rolls? Did someone bring cinnamon rolls in for breakfast? Seriously? Who would do that to me? My biggest temptation, my hardest line, my WHITE WHALE! Great, big, cinnamon-filled white whale swimming in the FROTHY OCEAN of BUTTER and FROSTING! Oh, this is SO not fair! SO too much to ask for from a girl like myself, with my tinfoil-bendy willpower! But I am good. I walk away. (stumble away, crawl away, yadda, yadda, yadda)
Day Six:
I am here at home, where there are not stashes of easily-accessible candy or surprise attacks from sugary breakfast treats. Here I am safe from sugar’s siren call. Here I can have a whole weekend of sugar-free sanctuary.
Here I have a box of Cap’n Crunch WITH Crunch Berries.
Here I am screwed.
DAY SEVEN:
I made it! I resisted the Cap’n Crunch, said “no” to the impulse candy aisle at the drugstore and just generally walked through the weekend with big ol’ blinders on. But it worked, and I feel like I finally have the stupid sugar-monkey off my back! I head back to my office of constant candy and morale-boosting through regular doses of junk food, but I can do it! Man, I hope I can do it. Wish me luck, my peoples!
Day Two:
I don’t know why I was making such a big deal about this. I haven’t had any candy or donuts or anything today and I’m fine. Totally fine. I was thinking this was going to be hard, but this is totally easy! Yay for me and for my rock-hard will power which is clearly made of something really solid… like rock or something. Rock hard sturdiness of solid power of my will woo hoo!
Day Three:
Must stay away from candy. Candy bad. Bad candy! Bad! Oh, but so sweet and yummy and tasty and chewy and… oh candy, how I miiiiiss yoooooou! But no, I’m going to be good and walk over to this office and- oh hey, isn’t that a bowl of mini candy bars? And M&Ms? And STAAAAARBUUUUURST????? Oh Starburst, how you tempt me with your chewy, fruity goodness made entirely of sugar and scrumptious chemicals… Give me one pack of Starburst and watch as I chew my way to ouchy mouthness… But no! I walk away from the candy! I walk away! Well, I stumble away. Ok, I crawl away…
Day Four:
OK, the urges are over and I’m fine, and I’m feeling so much better! Bright and clear and full of enerrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggyyyyyyyyyyzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…
Day Five:
OK, the urges are REALLY over now! I honestly think I will be ok, now that I’m over… is that cinnamon rolls? Did someone bring cinnamon rolls in for breakfast? Seriously? Who would do that to me? My biggest temptation, my hardest line, my WHITE WHALE! Great, big, cinnamon-filled white whale swimming in the FROTHY OCEAN of BUTTER and FROSTING! Oh, this is SO not fair! SO too much to ask for from a girl like myself, with my tinfoil-bendy willpower! But I am good. I walk away. (stumble away, crawl away, yadda, yadda, yadda)
Day Six:
I am here at home, where there are not stashes of easily-accessible candy or surprise attacks from sugary breakfast treats. Here I am safe from sugar’s siren call. Here I can have a whole weekend of sugar-free sanctuary.
Here I have a box of Cap’n Crunch WITH Crunch Berries.
Here I am screwed.
DAY SEVEN:
I made it! I resisted the Cap’n Crunch, said “no” to the impulse candy aisle at the drugstore and just generally walked through the weekend with big ol’ blinders on. But it worked, and I feel like I finally have the stupid sugar-monkey off my back! I head back to my office of constant candy and morale-boosting through regular doses of junk food, but I can do it! Man, I hope I can do it. Wish me luck, my peoples!
Monday, April 21, 2008
Too sleepy to be clever...
OK, you know how I never write anymore? And how you guys have pretty much given up on me and my blog since hey, there are never any posts? Well I’ve been trying to resist the urge to give excuses each time I go too many days between posts because frankly everybody hates excuses and the only thing worse than no post at all would be an excusy post. But the truth is I just keep falling ASLEEP.
This constant sleepiness started about 6 months ago and it just sucks. It ruins my long-earned reputation as a night owl and turns so many of my attempts at blogposts into 3-4 solid paragraphs followed by hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh and the semi colon key stuck in my eye. Sigh. And when I wake up, face full of keyboard, I’m angry! Angry at the lack of late-night creativity and productivity and other-thingie-tivity! I want my nights back!
