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I'm sitting in my cubicle minding my own business when one of my co-workers rushes in, and says, "I have to tell this to someone before I die. I just heard something really disturbing."
I turn to face her. More restructuring, perhaps?
"I was just in a meeting with Nathan [sic -- a department manager, a higher up] and he was talking about putting a pop up alert on some of our accounts in the database. He said, "Yes, it will be just like in Outlook when I get a pop up reminder to take my Viagra." I thought maybe he was kidding, but then I snuck a look on his calendar and there it was! Ew!"
Ew, indeed. Just like my new neighbor of damp panties fame, I don't want to know anything at all about the plumbing of anyone I work with. Now every time I have a meeting with Nathan I'm going to just stare at him and imagine him frantically trying to make himself erect and failing.
Dammit.
I had a repeat Pap smear this morning. Nothing like starting your day off with some nice speculum action.
Yesterday I complained about dentists who make small talk while they've got their hands, sharp sticks, and other torture devices in your mouth. But gynecologist small talk is also a little strange.
I mean, I'm laying there, feet in stirrups, ass hanging off the end of that little table and my doctor is perched at my nether regions with a flashlight, poking at my cooch with a stick. And she's asking me about my vacation plans. I know a good bedside manner is supposed to put the patient at ease, but it's strangely surreal when you're talking about the weather to a person who is checking out your vagina from an inch away.
What makes someone even decide to become a gynecologist? I can almost understand if you're coming at it from the obstetrics point of view -- you like babies and the miracle of life, so you end up specializing in OB/GYN. Fine. But my gynecologist bills herself as a "sports gynecologist." In reality I know that she specializes in gynecology services to current and former athletes, but if you didn't know that, it could mean anything. I've had people ask me if she was a GYN to prostitutes, or to women who had an awful lot of sex, or rigorous sex. It's funny.
And since my GYN really isn't into the handling babies part of things, what possessed her to become a gynecologist? A passion for the hooha? A fiery curiousity about the cervix?
So I almost threw up on my dentist this evening. It was one of my most glorious and feminine moments.
You might remember my tragic tale of financial and dental woe from mid-June. Yes, yes, the dreaded $400 nightguard to keep me from grinding my teeth [and yes, I asked about cheaper options and we both agreed the $400 would be worth it] as I slumber not-so-peacefully. This afternoon after work I visited my dentist to have the molds made.
If you've never had this kind of work done on your teeth, let me tell you: it's a real treat. The dentist rams a flexible rubber dental tray into your mouth on both the top and the bottom to check for fit, then removes the trays. It's at this point in the proceedings that the bottom dental tray is filled with this thick gooey pink paste and then shoved back into your mouth. The paste squished out all over inside and outside your mouth, and you have to use your tongue to form a wall so it doesn't slide down your throat and block your windpipe. And let's hope you don't have a cold because you can only breathe out of your nose. It only takes about five minutes for the paste to dry, and the dentist has to pry the tray of hardened pink goo out of your mouth. Fun! And then the process is repeated on the top. Double fun!
It was during the end of the upper tray goo hardening process that I almost hurled. The dentist was trying to yank the tray out of my mouth and he pushed the tray back a little and knocked into the magic button [oh, epiglottis, you're so strange and wacky]. Can a dentist tell when you're starting to dry heave as he's yanking your head around to free a tray of goop? I don't know -- let's hope not.
And this evening the dentist did something I absolutely hate [in addition to triggering my gag reflex]. The tray is in my mouth and he's pressing the tray up into my teeth. He looks at me and says, "So Nicole. Do you consider your eyes to be grey or blue? Or both?" And I'm sitting there wondering how the hell to answer this question, considering I've got a mouthful of hardening rubber. Finally, my dentist asks, "Grey?" to which I reply with a muffled, "uhhhh uh." "Blue?" he inquires, and, again, I shout "uhhhhh uh" through my mouthful of ick. He gets a puzzled look on his face. "Both?" And I hold up my finger because trying to form an intelligable answer has worn my ass out.
Dentists should be taught to only ask questions which can be answered with a yes or a no. In the middle of a cleaning when there are sharp sticks in my mouth, I don't want to try to have a conversation about the state of things in the Middle East. That sucky thing can kill you, man.
We have a new phone system here at Panhandler's Central. Today is the first day people can use the phones. What is driving me insane is that my department's new employee [you know, inappropriate wet panties girl] has thus far been unable to control the volume on her phone. So it rings at top volume, shattering my already jangled nerves.
I'm about two seconds from leaping over there and yanking her phone out of the wall.
I have incredible luck.
I waited until 1:45pm to head over to Subway to grab a hoagie. Because, you know, lunch hours are basically over by then, no big, huge lines. It's way too hot to stand outside in a line today.
So I'm all excited because there's only one guy ahead of me. He ends up ordering just about three dozen hoagies.
Bastard!
And, of course, being that the two employees working are the two slowest employees Subway employs, both of them start working on making the hoagies and are moving like they're underwater. I'm not even exaggerating: one hoagie every five minutes.
Finally a third employee materialized and took my order. The guy with the big hoagie order is probably still there.
I came home today and immediately changed out of my work clothes. It's then that I realized this has been my worst clothes-related catastrophe day ever.
This morning before I even left the house I dropped my mascara wand, which of course hit my rack on the way down and left a black mascara streak down my shirt. So I had to find a replacement. Luckily I have 20 million white tops.
Then there was the incident earlier today with the ginger sauce in my lap.
And then I discovered that my bounteous boobage had also been in the ginger sauce line of fire. It just kind of looks like I dipped the nipple area into the container of sauce, which is entirely possible. I guess I should consider myself lucky that it was cold as shit in the office today and I was wearing my sweater all afternoon.
The night is still young. I should see what else I can gerber on myself. Hey, I think I've got some blueberries I can smoosh into a tshirt or something. Maybe some chocolate ice cream [there's a pint of Godiva Raspberry Chocolate Truffle in the freezer]. It sort of looses the fun if I'm not in public though.
I swear, you can dress me up, but you can't take me out.
During my earlier outing I picked up some tempura. It came with a little doodad of ginger sauce for my salad. Of course, I was packing up my garbage when I managed to douse my lap in the entire container of ginger sauce. Fuck.
I had a huge splooge of ginger sauce all over my light beige trousers.
I did what normal people do -- I wiped it up, tried to clean myself off and waited to see how it would dry. It became apparent that it was going to dry orange though.
Did I mention that I have a really messy office? I bring this up because I forgot that I bought a new suit at the beginning of the month and neglected to take the old suit home. When I realized I just happened to have a spare pair of pants in the office I almost cried with glee.
Being a packrat saved the day. Let that be lesson to you neatniks!
For a long time I had a serious problem making it through the afternoon at work. It didn't matter how much work I had to do, or how exciting the work I was do was -- I'd start nodding off at my desk.
One day I just didn't feel that way anymore.