I’ve tried a bunch of things and have reaped piles and piles of bupkiss. The only thing I know for sure is that this danged sleepiosity started not long after my change in jobs. But lately this fall-asleepiness has started hitting me at the office too. (a place you traditionally try not to face-nap, by the way.) I just get SO SLEEPY! But I’ve had a realization:
My new job is wall-to-wall sugar. No kidding: bowls of desk-candy, breakfast sweeties, candies used to keep folks productive in long meetings, supportive “thanks!” and “Good Job!”” suck-up sweets… sugar, sugar everywhere and I’m just SO weak! I started with the breakfast sweets, then changed my paths through the halls to hit all the desks with candy bowls and now I’ve got very steady candy and sweets breaks all day long, often capped off with the traditional afternoon fudgical. (seriously, love me the fudgical. Greatest novelty ice cream treat ever.) And now I think the whole problem is sugar highs, followed by terrible, terrible sugar face-plants.
So as of today I’ve gone cold-turkey on the sugar.
Man, by about 2:30 today I had the serious sugar jonesing going on. I could hear the voices of every little foil-covered chocolate hearts in the nearest candy bowl calling out my name, telling me that they all loved me, and would give me their sweet, sugary energy if only I would come and nom-nom-nom them up. I forego the now-traditional after-lunch handful of Oreos, instead enjoying some grapes. (so not the same thing, and if ANY of you try to point out something about grapes having some kind of natural sugar in them or something I will travel to your homes and I will set fire to ALL of your toilet paper in a completely unrelated act of aggression!!! I didn’t have any Oreos! You cannot take away that triumph, no matter the fact of the matter!!!)
I was also, once again, fighting off the mid-day desk-drool-puddle from unstoppable naps. SO SLEEPY. But I know that I cannot do anything about my sugar problem in a day. No, I totally understand this is a process, not a quick fix. I’m sure I won’t have this gummy-monkey off my back right away. Heck, it could take as long as 2 or maybe even 3 days! It’s hard!
Also rest assured that I am not swearing off sugar altogether. That would be crazy talk, and also I’m just not that strong. I still drink sugary sodas and right now, when I finish this blog post (created at night, and with only planned run-on h’s!) I’m going to reward myself with a lovely slice of chocolate cream pie, left over from dinner at the Royal house last night. The traditional tiny dessert will not go away. It will just no longer be an hourly snack plan! I am enboldened (it's a word!) by today's success and am sure it will all fall asleep tomorrow when I have a Cap'n crunch, Starburst and Snickerdoodle sammich! (on wheat, of course.)
This constant sleepiness started about 6 months ago and it just sucks. It ruins my long-earned reputation as a night owl and turns so many of my attempts at blogposts into 3-4 solid paragraphs followed by hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh and the semi colon key stuck in my eye. Sigh. And when I wake up, face full of keyboard, I’m angry! Angry at the lack of late-night creativity and productivity and other-thingie-tivity! I want my nights back!
I’ve tried a bunch of things and have reaped piles and piles of bupkiss. The only thing I know for sure is that this danged sleepiosity started not long after my change in jobs. But lately this fall-asleepiness has started hitting me at the office too. (a place you traditionally try not to face-nap, by the way.) I just get SO SLEEPY! But I’ve had a realization:
My new job is wall-to-wall sugar. No kidding: bowls of desk-candy, breakfast sweeties, candies used to keep folks productive in long meetings, supportive “thanks!” and “Good Job!”” suck-up sweets… sugar, sugar everywhere and I’m just SO weak! I started with the breakfast sweets, then changed my paths through the halls to hit all the desks with candy bowls and now I’ve got very steady candy and sweets breaks all day long, often capped off with the traditional afternoon fudgical. (seriously, love me the fudgical. Greatest novelty ice cream treat ever.) And now I think the whole problem is sugar highs, followed by terrible, terrible sugar face-plants.
So as of today I’ve gone cold-turkey on the sugar.
Man, by about 2:30 today I had the serious sugar jonesing going on. I could hear the voices of every little foil-covered chocolate hearts in the nearest candy bowl calling out my name, telling me that they all loved me, and would give me their sweet, sugary energy if only I would come and nom-nom-nom them up. I forego the now-traditional after-lunch handful of Oreos, instead enjoying some grapes. (so not the same thing, and if ANY of you try to point out something about grapes having some kind of natural sugar in them or something I will travel to your homes and I will set fire to ALL of your toilet paper in a completely unrelated act of aggression!!! I didn’t have any Oreos! You cannot take away that triumph, no matter the fact of the matter!!!)
I was also, once again, fighting off the mid-day desk-drool-puddle from unstoppable naps. SO SLEEPY. But I know that I cannot do anything about my sugar problem in a day. No, I totally understand this is a process, not a quick fix. I’m sure I won’t have this gummy-monkey off my back right away. Heck, it could take as long as 2 or maybe even 3 days! It’s hard!
Also rest assured that I am not swearing off sugar altogether. That would be crazy talk, and also I’m just not that strong. I still drink sugary sodas and right now, when I finish this blog post (created at night, and with only planned run-on h’s!) I’m going to reward myself with a lovely slice of chocolate cream pie, left over from dinner at the Royal house last night. The traditional tiny dessert will not go away. It will just no longer be an hourly snack plan! I am enboldened (it's a word!) by today's success and am sure it will all fall asleep tomorrow when I have a Cap'n crunch, Starburst and Snickerdoodle sammich! (on wheat, of course.)
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Birthday parties, and the ways in which they rock
My birthday hovers some time around this general time, give or take a few weeks, and in my family there are so many of us, with only so many months in the year, so we tend to do monthly birthday parties. For April I get to share party-duty with my favorite, favorite Mom and also my favorite, favorite niece. The Mom, she is the bestest Mom ever in the world, and the niece is also the premium of all nieces. We rock the April birthday party scene – rock it haaaaaard.
In years past we’ve had themes of “South of the Border” birthday (featuring a burrito bar and killer piñata) or Hula-Hula birthday (that included this killer kahlua pork thing by my brother-in-law with his big, fancy green egg grill thing totally shaped like a green egg BUT with no ham and no questions about where you would have it, like in a box or in a train or with a fox, and seriously if you had ham with a fox wouldn’t the fox just grab the ham and run, because hey – free ham!?) and this time our theme was “a good, old-fashioned birthday party” (also known as “man, I’m kind of tired of coming up with themes and ways to theme them, aren’t you?) We had cake! And ice cream! And presents! There was a sing-along, which was extremely topical (even mentioned birthdays and everything!) and we set fire to some parts of the dessert food! Seriously, it was awesome and I seriously think that this classic birthday party thing is TOTALLY going to catch on!
A quick note on cakes: larger should not translate into taller. A taller cake is not really a handy thing, because cakes can be tippy, especially when you start taking parts of it away and giving it to people. You need to make a cake larger? Think SPREAD IT OUT, people. We had a party of about 25 people we needed to feed, and unfortunately the bakers on whom we had depended decided that meant we needed a cake with eleventeen layers, roughly 3 and a half feet tall. Tasty? ABSOLUTELY! Yummy chocolate cake with frosting and flowers and words encouraging us to be extremely happy on this, our day of celebrating that none of us have died at all the whole last year! But logistically this cake was, to put it mildly, a big challenge. So next year we’re going to have to say to the baker-people “we need to feed about 25 people, and we’ve got a station wagon ready to pick up a cake that could be up to 4 feet across if need be – don’t go up. Seriously, don’t go up. No more than 2 layers, pleeeeease.”
Do not worry – we muddled our way through the logistically-challenging-yet-flavor-excellent cake. We’re up for any cake-eating challenges in my family.
My family is chocked full of frustrated Tony-award-winning Broadway performers. To that end, we do a rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” that would knock all available socks off! And if you were wearing Birkenstocks? Flying Cork, people! The only problem with our birthday song performance is that we get completely stuck on “Haaaaaaaaa-“ The song lasts nine minutes, 8 minutes and 20 seconds of which are the entire family holding the “Haaaaaaaa-“ note because nobody can seem to get the next part rolling. Also we do it in something like 8-part harmony, which is very cool, but there have been a couple of years where there was almost a fist fight at song’s end due to the starting note having been too high, too low, too sharp, not adagio enough, whatever. But it’s totally worth the effort – we’ve brought entire catering shifts to tears.