Today that feeling is back. I'm dragging my feet, I have a huge headache, I've come really close to falling asleep and slamming my head against the desk as a result. So I'm doing what any normal person would do:
I'm attempting a perk up with a Diet Pepsi and Peanut Chews. And while I was up at the vending machine buying my bounty, I snuck into the nap room and did 15 minutes of yoga.
I just need to eek out 40 minutes more.
I like to have toys in my office. I have magnetic poetry on my filing cabinet, and magnetic paper dolls, and a collection of Homies, etc., etc.
But today I found online magnetic poetry. That's good for hours of fun!
Watch me as I avoid work and shirk my responsibilities!
My ears hurt.
My department decided to have lunch today to celebrate our last boss-less day. Somehow two people from another department invited themselves along. Now these two other people are very nice, but loud.
And guess who got stuck between them at lunch?
Seriously. My ears hurt from the sheer volume.
I ran over to Sulimay's Diner on Girard Ave. this morning with Craig for breakfast. It's one of the few places I can request barely cooked, uber runny poached eggs and the waitresses don't get grossed out and make faces.
And, you know, I appreciate that.
The thing that sucks about Sulimay's is that the smoking section and the non-smoking section are right next to each other. There's no special ventilation for the smoking section, and the non-smoking section isn't really partitioned off in any way. And I hate to be in a restaurant trying to eat when a table full chain smokers is puffing away and seemingly blowing the smoke in my direction. It just makes my eggs taste like ash [or ass, take your pick].
I have a theory that smokers can tell a non-smoker from a mile away. There's some sort of radar [sort of like gaydar], and smokers absolutely delight in pissing non-smokers off by positioning themselves upwind so their smoke blows directly onto the non-smoker. This always happens to me.
Of course, it isn't hard for a non-smoker to detect a smoker in their midst, either; even if the person in question isn't standing there with a cigarette. There's the constant smell of smoke on their clothes and the yellow teeth. But my old boss liked to tell me that smokers are prematurely aged. As if the smoking sucks up all the moisture out of their skin and they have pinched, ashy complexions.
I don't really know enough smokers to be able to justify that idea.
When I was doing cancer research fundraising, I was always amazed at the sheer volume of cancer researchers who smoke. They knew it was bad for them, they knew it could kill them in the long run, but yet they refused to give it up. I guess that's a testament to the addictive nature of cigarettes, or maybe they just didn't like to be told what to do. As someone who likes to come to my own conclusions, I can empathize...but I still hate to have to endure cigarette smoke.
My stepfather is a smoker, and so is Craig's dad. Both of them started smoking when they were around 11 years old. How does one become a smoker at age 11? I smoked for about a month when I was 14, but stopped because it seemed ridiculous. Well, and because kissing a smoker is not particularly pleasant and I have always really liked to smooch.
The only thing worse than kissing a smoker is kissing someone who chews tobacco [you can tell I was thinking of The Simpsons, I initially wrote Tomacco]. In my hometown, chew is really huge for some reason. It mostly just seems like hicks who think it's cool. Well, hicks and baseball players.
I always imagine the baseball players and hick boys old folks home -- a bunch of lipless geriatric guys just roaming the halls barely their teeth unintentionally.
Ew.
Of course, even so, I feel for smokers who can't seem to smoke anywhere in public anymore. I realize that smoking is addictive, and not being able to have a smoke when you really need one is problematic. By that same token, having to inhale and choke on second hand smoke is infringing on my rights as a non-smoker, so I understand why such laws exist. The solution is to either create a cigarette that has an additional filter on the end of the cigarette so the smoke is filtered -- it doesn't stink and removes the carcinogens in smoke so it doesn't injure me, or to just develop a smokeless cigarette.
Oh patent office!
There should be a medal of honor for staying friends with people who are difficult to be friends with. Christy called me tonight at 7pm to ask what kind of paper she should purchase. We discussed her options. She told me she'd be to my house in an hour.
The time is now 9:11pm. I just got a phone call from her saying she's still an hour away, and she still has to go somewhere else and doesn't know what time she'll be here, and can she still come over. I declined other plans because she was supposed to be here an hour ago. I'm a little pissed off at her, so I told her no.
And then she has the balls to get pissy with me.
I knew I should have just sat here quietly at my desk, knitting my fucking socks. But no, I had to call Christy. Now I'm sort of roped into helping her make a photo album for a friend of hers tonight.
All I really want to do is sit around and knit my fur skirt, which is coming out so cool. All I want to do is finish it and instead I have to go home, clean up the house, and haul all of my bookbinding shit out.
Poop.
This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy. ~ Clark W. Griswold
I'm the biggest smacked ass in the entire world. I took my housekeys out of my purse yesterday and forgot to put them back in this morning before I left the house. So even thought I get out of work at 3pm today, I can't go home unless I plan to break into my house.
Fuck. Now I have to wait until Craig gets done with work until I can go home.
I should be thankful I realized I have no keys now instead of when I was standing in front of my house in the pouring down rain and no where to go.
One of my favorite things to do when I get a few minutes is visit Time magazines Pictures of the Week series.
It's always interesting and the photos are beautiful.
I don't think this is particularly weird, but when I just confessed it to a co-worker of mine she thought it was bizarre:
I like to try on formalwear.
Let me amend that -- I like to try on formalwear when I'm in expensive stores.
I'm not a shop by the seat of my pants kind of girl normally. I shop for things I need, not for stuff that I might happen to see and want. I'm just not much of a browser. This is why I don't really even so much as window shop at places like Prada and Armani. If I try on something I really love and would wear constantly but can't afford, that'll just piss me off.
So I really have a yen for trying on formalwear when I get in a browsing mood.
I mean, it's not like I have any reason to purchase formalwear. I don't attend balls or other functions where I need to wear a gown. Craig and I don't throw formal dinner parties. So if I try on a $9 billion gown and I really like it, it doesn't stress me out that I can't afford it because I never would have purchased it anyway.
My confession came of a discussion about where to shop on Monday while the two of us are in Manhattan. I have very definite plans for hitting some street markets and discount shops, but she wants to hit the high end places. She can't afford to buy at high end places any more than I can, so why do that to yourself?
"I just like to look," she said.
That's like not being able to eat ice cream when there's a big bowl sitting a foot away from you. That's just torture!
There is a woman who was just transferred up to our department from Marketing. Her name is Mary. Mary is a happy and talkative woman. I hate Mary. Mary should die.
OK, that's actually stretching the truth a little. I don't hate Mary, but she is driving me absolutely insane. I am, by all accounts, a very cheerful person. But I'm also sarcastic and cynical, which sort of balances it out so I'm not annoying. Mary is only an exceedingly happy person who also happens to be inappropriately lewd.
This morning she was standing outside of my cubicle yukking it up with two other new employees, talking about some sports figure she loves and recently met. I wanted to dig my eardrums out with a jagged fork when she said, "I really did have a crush on him. I was so excited to meet him -- I had to change my panties three times throughout the night."