I won’t lie to you, my true-blue chums (new thing I’m trying for how to refer to you guys – what do you think of “chums”?) – I do enjoy being given gifts. I do. I love to give gifts during Christmas way more than getting gifts, but when it’s a day where I can shamelessly revel in GETTING STUFF, in being totally MINE, MINE, MINE!, I go for it. I got a bunch of cool things, from “awesome, I need this!” to “rock on, I wanted this!” to “Woah, I didn’t even know this was an option!” A couple of highlights included a Steve Martin biography, which I’m excited about because I think that guy is one of the funniest and most brilliant people ever! and I’m pretty sure if I read his biography I’ll learn all his secrets and finally be funny and brilliant my own self! Also this board game called “Pandemic” which is cooperative, which means it's you and your fellow gamers playing against the game. In this case the game is a pack of runaway, out of control diseases who want to ruin everything for everybody, and the game players are a bunch of scientists working to cure those nasty diseases. But of course we're sexy, hot scientists, like on Star Trek or The Core or stuff like that, who do their scientific thinking in tight tank tops and low-rider jeans and who, if need be, will grab a gun and shoot those bad, bad germs right between the... eye-thingies. I'm totally loving the idea of the cooperative game, although I think for this game to be truly realistic there should be the potential for you to have to battle packs of rabid, disease-infected zombies. Because we all know that all diseases eventually lead to zombies. Just ask Will Smith.
So, to summarize, birthdays are awesome and cake (even too-tall cake) is yummy and everyone should put their heart and soul into any sing-along and zombies are bad. And happy birthday to us!
In years past we’ve had themes of “South of the Border” birthday (featuring a burrito bar and killer piñata) or Hula-Hula birthday (that included this killer kahlua pork thing by my brother-in-law with his big, fancy green egg grill thing totally shaped like a green egg BUT with no ham and no questions about where you would have it, like in a box or in a train or with a fox, and seriously if you had ham with a fox wouldn’t the fox just grab the ham and run, because hey – free ham!?) and this time our theme was “a good, old-fashioned birthday party” (also known as “man, I’m kind of tired of coming up with themes and ways to theme them, aren’t you?) We had cake! And ice cream! And presents! There was a sing-along, which was extremely topical (even mentioned birthdays and everything!) and we set fire to some parts of the dessert food! Seriously, it was awesome and I seriously think that this classic birthday party thing is TOTALLY going to catch on!
A quick note on cakes: larger should not translate into taller. A taller cake is not really a handy thing, because cakes can be tippy, especially when you start taking parts of it away and giving it to people. You need to make a cake larger? Think SPREAD IT OUT, people. We had a party of about 25 people we needed to feed, and unfortunately the bakers on whom we had depended decided that meant we needed a cake with eleventeen layers, roughly 3 and a half feet tall. Tasty? ABSOLUTELY! Yummy chocolate cake with frosting and flowers and words encouraging us to be extremely happy on this, our day of celebrating that none of us have died at all the whole last year! But logistically this cake was, to put it mildly, a big challenge. So next year we’re going to have to say to the baker-people “we need to feed about 25 people, and we’ve got a station wagon ready to pick up a cake that could be up to 4 feet across if need be – don’t go up. Seriously, don’t go up. No more than 2 layers, pleeeeease.”
Do not worry – we muddled our way through the logistically-challenging-yet-flavor-excellent cake. We’re up for any cake-eating challenges in my family.
My family is chocked full of frustrated Tony-award-winning Broadway performers. To that end, we do a rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” that would knock all available socks off! And if you were wearing Birkenstocks? Flying Cork, people! The only problem with our birthday song performance is that we get completely stuck on “Haaaaaaaaa-“ The song lasts nine minutes, 8 minutes and 20 seconds of which are the entire family holding the “Haaaaaaaa-“ note because nobody can seem to get the next part rolling. Also we do it in something like 8-part harmony, which is very cool, but there have been a couple of years where there was almost a fist fight at song’s end due to the starting note having been too high, too low, too sharp, not adagio enough, whatever. But it’s totally worth the effort – we’ve brought entire catering shifts to tears.
I won’t lie to you, my true-blue chums (new thing I’m trying for how to refer to you guys – what do you think of “chums”?) – I do enjoy being given gifts. I do. I love to give gifts during Christmas way more than getting gifts, but when it’s a day where I can shamelessly revel in GETTING STUFF, in being totally MINE, MINE, MINE!, I go for it. I got a bunch of cool things, from “awesome, I need this!” to “rock on, I wanted this!” to “Woah, I didn’t even know this was an option!” A couple of highlights included a Steve Martin biography, which I’m excited about because I think that guy is one of the funniest and most brilliant people ever! and I’m pretty sure if I read his biography I’ll learn all his secrets and finally be funny and brilliant my own self! Also this board game called “Pandemic” which is cooperative, which means it's you and your fellow gamers playing against the game. In this case the game is a pack of runaway, out of control diseases who want to ruin everything for everybody, and the game players are a bunch of scientists working to cure those nasty diseases. But of course we're sexy, hot scientists, like on Star Trek or The Core or stuff like that, who do their scientific thinking in tight tank tops and low-rider jeans and who, if need be, will grab a gun and shoot those bad, bad germs right between the... eye-thingies. I'm totally loving the idea of the cooperative game, although I think for this game to be truly realistic there should be the potential for you to have to battle packs of rabid, disease-infected zombies. Because we all know that all diseases eventually lead to zombies. Just ask Will Smith.
So, to summarize, birthdays are awesome and cake (even too-tall cake) is yummy and everyone should put their heart and soul into any sing-along and zombies are bad. And happy birthday to us!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Do you like me -- check this box...
OK, confession time: I’ve been thinking about checking out speed dating.
(we’re gonna give a minute for those of you who are working through the mocking. Do your thing. Also in case my Dad finally decided to check out the blog, because his head might have ‘sploded just then…)
Now in my own defense, I don’t really think I’ll find love at an evening of 6-minute meet-and-greets. But I’m curious enough to check it out. Also, it's pretty obvious to those of you who've been paying attention that I need things to write about.
(quick tangent: why six minutes? I’m not pulling that number from my butt, it’s the official amount of time they advertise. Is that for people who say “oh please, you couldn’t possibly get to know someone in five minutes.” but think that ten minutes is officially a commitment? “oh SIX minutes! Oh well that’s different. That’s ample time to decide if Joe Winecooler here is my especialist soulmate. Sign me up, six-minute mating ritual!” Whatever. Moving on.)
The free internet dating website (loving it more and more, in a way that means I don’t really interact with it but I don’t resent it for the money I’ve spent on it. Plus hey – speed dating!) has started putting together speed dating nights. I kind of think that’s a sign of progress for our sleepy little town. “Speed Dating comes to Hippyville! Soon we’ll get indoor toilets and one o’ them fancy movin’ staircases!” So I went to sign up for the April event.
But sadly it turns out I’m either too young or too old for zoom-mating. Man! (picture me snapping fingers in an exaggerated fashion.)
Seriously, here are the two options I have for the April speed dating:
Then, of course, the final irony: the less-than-fit-and-disactive-lifestyle group is SOLD OUT. Apparently we are a town with a lot of older people who shun the healthy foods and the exercise and yet still think we’re worthy of wove, or at least hip-breaking nooky. Shame, shame on us all.
Gotta go take my calcium pill and learn to knit.
(and yes, I’m on the waiting list.)
(and just shut up.)
(we’re gonna give a minute for those of you who are working through the mocking. Do your thing. Also in case my Dad finally decided to check out the blog, because his head might have ‘sploded just then…)
Now in my own defense, I don’t really think I’ll find love at an evening of 6-minute meet-and-greets. But I’m curious enough to check it out. Also, it's pretty obvious to those of you who've been paying attention that I need things to write about.
(quick tangent: why six minutes? I’m not pulling that number from my butt, it’s the official amount of time they advertise. Is that for people who say “oh please, you couldn’t possibly get to know someone in five minutes.” but think that ten minutes is officially a commitment? “oh SIX minutes! Oh well that’s different. That’s ample time to decide if Joe Winecooler here is my especialist soulmate. Sign me up, six-minute mating ritual!” Whatever. Moving on.)
The free internet dating website (loving it more and more, in a way that means I don’t really interact with it but I don’t resent it for the money I’ve spent on it. Plus hey – speed dating!) has started putting together speed dating nights. I kind of think that’s a sign of progress for our sleepy little town. “Speed Dating comes to Hippyville! Soon we’ll get indoor toilets and one o’ them fancy movin’ staircases!” So I went to sign up for the April event.
But sadly it turns out I’m either too young or too old for zoom-mating. Man! (picture me snapping fingers in an exaggerated fashion.)
Seriously, here are the two options I have for the April speed dating:
- “Active/Fit Lifestyle, Ages 23-36 -- For those who are on the go, like to keep in shape and would like to meet the same!”
- “All Single Professionals, Ages 42-58” (for, um… old, creaky people who want to be nasty with another before they die. Of being in bad shape. With same. Or something.)