I don't want to know anything about her panties. Nothing. Next thing you know she's going to be telling me about some biker orgy she's involved with. Because I also happen to know she has a Harley and is involved with the local leather biker scene.
By itself, I think that's kind of cool. But I don't want to hear every little detail about it, including how hot the leather gets her. There are these things called boundaries.
About ten minutes ago, she came to the door of my cubicle and said, "Hey Nicole, come into my office. I need to show you something." I thought to myself, "Please let it be something work related. Please?"
I go into her office and she motions me toward her monitor. I sighed a little sigh of relief. Oh, she has a computer problem! Yay! But then I discover she just wants to show me a forwarded email she received with photos of Martha Stewart's prison cell. I said, "Yeah, I've gotten that email about twenty times since she was indicted. Poor Martha." and walked out.
I really wanted to pick up something heavy and hit her repeatedly until she's unconscious just to shut her up for two minutes.
Mary has been working in my department for four days and I already want to see her run over in the street. This can't be a good sign.
Apparently you all weren't wishing hard enough. Damn you!
There's nothing quite so alarming as hearing a dentist say, "Oh. Look at that." while poking around in your mouth. Nothing. It's chilling. That was followed up by, "You know, if a 50 or 60 year old woman had teeth like this, I wouldn't really be worried. But you're 31 -- what have you been doing to your teeth?"
What's funny is I have tremendously good teeth. Both the dentist and hygienist asked if I had ever had braces and then were flabbergasted when I told them no. I, apparently, have the most perfectly and naturally straight teeth either of them as ever seen. And my teeth are really strong.
Unfortunately, I'm a nighttime tooth grinder. And I clench and grit my teeth when I get pissed off or stressed. So my poor perfect teeth are being ground down to nubs. And the dentist pointed out half a dozen teeth that barely have any enamel left. I risk cracking my teeth at any given moment if I don't take preventative measures.
So. I have to drop $400 on a nightguard for my mouth. I feel slightly sick about this.
While I realize keeping my teeth is worth more than a measly $400, $400 could also get me to Scotland for a week or purchase a really nice piece of jewelry or net me a day at the spa. But I'm biting the bullet [OK, not really -- with my poor perfect teeth, that's now out of the question. I'm not even supposed to eat popcorn] and buying the mouthguard.
It should be really entertaining trying to get used to having a huge piece of plastic shoved in my mouth while attempting to sleep. Great.
On a positive note, the dentist and hygienist are both really wonderful. So that's good news.
Like most people, I hate going to the dentist. But it's just one of those things that you kind of have to deal with, sort of like going to the gynecologist [well, boys don't really have to deal with that]. I will admit that this is my first visit to a dentist in just about three years. My excuse is that when I moved to Fishtown it was a pain in the ass to get to my old dentist in South Philly, and I was frightened to trust my teeth to a Fishtown dentist.
But I'm about to do just that in about 2 hours.
I made Craig go first. He assures me the dentist is a wonderful person. I still have my doubts, but Craig is a bigger baby when it comes to dentists than I am.
I feel a little sheepish about having a fear of the dentist. I did have some issues when I was little, though. When I was pretty young I fell flat on my face in the middle of the street and knocked out pretty much all my teeth. They were all baby teeth, so it was OK, except that I looked ridiculous until my adult teeth grew in. And then I had too many teeth, so I had to get several teeth yanked.
I can still hear the juicy cracking popping sound in my head from having a tooth pulled. I'm getting the heebies just imagining it. But, beyond having two un-impacted wisdom teeth removed when I was 19, I've had no problems. I have two teeny tiny little cavities that I got when I was a senior in high school.
So I know that when I go to the dentist everything is going to be OK. But a few years ago some bozo dentist tried to give me a gross debridement [that's cleaning underneath your gums] with no anesthesia. After I blew out his eardrums with my screeching, he gave me so many shots of novocaine I sounded like Mushmouth for the rest of the day.
But, just to be on the safe side, around 5pm EST I want you to think really good thoughts toward me. Because you just never know what you're going to get in Fishtown.
When I was still on the market, so to speak, I had one single pick up line. It's tried and true, totally stupid, and worked everytime. I'd run up to the target guy, give him a peck on the cheek and a friendly arm squeeze, and say, "I haven't seen you in forever! You look great!" and then continue talking like I'd known him forever.
Most of the time the guy would continue to talk, not letting on at all that he's never seen me before in my life. Boys notoriously have bad memories for that type of thing, and think maybe they met me while drunk or something. If, by some chance, the boy in question actually said, "Do I know you?" or "I think you have me confused with someone else." that's OK too. I can work with that.
Eventually our conversation would come to an end and I'd write my name and phone number down on a piece of paper and say, "Well hey, I have to run...but call me, let's go out!" And I'd get a call within two or three days.
See, it's all strategy. I meet cute boys and no one feels weird about it.
I appreciate a good pick up line from a boy. Something that's not trite or overused is appreciated. Something that isn't completely vulgar or disgusting. Of course, just coming over and saying "Hi, I'm [insert name here]." is always refreshing as well.
There's something terrifying about a site that lists every pick up line ever invented and/or tried. I'm especially frightened by this line: Do you know the difference between my penis and a chicken leg? No??? Well, let's go on a picnic and find out! and the fact that 2 our of the 21 women it was tried on thought that was sexy.
Gee, that's a nice set of legs, what time do they open? What woman would be charmed by that?
I have this theory, you see. If finding something to wear in the morning proves to be too difficult and mentally demanding, I should call out of work. I guess I just think of it as a cosmic sign that I'm better off not in the office.
This morning I must have tried on every single piece of clothing in my closet...twice. Nothing screamed, "Wear me!" I hated everything. Nothing was right. So I threw on an old faded red tshirt and a pair of cut off sweats, picked up the phone, and called out of work.
My outlook on working is that life is too short not to use your personal days. It's not like I have anything exciting planned for today. I'm knitting a pair of slipper clogs for Craig. Maybe I'll cook, do some laundry, do a little yoga. I have a dentist appointment later on. But it's the principle of the thing -- any morning I don't feel like working, or it's too much of a hassle to be at work, forget it.
And, luckily, I have a boss who encourages that sort of thinking. I was just out of the office on a personal day last week or the week before, and I had half a day off on Tuesday. But it's not like I'm missing anything pressing at work right now. I don't have gifts sitting on my desk, or donors to thank, or anything.
Sloth, thy name is Nicole.
I just had lunch with Mea, which is always a good time. After lunch I walked her back to the subway so she wouldn't get lost in the maze of tunnels in Suburban Station.
So we're rounding the corner by the korean hair store and Taco Bell when a sight to behold presents itself. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was Divine a la Pink Flamingos. Or maybe Divine's fraternal twin sister. I started to giggle.