Then, of course, the final irony: the less-than-fit-and-disactive-lifestyle group is SOLD OUT. Apparently we are a town with a lot of older people who shun the healthy foods and the exercise and yet still think we’re worthy of wove, or at least hip-breaking nooky. Shame, shame on us all.
Gotta go take my calcium pill and learn to knit.
(and yes, I’m on the waiting list.)
(and just shut up.)
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Attack of the crappy crapweasels, part II
So last night I'm writing an email to a chum of mine who is FAR TOO PATIENT WITH ME, in that I don't write her ever. I am the worst at keeping in touch, even while I still post to the blog (not a lot, of course -- you've already noticed that I'm sure) and she READS the blog, so to her it looks like I'm too busy to write an email to her yet I have the time to get busted by hot cops, get all flustered around strange grocery store dudes and send adoring emails to random email customer service guys. (man, I now see how much I suck -- why does she continue to be my friend?) ANYWAY...
I'm writing this long-overdue email and I'm already in my online email (we'll call them SUPEREASYTOHACK-DOTCOM!!!) but I try to log into my email on another browser to see other emails she's sent me and gee, apparently ONCE AGAIN my perfectly correct email password is no longer perfectly correct. F*********CK!!!!!
I check my info in the browser where I'm already logged in, and SURE ENOUGH, the secret question has changed, as has the alternate email address. And here's the really sucky, frustrating, KILL SOMEONE BY WEDGING FIRECRACKERS INTO THEIR CREVICES part: even though I can see that these have been changed, I can't go in and change them back to anything accurate BECAUSE the password has also been changed, and even though I'm in there, right then, seeing the badness I have to have the correct password to make anything better.
SOOOOOO FRUSTRATING!! It felt like I woke up to the sound of someone wandering around my house (someone whom I knew was unarmed and also timid and only weighed about 63 lbs, so I knew that they could not HURT me, but still) and they're looking at my stuff and taking things, and can't make them get out because they've found my keys and in this Bizarro world whomever is holding the keys is in charge of the house. And if I actually had been in my house with some interloper holding my keys I would have just have beaten them repeatedly with an iron skillet or 12-pack of Pepsi or my television set. (REPEATEDLY. UNTIL THEIR BRAINS WERE A SMOOTH PASTE.)
AND of course by the time I'm hip to all that's happening its past bedtime, but I know that once I go to bed I'll eventually lose access to my email because at some point the email-thing decides that you're not there anymore and you have to sign in again to get access, which I'd love to do IF ONLY SOME STUPID WANKER WASN'T HOLDING MY EMAIL KEEEEEEEYS!!!! So I'm dashing around logging in to other important online accounts, making sure that I've changed all my passwords and looking for any signs of tampering and feeling just totally at risk. There should be some kind of 911 for hacking!
I’ll tell you who has a system – Ebay! Sure, they’re probably where the initial hacking started, for which I would like to Fedex them a box of flaming donkey poop, but when I said “Help Me, help me, help MEEEEEEEE!” they were all over it. I said “danger, Will Ebayson!” and they said “hey, we’re going to call you and make sure that you are you. Get ready – here it comes.” And then the phone rang, which was much spookier than I’d expected. And I answered it, and it was Ebay (who is apparently a bright young lady, possibly from the Midwest somewhere) and she told me that if I was EXPECTING this call I should press 1, and when I did some new guy (I’m thinking this was Ebay’s disgruntled younger brother who is feeling kind of lost, can’t figure out what he wants to do with his life, especially difficult with his living in the shadow of his extremely successful, even famous bigger sister Ebay) who just kept yelling “Your PIN is NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER! Your PIN is NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER! Your PIN is NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER!” over and over in this aggressive, surly voice. But I put that PIN into the window on Ebay and voila – instant fish! I’m in!
So in short: online email company probably bad, online auction company vulnerable but tricky, hackers SUCK. I think I’ll go back to writing letters.
I'm writing this long-overdue email and I'm already in my online email (we'll call them SUPEREASYTOHACK-DOTCOM!!!) but I try to log into my email on another browser to see other emails she's sent me and gee, apparently ONCE AGAIN my perfectly correct email password is no longer perfectly correct. F*********CK!!!!!
I check my info in the browser where I'm already logged in, and SURE ENOUGH, the secret question has changed, as has the alternate email address. And here's the really sucky, frustrating, KILL SOMEONE BY WEDGING FIRECRACKERS INTO THEIR CREVICES part: even though I can see that these have been changed, I can't go in and change them back to anything accurate BECAUSE the password has also been changed, and even though I'm in there, right then, seeing the badness I have to have the correct password to make anything better.
SOOOOOO FRUSTRATING!! It felt like I woke up to the sound of someone wandering around my house (someone whom I knew was unarmed and also timid and only weighed about 63 lbs, so I knew that they could not HURT me, but still) and they're looking at my stuff and taking things, and can't make them get out because they've found my keys and in this Bizarro world whomever is holding the keys is in charge of the house. And if I actually had been in my house with some interloper holding my keys I would have just have beaten them repeatedly with an iron skillet or 12-pack of Pepsi or my television set. (REPEATEDLY. UNTIL THEIR BRAINS WERE A SMOOTH PASTE.)
AND of course by the time I'm hip to all that's happening its past bedtime, but I know that once I go to bed I'll eventually lose access to my email because at some point the email-thing decides that you're not there anymore and you have to sign in again to get access, which I'd love to do IF ONLY SOME STUPID WANKER WASN'T HOLDING MY EMAIL KEEEEEEEYS!!!! So I'm dashing around logging in to other important online accounts, making sure that I've changed all my passwords and looking for any signs of tampering and feeling just totally at risk. There should be some kind of 911 for hacking!
I’ll tell you who has a system – Ebay! Sure, they’re probably where the initial hacking started, for which I would like to Fedex them a box of flaming donkey poop, but when I said “Help Me, help me, help MEEEEEEEE!” they were all over it. I said “danger, Will Ebayson!” and they said “hey, we’re going to call you and make sure that you are you. Get ready – here it comes.” And then the phone rang, which was much spookier than I’d expected. And I answered it, and it was Ebay (who is apparently a bright young lady, possibly from the Midwest somewhere) and she told me that if I was EXPECTING this call I should press 1, and when I did some new guy (I’m thinking this was Ebay’s disgruntled younger brother who is feeling kind of lost, can’t figure out what he wants to do with his life, especially difficult with his living in the shadow of his extremely successful, even famous bigger sister Ebay) who just kept yelling “Your PIN is NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER! Your PIN is NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER! Your PIN is NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER, NUMBER!” over and over in this aggressive, surly voice. But I put that PIN into the window on Ebay and voila – instant fish! I’m in!
So in short: online email company probably bad, online auction company vulnerable but tricky, hackers SUCK. I think I’ll go back to writing letters.
Monday, April 07, 2008
You should see how I tip!
An email just sent to a customer service dude with whom I was ever so slightly pleased:
"To the boss of CustomerServiceDude: I'm writing to let you know of just how much Mr. CustomerServiceDude is a rockstar. And that amount, if quantified, would be equal to 16 large barrels of rockstardome, plus an additional VW Bug full of rockstar-type clowns, each contributing their rockstar-ness to his overall rockstar quotion. In short: a half-time show of the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zepplin and Janis Freakin' Joplin have nothing on our friend CustomerServiceDude.
Before now I have always waxed poetically about your establishment, the fine things found both on-site and online and the exceptionally reasonable prices, and that surely won't be changing. But now I can add to my "Ode to [Consumer Establishment]" that their customer service is so good as to be dipped in chocolate with sprinkles and gold flakes and deep-fried (in that excellent way that Twinkies sometimes are, not the gross way that rats sometimes are) and then served with free booze and canvas bags marked with great, big dollar signs!
Thanks to CustomerServiceDude and I hope you guys will buy him a cupcake every day this week, unless he doesn't like cupcakes, in which case you should bring him daily nachos or daily shots of tequila or whatever sinful and indulgent thing would make CustomerServiceDude a happy camper.
And have a nice day.
-Femtastic"
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Dear Abby Internets
OK, so the other night was “tv and food night of fun and tv and food” and we discovered a distinct lack of dessert which is just WRONG. So I trekked off to the grocery store for yummy, sweet goodness. Anyway, I’m standing in checkout line #1 and over in checkout line B is this guy who, for I have no idea what reason, I totally, TOTALLY noticed. He was not bad looking but my noticeyness went beyond “hey, that dude is kinda cute.” I mean I was really looking. Really looking a bunch. I was about 6 seconds from “piercing mad gaze of a crazed nutbag.” looking at this guy. Somewhere in the back of my brain, where I keep the unicycle and the old issues of Highlights magazine, I had this idea that I was just sure this guy was single and my age and cool and that we’d have things in common and make a connection. I can’t remember having ever been this instantly intrigued by a stranger. And yet this isn’t the part I’m confused about.