The more I looked at faux-Divine, the more I started to laugh. It was a big, big woman all in white. White mini, long white leather coat, big huge bleach blonde hair, and high heeled white ankle boots. With each step, I half expected her to turn around and scream, "Kill everyone now! Condone first-degree murder! Advocate cannibalism! Eat shit! Flith is my politics, filth is my life! Take whatever you like!"
By this point, I was laughing at the top of my lungs. Poor Mea must have thought I was going to collapse and then she'd never make it to the subway. You just can't take me anywhere.
I ran over to the Dunkin' Donuts just now for a bagel and Dunkaccino. A new counter person has been hired. She is a scrawny little girl with bad teeth and negligable English skills. I had to repeat my order twelve times before one of the veteran workers saved me.
She didn't so much as hand me my bag, as throw it at me. So I tried to juggle the bag and ended up knocking over their tip cup. All of a sudden she could speak perfect English. "Be careful!" she admonished me.
Yes, don't want to hurt the money.
In an effort to calm myself down before I hit some random stranger on the street I stopped by the salon on my way back to work and grabbed an eyebrow wax. Now I'm well-groomed and calm. See how that works?
I recently was told that an old fling of mine has converted to Islam. He now goes by Karl Mohammad. All this over a girl.
Karl has always been somewhat of a slut. He genuinely loves women, and is very respectful of them [in general]. And even when he's blowing you off for another girl, he's just so charming about it you forget that he's being an asshole and you forgive him. We've all dated that person.
I remember our brief encounter. It was one of those revenge things. My former boyfriend and I had just broken up under horrible circumstances, and I was feeling vindictive. So I slept with Karl, my former boyfriend's fraternity brother. It makes absolutely no sense now, but yet, it happened.
Anyway, Karl and I went out for drinks with his sister and it ended up with us on the floor of my dorm room [Karl and I, not the sister -- although that would probably make both an ickier and more interesting story]. And Karl kept making these faces in the throes of passion that were hysterically funny. And I was finding it really hard to keep from laughing. I tried to close my eyes and ignore the faces, but imagining the faces was even worse than actually seeing the faces. It was awful. And funny.
But we stayed friends after the fiasco, and it was all good.
So now this thing with Karl and his religious conversion. To my knowledge, I believe Karl was Jewish to begin with. I've met his family -- very well-to-do suburbanites. They don't seem the type to be accepting of Karl's decision to ditch the family religion. Karl Mohammed.
Did I mention Karl also was a champion drinker? I can't imagine him as a Muslim. And this is not a casual conversion -- this is a full on, robe wearing, beard growing, praying five times a day conversion. For a girl.
Even though I bitch about my job endlessly, there are some perks. Like today, for instance. My boss scheduled an afternoon-long meeting for four of us in my department who are just about the same age, and we all get along really well and like each other. Guess where we're having the meeting?
Well, first we're heading over to Dave & Buster's for a little skee ball and video game action, and then we're going to sit river-side at Rock Lobster for cocktails.
It's nice not to have to be at work on a pretty sunny day!
I played with Barbies up until the time I was 12 years old. I think it might be time to start up a new Barbie collection.
I'm definitely putting the Kozik and Gothic Barbies on my Christmas list.
[Link found via Venomous Kate]
According to the Past Life Analysis generator, I was a man in my past life. This makes sense on a couple of different levels.
What else? Well, supposedly I was born in 1875 near Bulgaria, and I was a teacher, mathematician, or a geologist. OK...
Because I believe in reincarnation, I've always been interested in going through a past life regression. It's not that I'd believe whatever came out of the session 100%. I don't completely believe much about death and what happens when we die. How can I? It's not like I have first hand knowledge of the whole process.
But I am curious.
So I'm laying on the beach, stomach down, just sort of watching the waves, when I feel something wet land on my back. At first I think maybe someone is throwing sand and I go over another couple of possibilities in my head.
"Is there something on my back?" I ask Craig. He flips over and starts laughing hysterically.
I was the target of an incontinent seagull. A splotch of bird shit the size of a small dinner plate landed squarely in the center of my back, as if the seagull had very carefully timed his release and then laughed maniacally as it hit the bullseye.
And then Craig details about just how disgusting the patch of bird poop residing on my back is, before he wipes it off. Like I'm not feeling gross enough before he tells me it looks stringy. Thanks!
So here are some observations from today:
Wind in my hair, sand in between my toes -- I'm going [as a tribute to Statia] down the shore! Woooooooooo!
While going to the beach is always one of my all time favorite things to do on a Summer day, there's some terror involved. It's not knowing what is swimming around me in the ocean, and it's not even that there's a good chance I could be swimming in toxic waste or about to step on a hypodermic needle at the Jersey shore. It's appearing in public in a bathing suit.
When I was younger and my weight wasn't an issue, I'd put on the tiniest bikini I could find and strut around the beach and not think a thing of it. Now that I'm older and there's actual cellulite involved it's more frightening. And annoying.
I'll be sitting there on my towel fully clothed when I arrive. I have to someone figure out how to get undressed without calling attention to myself. One wrong move and a boob is waving to my beach neighbor, or a butt cheek might pop out to say hello. Or worse yet, the dreaded pubic hair peep [I'm a trimmer, not a shaver].
And then there's the issue of strolling along the beach. If the beach is filled with old fat chicks it's really not an issue. If the beach is full of young hot chicks with nary an ounce of fat on them, well, I get a little self-conscious. Sarongs are involved.
I could back it up even further and talk about the planned torture of trying on bathing suits to begin with, but that's too much for me to deal with this early in the morning.
Beyond all that, I love going to the beach. I love the smell, the warm wind, the sand. So I'll be back later with a raging sunburn [despite my 80000 SPF sunscreen]. Look toward Philadelphia -- see the weird red glow? Yeah, that'll be me.
It looks like the weather finally broke, and we've been getting a bit more sun than we've gotten used to. All I've been asking for is a little bit of sun for my poor, beleaguered, water-logged garden.
Good things happen when I get both rain and sun:
And tomorrow I think we might go to the beach for the day. As much sunscreen as I slather on, with me having practically see-through skin I'm sure to be a big red crispy critter tomorrow night. The poor people on the beach will be blinded by all my uber stark white reflective skin!
I really like the word schtup...as in, I just schtupped my husband.
I giggle every time I say it or see it written. It's hysterically funny.
I forgot that today is Friday the 13th -- a perfectly good skinning opportunity, wasted. Dammit!
I've never been one for superstition. Stepping on cracks, walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, etc., has never filled me with terror. But I have a nagging fear of looking into mirrors in a dark room.
Yes, it's totally silly. I don't even know what I think is going to happen -- Bloody Mary will appear and try to pull me into the mirror...I'll see gruesome dead people behind me...maybe bad luck for the rest of my life...I don't know. I just studiously avoid looking into mirrors when it's dark in the room. I guess I'm better safe than sorry.