I had just NO idea what to do with this moment.
I mean I stood there and kind of hoped that he’d look up and maybe we’d make eye contact, because I knew that an extended look in the eye was a way of saying “I’m single and my loins are inflamed. And you?” But he didn’t and we didn’t so I didn’t, so what do you do when you’re in this situation? I’m really, really asking here. After all, Hippyville is a little place, ripe with second chances for Mr. Fleece-Vest-And-Sharp-Goatee to appear again. And even if I never see him again, in another dozen years I could be instantly attracted to someone else and I’d love to feel less simultaneously helpless and also dorky! So compelling was this one-sided infatuation of about 83 seconds that when I finished my transaction I caught myself hurrying out to the parking lot. (and wouldn’t you know it – he drove away in a mini-cooper, a car I am personally ape over! Augh!)
It’s funny too, because lately I’ve been surrounded by other people being asked out in really average locations. My PT got asked out while faxing a timesheet at a Kinkos. Kinkos, not normally a place I think of as being a hotbed of steamy sexual tension. You don’t think of people going “Hey, let’s have a couple of wine coolers here at my swinging singles pad and then we’ll go pick up chicks while we make some color copies or perhaps purchase some binder tabs. PARTY!!!” Another person at work was approached by some cute dude while at the laundromat. (with her boyfriend – aaawkwaaard….)
Based on all of these stories from others I’ll admit that I thought for a second that this guy at the grocery store might be my turn. Maybe I should go stand by the fresh cut pineapple to give the story a better ring for our grandkids? Then he ruined it by being totally unaware of my human existence. Like we weren’t on the same page at ALL. Just so not cool, dude.
So really, from you people out there who have healthy social interactions and maybe have had sex since the last time a Clinton was in office: what would have been my move here? I don’t mind being single if there’s not an alternative, but I am embarrassed to admit that it really bugged me to have this moment and not been able to figure out how to capitalize on it at all. I need insight, ammunition, possibly alibis if you guys are as nuts as I am and things go awry. Don’t leave me hangin’ here, internets – give me your worldly wisdom!
Signed: Sexless in Safeway
I had just NO idea what to do with this moment.
I mean I stood there and kind of hoped that he’d look up and maybe we’d make eye contact, because I knew that an extended look in the eye was a way of saying “I’m single and my loins are inflamed. And you?” But he didn’t and we didn’t so I didn’t, so what do you do when you’re in this situation? I’m really, really asking here. After all, Hippyville is a little place, ripe with second chances for Mr. Fleece-Vest-And-Sharp-Goatee to appear again. And even if I never see him again, in another dozen years I could be instantly attracted to someone else and I’d love to feel less simultaneously helpless and also dorky! So compelling was this one-sided infatuation of about 83 seconds that when I finished my transaction I caught myself hurrying out to the parking lot. (and wouldn’t you know it – he drove away in a mini-cooper, a car I am personally ape over! Augh!)
It’s funny too, because lately I’ve been surrounded by other people being asked out in really average locations. My PT got asked out while faxing a timesheet at a Kinkos. Kinkos, not normally a place I think of as being a hotbed of steamy sexual tension. You don’t think of people going “Hey, let’s have a couple of wine coolers here at my swinging singles pad and then we’ll go pick up chicks while we make some color copies or perhaps purchase some binder tabs. PARTY!!!” Another person at work was approached by some cute dude while at the laundromat. (with her boyfriend – aaawkwaaard….)
Based on all of these stories from others I’ll admit that I thought for a second that this guy at the grocery store might be my turn. Maybe I should go stand by the fresh cut pineapple to give the story a better ring for our grandkids? Then he ruined it by being totally unaware of my human existence. Like we weren’t on the same page at ALL. Just so not cool, dude.
So really, from you people out there who have healthy social interactions and maybe have had sex since the last time a Clinton was in office: what would have been my move here? I don’t mind being single if there’s not an alternative, but I am embarrassed to admit that it really bugged me to have this moment and not been able to figure out how to capitalize on it at all. I need insight, ammunition, possibly alibis if you guys are as nuts as I am and things go awry. Don’t leave me hangin’ here, internets – give me your worldly wisdom!
Signed: Sexless in Safeway
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