What kills me is that I've seen a ghost in my bedroom while looking into the mirror during the daytime. Why should I be freaked out by the thought of seeing something in the dark? I think maybe I've just seen one too many scary movies and read a few too many scary books.
Another Thursday morning meeting during which I had nothing to say and couldn't stay awake, another two hours of my life I'll never get back.
I'm getting really good at feigning interest while snoozing.
After reading a comment that someone left me today, I reread all of my entries and realized that I've really been in a bad mood today. It was Pick On the Deeply Religious day, and complain about everything else I could think of day. I just didn't realize I was being so negative.
That's just no good for my karma.
So....things that were good today. The weathermen were wrong: it didn't rain. Because it didn't rain, Craig made dinner for me again: grilled salmon, and it was delicious. I arrived home to another gift from my loving husband: Buffy, Season 4 on DVD -- I watched Hush. Twice. My husband looks hot today...he looks hot everyday. And he's just a wonderful guy.
Oh, and I found a photo today that really made me laugh...
There is this culture of passive laziness here at Panhandler's Central. From what I understand, this culture is pervasive at many nonprofits. People are always at least five minutes late for meetings, and meetings meander at a leisurely pace, agendas are not kept to. You know, that sort of thing.
This has always pissed me off.
When it comes to work, I may not do much around here, but if I call a meeting [or if I attend a meeting] I want it to start on time, and I want it to be run properly. If you stroll in ten minutes late I will beat you down with my portfolio. I have a tendency to be a real stickler for my schedule. If I have to be somewhere I'm there five minutes early and I'm prepared.
Today I am extra bitter. I called a meeting to wrap up my Board training program and only one person showed up at all. Perhaps I don't hold enough power to frighten people into attending my meetings. Perhaps my usually cheerful demeanor annoys people to the point of gag reflex. Perhaps my attention to schedule frightens the flakes.
Whatever the case, now I'm all bitter about it. I'm pissed that I wasted my time preparing for a meeting that 3 out of 4 people blew off. Not even my brand spankin' newly painted and manicured fingernails can cheer me up.
Argh.
I have been known to shed all attempts at class and dignity. Like the time I introduced my ass to a store full of cops, and when I ran around a bar with a plastic rack and butt. Of course, not all my spirals into cheesy embarrassment involve alcohol. Sometimes I'm moved by the sheer ridiculousness of the moment.
Don't believe me?
Most of you already know this, but if you hate the new pink skin, you can change it. Just click here and pick a new skin. As long as your cookies aren't reset you will never have to see the pink skin again!
Now....Craig and I went for a drive today in the pouring rains and Craig asked me what the difference is between a restaurant and a diner. The obvious answer is that, traditionally, a diner is the dining car of a train. But that's not usually the case anymore.
Craig thought maybe a diner had to have a bar where you sit and order food. I've been in diners that don't have that, and in restaurants that do. I suggested maybe it's just a matter of the owner wanting to call it a "restaurant" or a "cafe" or a "diner" or whatever.
Is there an actual textbook definition?
New product whore that I am, I've been wanting to try one of these home tooth whitening products that have been flooding the market for the last year. It's not like my teeth are brown or anything, but I do drink a ton of coffee, Diet Pepsi, and red wine. My choppers could stand a whitewash.
I finally broke down a few days ago and bought a package of Crest Night Effects. I can't be bothered with whitening stuff during my waking hours and I don't like the idea of leaving a piece of plastic in my mouth while I sleep, so Night Effects seemed like the better option.
And I'm going to recommend the product.
It's not all a perfect thing. You brush your teeth before you go to bed and then you dry off your teeth, and you have keep your lips off your teeth so the teeth don't get wet. Obviously you're only going to be able to get your front teeth, unless you're a mouth contortionist.
Then you get 14 packs of tooth whitening goops and 14 little plastic applicator brushes. You open one pack each night. So you brush the goop onto your teeth and then you have to keep your lips from touching your teeth for a minute or two.
That's kind of hard.
The worst part is what happens then. The goopy whitening stuff sort of hardens into a wax-like substance. It really feels weird against the inside of your lips and it's a little bit disgusting. Oh, and it's really unattractive.
And then you drift off to sleep.
I always rub the waxy goop off my teeth in the morning when I take a shower. Apparently if you don't rub it off somehow before you brush, waxy goopy stuff can clog your toothbrush. Ew.
But anyway, I've been using it for four days and I can already see a difference. So yeah, if you can deal with the goopy waxy ickiness, the product works.
I think I need to go brush my teeth again.
Craig's family dog, a Welsh Corgi named Rikki, was put to sleep today. Craig called me a few minutes ago and just sort of told me in passing, conversationally. I said, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry. Are you OK?"
There was a pause on the phone. And then, in a really incredulous tone, he answered, "Well yeah, why wouldn't I be?" I'm upset and it wasn't even my dog. Apparently Craig handles death much better than I do.
Rikki was part of his family since he was a kid. By the time I came on the scene Rikki was already pretty old and had to take medication for thyroid problems. I watched her decline these last few years. Sometimes her legs gave out on her, and breath was wretched most of the time. But she was the friendliest dog on the planet and I loved that dog to death, despite the fact that she shed on me like crazy the minute I touched her for a scratch.
Yeah, I'm sad.
To be honest, I've not really had the best of luck with pets. My first pet was a cat named Caesar, a Siamese cat with a bad attitude. I was five years old. One day my mother wanted to take a bath and I didn't want to come in the house, so she locked the door so no one could sneak up on her and kill her in the bathtub and let me out on the porch to play with the cat. I guess she really wasn't concerned about someone snatching me....well, what can I say, it was the 1970s. Anyway, a dog came by and scared the cat so I grabbed her and hung on so Caesar wouldn't run away. That damn cat went nuts and scratched me until dripping blood from my arms. Apparently my screams of terror were enough for my mother to rip herself from the luxury of a Calgon bath. The cat ran away, never to be seen again, and I was left with huge claw gashes up and down my arms, the scars from which are still visible today [I'm 31].
That's when I lived in the actual town of Berwick. After that we moved out to the boondocks where there were no neighbors -- just miles of farmer's fields. We averaged about two new cats every year. Usually the cat would somehow get outside and never return...likely run over by farm equipment or carried off by a fox. There were exceptions, of course.
Take, for instance, the case of a kitten we adopted who fell in the sump pump hole. We never knew what happened until we started to smell something nasty in the basement. I'm pretty much scarred for life by the sight of my mother reaching into the hole and hauling up the dead kitten.
Ah, the good old days.
Sassy is the pet I've had for the longest period of time. She's been with us for about four years now. I know I'll be a wreck when she dies. I can't even imagine what I would be like if a pet that's been in my family for years and years died. Maybe Craig is just being manly.
So I was just in another long and boring meeting this morning that had nothing to do with me or my work. They should really rename this place from Panhandlers Central to Just Try to Do Your Work! Mwahahahaha!
Anyway, the woman who has been running the last few meetings has a hearing problem. Unfortunately, no one wants to be the asshole and suggest that she let someone else scribe for her. If she's not looking directly at you when you're speaking, she can't hear you. When there are 30 people in a meeting all talking at once, there's no way she's going to get everything and so a lot of information is lost and then when she passes out the minutes at the next long and boring meeting, then we all have to tell her what she missed. And then there are 30 people talking at once again. It's a vicious circle. And it makes these meetings unbearable.
I've begun to develop the skill of sleeping with my eyes open. Very handy.
I have absolutely no interest in being buried when I die. If all goes well, a couple of my organs will still be usable for organ donation -- so those will be harvested and then I'll be cremated and my ashes will be spread [clandestinely, of course] in the Haunted Mansion at Disney in Orlando.
But if I were to buried in the traditional way, I'd totally want this casket. Or maybe this one. I'd request to be dressed like Violet from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, complete with blue face and blueberry body, and at the height of the viewing I'd be animatronically programmed to rise out of my stunningly funny coffin and pelt the mourners with gummy bears. Then I'd slump back in my coffin and the lid would slam shut and lock. And the coffin, when locked, would be programmed to whisper "I see dead people!"
Yeah, it's better that I go with the cremation.
I have a work event tonight. So I'm sitting in my office in my pretty princess/corporate whore black suit. I've had this suit for a couple of years. I don't wear it alot because I'm not required to wear a suit here at Panhandlers Central. But I noticed when I put the suit on this morning that it's not looking so good anymore. There are threads hanging and the fabric is starting to look shiny.
So I'm doing what any normal person would do. Today at lunch I'm going to run out and buy an exact replica of this suit and I'm going to change into it in the bathroom. No one will ever know. Except you.
I have a severe phobia.
My friend Mena never went to her prom and she's really bitter about it. You can't talk about prom season in front of her because she immediately launches into her story and freaks out about people who got to attend their prom. Of course, Mena really does have reason to be bitter. She's got a really horrendous story.
When it was time for Mena to go pick out her dress, Mena mother offered to make a dress for her. And Mena, not being a suspicious person, accepted. She never really thought it was strange that her mother never measured her. Mena never even saw the dress in progress. Whenever she asked about it, her mother always said that she was working on it.
OK, so it's the day of the prom. Mena's boyfriend has his tux and has rented a limo. Her best friend has come over to do her hair and makeup. Mena's wearing the good underwear. Mena knocks on the door to her mother's craft room. Mena's dress is still in the cut apart form -- not a stitch made in the dress.
Apparently there was some, um, discussion. And crying. I can't imagine the horror. No wonder she's scarred for life.
I feel so weird today.
I dumped my blogroll this morning, which was oddly liberating. Now I'm thinking about doing some other blog-related things. I'm also thinking of dumping some of the skins I made. I don't know, I just don't like them as much this week...plus some of them have problems.
I feel, I don't know, like I'm in flux or should be in flux. I'm just uncomfortable sitting here in my little cubicle office, knowing full well there are better things to be doing today.
I'm on the list over at Blogmoxie for a new design. I wish I could say that I was on the list of a new life, or at least a new job.
Today is just a whiny, jumpy day.
I can't get my thoughts together enough to do an entire entry yet, so here is what's randomly floating around my head this morning:
Yesterday I gave up one of my precious ten minute meeting breaks to talk to a co-worker about yoga. I've been doing yoga for many years now -- I took hatha classes from the Picasso of yoga for three years, Bikram for a little over a year, and now I follow a home practice of my own. It's not some weird new age-y shit, but I do admit that it keeps me relaxed enough so that I don't throw down on the street with random people who irk me.
Anyway.
A few weeks ago our HR department started a little noontime exercise stretching class. It's basically the kind of thing meant for immobile old ladies and you don't even have to change out of your work clothes. No thanks. But then someone in another department made some noise about having afternoon yoga in one of the conference rooms, and contacted me to talk about options.
So I gave her a basic sales pitch and recommended my former hatha instructor -- she's really an excellent instructor and she has a studio locally and she already does corporate classes. And hey, if I don't have to leave the building for good instruction, so much the better.
And then I started to think about it.
Would I really want to do yoga with people I work with? Some people are probably going to be OK to exercise with, but then there are going to be people who I don't want to see in shorts. Also, yoga is a very personal practice. I don't want to talk to someone about a meeting I was just in while I'm concentrating on not falling over in balancing stick pose. I don't want to have to politely ignore someone yukking it up during corpse pose.
And here's the other thing: I'm pretty flexible. You just know there's some older woman who is going to be watching me in dancer pose wondering if I was contortionist in the circus at some point....and some guy from IT wondering if he could schnooker me into bed. There's just all sorts of other stuff that goes into doing unprofessional things with your professional co-workers.
I'll have to consider this a little more.
I feel, I don't know, kind of out of it and weird today. It might be all the stink and mess those boys left yesterday during Testosterone Day. I swear, I go away for one day and now there's dirty underwear balled up on the floor, flatulent drunk guys in the corners, and empty beer cans all over the coffee table sans coasters.
Or it could be that I jammed my mascara wand in my eye this morning by accident.
Ah, estrogen!
I really did have a mascara wand episode this morning. Now I'm walking around with one eye all puffy and red and without mascara. I look like a freak...or like I have pink eye.
I'm also discombobulated because I forgot to put my watch on. So all day I'm going to clutch my wrist in panic every 20 minutes thinking I lost my watch. Stupid.
And thank you to Mikey, Andrew, Scott, Buzz, and Sledge for keeping things entertaining around here yesterday. I'm really kind of missing the orange and manly skin.
One of my wealthy brats Program participants stopped by to have a chat about Board service with my Vice President. I've been running this program now for four years and it's amazing to me how predictable people are.
Everyone wants to sit on the board of an arts agency -- the ballet, the theatre, the orchestra. It's the cool thing to do. It will bring you instant fame and will make you hip to your ultracool blase friends because you can score free tickets to events. It will look great on your resume.
Rarely does anyone prance into the program and lay it out to me like this: "Nicole, I have a real passion for helping the homeless. I'd like to serve with a small agency that runs a soup kitchen." I'd probably pass out if someone said that to me.
Anyway, this kid comes in to talk to the VP. Somehow the VP turns him onto the idea of serving with health and human services agencies because it's the humanitarian thing to do. He sits down in my office [he looks like a 12 year old in a business suit, by the way] and says, "My goal is a big theatre, but starting out I'd like to go with a health and human service agency. Mr. N told me some great things about them."
And I say "Yes, HHS's are great and you can impact the community a lot more with a smaller organization" blah blah blah. "So what types of agencies are you interested in?"
Blank stare.
"I don't really know what health and human services agencies are," he says.
I think I smirked, but I reigned it back in. I explained it all to him, and he still didn't really seem to get it. I could see I was going to have to do all the heavy lifting.
I've decided all I really want in life is to live on my own private tropical island while muscle-y studs fan me with giant feather fans and bring me round after round of Guinness pints. Oh, and I want to wear sequins and high heeled mules every day, but they won't hurt my feet because I will never need to stand -- my boys will carry me wherever I need to go. And hats -- I look good in hats, so I want to wear massive hats all day long.
And some of my cabana boys will tend to a flock of goats and sheep and cows and make cheese for me. My cheese-eth will runneth over-eth.
I'll have money with my own photo on it. It'll be a glamour shot of me with a big cheesy grin. I will be the supreme ruler of my island -- decreeing that organized religion be abolished, anyone can get married as long as it's two consenting adults, everyone will have federally funded health care, and no one is allowed to resort to violence for any reason.
Who's coming with?
So, it has rained pretty much every day for the last couple of weeks. That means I haven't had a good hair day in almost a month. Do you know what kind of effect looking bad for nearly thirty straight days can have?
Plus, I got a little bored today on my day off and I started taking random self-photos. Note to self: never, ever, under any circumstances, take macro shots of your skin. I realize that I'm 31 now and my skin is obviously going to start showing some wrinkles, but goddamn! I don't just have crow's feet -- I have the entire crow on my face!
It's enough to send me screaming to the spa or the dermatologist.
For a completely vain person like me, getting older-looking is difficult. I don't know what 31 is supposed to feel like, and I'm not sure what it's supposed to look like. It's not like I'm running around in hot pants and halter tops or anything -- you know, kiddie clothes. I moisturize and I don't have a lot of late nights or drinking binges. I rarely go tanning or even so much as leave my house without sun protection on my face.
When I look at my face it's obvious I'm not 20 anymore. I'm really whiny about this today, after taking a look at those photos. I probably look like I should -- like I'm 31. But I really panicked today. And combined with an extended period of bad hair, well, it's a recipe for overly narcissistic rambling.
Blah.
I was kind of excited last Friday. There was a voice mail on my phone from a local publishing house, asking if I wanted to come in for an interview.
I should have known better.
The HR chick called me back this morning and was going through their list of extensive benefits. And then it gets to the part where I ask about the salary. "Well, I can't really talk about that over the phone," she says. "But can you tell me for the general range you're looking for?"
I name a number and she sighs. "The position pays significantly less than that, I'm afraid."
Looks like I'm stuck at panhandlers central for now.
What is this strange bright yellow fiery ball in the sky? I stepped outside my house just now to walk over to the post office and felt something strangely warm. I cast a shadow on the ground. I didn't get rain drenched.
It's fucking sunny! And it's not raining. I better stop talking now for fear that I should somehow jinx myself.
I ran into the pharmacy down the block on Sunday to get my birth control pill prescription refilled. The pharmacist asks, "Do you want the brand name or the generic?"
The question confused me. It's understandable [in my mind] to have generic brand antibiotics or pain killers, but it seems wholly bizarre to have generic birth control pills.
When I think of generic, I think of those products in the grocery store that come in a white bag or bottle or can and simply proclaim "beer" or "pretzel twists." I have been brought up to believe that generic means cheap and substandard.
I mean, if given the choice between a a white can of "cola" and a can of Diet Pepsi, I'm sure you can guess which one I'd choose.
So anyway, I kind of stared at the pharmacist for a moment with a twisted up, worried look on my face, while I was imagining the birth control pills failing and me ending up pregnant, and then the huge fucking fit I would throw. "Well," I said. "What is the difference?"
I was on the verge of caving. Because I knew I'd pay less, since my insurance encourages generic drug usage with a lower co-pay. And, hey, I'm almost broke. I take the savings where I can get it!
"There is no difference," my pharmacist told me. "Honestly, the drugs are manufactured by the same company and just packaged differently."
Oh.
So I came home with generic birth control pills. Despite the pharmacist's assurance, I feel slightly like my grandmother who washes out ziploc bags for reuse -- ultra thrifty. If I start wearing my pants backward [an old go fish family trait for the aging], someone shoot me.
One of the perils of not driving is getting a craving for Ben & Jerry's at 12:27am. The nearest grocery store to me is not a 24/7 type of thing, and I wouldn't want to walk through my neighborhood alone right now anyway. You know, because I like not being raped and murdered. No ice cream is worth all that.
So I'm just going to sit here and wish I was insured on Craig's car. Or maybe I'll go to bed and dream of ice cream.
Of course, I'd probably have to drive to ten places before I found what I want anyway -- Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie mixed with Cherry Garcia.
I have a warm fuzzy knowing that I have the next two days off from work. Every work week should only be three days long.
Yay!
My favorite fruit is the cherry. Maybe it's the fact that they aren't available year round or maybe it's the just the raunch associated with saying "I like to eat cherries."
Whatever -- but I'm scarving down a whole bag of them today.
I woke up at 5am today. I mean, woke up with no chance of going back to sleep. It was just *bing* eyes wide open, not even comfortable laying in bed, have to get up and walk around, and yet my body doesn't feel right.
I somehow feel off, and I can't put my finger on it.
It could very well be because it's now 6:30am on a fucking Saturday and I'm up instead of sleeping my ass off.
And now I'm bitter about it.
I told someone recently that you don't get into my house if it's a total wreck unless you've seen me naked. I might tell you it's a wreck, but if I let you in I have at least made an attempt at picking up the detritus that lays around my house on a daily basis.
But in general, if I know someone is coming over, I spent a minimum of one hour cleaning up. The kitchen, the livingroom, and the bathroom are the hot spots.
If my mother or someone in my family is coming over, well, that's a different story. It then becomes a multi-day affair that involves scrub brushes.
Because my mother has been known to do the white glove test.
I was just running down the hall to put some mail in the outgoing mailbox, and I stopped by our Assistant's desk. Another Assistant, Helen, was there talking about laughing at someone's ID card that was really ugly. I thought maybe they hired a really ugly guy in her department, so I asked.
Helen looks at me and says, "No. I'm talking about my husband who is becoming a woman. We're getting a divorce, and I'm currently living with my sister."
That's not something you hear everyday.
I recently re-watched Bring it On, which I don't think you can fully appreciate unless you were a cheerleader at some point in your life. Oh sure, it's a really dumb movie. But I can, and have, had an in depth conversation about this movie with people regarding the cheers. I always argue this point: if you're going to make a movie about cheerleaders, make sure the actor playing a cheerleader is believable.
Eliza Dushku made a believable cheerleader. Maybe she has experience, I don't know. But Kirsten Dunst? No way -- she was a total spaz in action. Her arm movements and hand positions were awful, and her crowd attack in the competition scenes was atrocious. What was especially irksome was how all the black cheerleaders on the Compton Clovers team suddenly turned into white kids while stunting. I really get irate about this kind of stuff. Just like Star Trek fans get pissed when something Trek-related is mis-represented somewhere, I get nuts when cheerleading movies don't use real cheerleaders.
At least I have the grace to be half-ashamed of it.
Despite the fact that I always downplay my involvement, the truth is that I was way into cheerleading. In high school I was the captain of the team in my senior year. I made up all the dance routines and cheers, and choreographed the stunts. I went to cheerleading camp with my team every summer of high school. I won the Spirit Stick. I [*sob*] used jazz fingers. I spent hours practicing cheers.
I'm not sure how I can explain myself. I mean, I liked the cheerleading part of it, but I hated all of my school's sports teams and I hated everyone in my school. It wasn't like I was prancing around with all the other cheerleaders making fun of band kids or goths. Those people were my friends. I was your basic anti-social alterna-girl who ran around in a cheerleading uniform half the time.
In college it was much less un-cool to be a cheerleader. Hey, I got free books out of the deal and that can't be a bad thing. And there were people who were way more into than I was on the team, so I didn't have to do much except learn the cheers, dances, and stunts and show up to games and practices. I wasn't quite as motivated to take charge. Of course, I was drunk a good portion of my off time in college, so that helped.
When I tell people I have chronic cheerleading injuries, they just laugh. "What'd you do, get whiplash from your pompoms or something?" Go fuck yourself, pal. I hate these little wimpy ass cheerleading teams who just run around and look pretty. But I have nothing but respect for teams that work hard and compete and toss up incredible stunts. That shit is hard and cheerleaders get injured constantly.
So take your cheerleading condescension and shove it. I'd like to see you try not to pee your pants when you're being held above a guy's head by one foot, doing a heel stretch with your other foot and smiling at the same time.
Because I work for a larger non-profit, I forget sometimes that all Executive Directors aren't soulless whores. Of course, I have Jill to remind me of that -- she's pretty spectacular and she's a former ED.
I was just on the phone with a local immigration ED and we ended up talking about the terrible things going on in the Congo, and how we're really getting an influx of French speaking Africans and she really needs some French translators, blah blah blah, and she just stopped and said, "Wow, you're really nice! Thanks!"
It was a weird moment -- I didn't even know what to say.
I'm on a break from a half day meeting. I need help. You know how when you're bored silly and your eyes start to glaze over and your head starts to nod and you start to drool a little? Well, yeah, that's what's happening.
None of this shit means anything to me. It's a ridiculous meeting full of people who just like to talk. The outcome of this meeting doesn't affect me in the least. And yet I have to be there.
You know how you can purchase remote controlled vibrators, so one can get off while you're sitting in your chair? Well, so I've heard and all. Uh, anyway -- I think I need a pocket electric shocker...so when my forehead starts heading for the table I can be shocked back into meeting submission.
A woman who is the Executive Director of a local nonprofit agency just called and confessed to me that she couldn't come to an event of mine in two weeks because she's afraid of elevators. My event is on the 52nd floor of a building.
It was all I could do not to laugh at her.
One of my former roommates used to have an irrational fear of raw meat. She wasn't a vegetarian or anything -- just the idea of and sight of raw meat scared the hell out of her. A guy down the hall from us used to date her, and they had a fight -- he chased her around the apartment with a raw steak until she started crying. I tried not to laugh at her for it, but I couldn't control myself.
Sometimes I just don't have a lot of tact.
I shouldn't really make fun of anyone with phobias. I'm deeply grossed out by crumpled up paper -- tissues, notepaper, straw wrappers, it doesn't matter. If it's crumpled up and in my line of sight, I'm going to get fixated on it and increasingly disgusted. Eventually I'll start to feel like I need to throw up. I've never gotten to the point where I throw up, but I feel gross. I have no idea why I feel that way, either. It's just a weird, irrational fear.
I guess the next time I make fun of anyone for having a strange idiocyncracy, they should just throw a wadded up napkin at me. I'm not saying any of you really should -- that's just a hypothetical should. A karmic should.
I just spent the last two hours in a meeting staring at a guy in his thirties who is losing his hair but fighting it. While he didn't have the swirly comb-over or anything, he was using what was left of his thinning hair to camoflauge the baldness by inducing volume. He probably shampoos with volumizing shampoo and uses volumizing products, and blow dries his hair with precision and then coaxes every stray strand into place and then plasters on the hairspray to keep it all in place. But he has so little hair that you can see his scalp just shining through his big pompadour anyway. It's a hair farce, but no one is fooled. It just sort of looks like a hair halo.
I don't know why men are so freaked out by losing their hair. There's rarely a graceful way to go bald, of course. The in between stages are always silly looking -- the horshoe, the big swirly "just above the ear" combover, the Matt Lauer. Either invest in a really really good hairpiece or just shave your head. I understand that not all men have a perfectly shaped head, but I happen to find bald heads on younger men sexy. All that soft, smooth skin...just ready to be licked.
I don't have anything against lawyers. Sure, some of them are scumbags and ambulance chasers, but some of them provide valuable services. Like when I worked in immigration law -- some lawyers do good things.
I have yet, however, to meet a lawyer who isn't a total pompous asshole. My theory is that you become a lawyer because you like to hear yourself talk and you think your bullshit is brilliant.
This morning I got into the office early, about 7:30am. The Vice President stopped by my office to say good morning. Last night at my event I asked a graduate of the program to speak on his experiences as a Board member -- he's a lawyer and he is, quite possibly, the most over the top, smug, bullshitter on the planet. I asked the Vice President what he thought of the graduate.
"He should have been an actor," said the Vice President. "I realize that lawyers are, by nature, theatrical, but he was way over the top. He just loves himself, and he wouldn't shut up!"
Great. As if the participants in this program aren't already self-important schmucks, I have to expose them to the grand pooba of self-important schmucks?
So you know what's next, right? I'm going to get a call from the lawyer asking me how he did. He's also going to try to get me to commit to letting him speak again at next year's Program.
Meanwhile, I'll pray for a bolt of lightning.
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck! It should be a crime against humanity to make normal humans work on a day like today. It's beautiful and sunny and warm -- not a cloud in the sky. Instead of lying beachside or soaking up the sun on my patio, here I am in business suit at work, and I have to work late tonight.
My lunch hour was just spent outside. I just sat down under the Kopernik statue and knitted a sock and watched the people walk by. And now I want nothing more than spend the rest of my day outside. I've got flowers and vegetables to plant at home. I've got my third nipple to dream about.
Argh! Kill me now!
This morning I woke up out of a dream that I had grown a third nipple overnight, and that I went back to my hometown and visited my high school. Danny Bonaduce was my high school sweetheart and he was the in the Drafting classroom when I went to visit. I tried to impress him with my experiences after high school until present and he tried to seduce me. It was disgusting. I woke up and felt violated. I really have to stop drinking Diet Pepsi before bed.
I have never dated anyone with a third nipple, but I made a friend of mine date a guy with one. Well, date is such a strong word. There was a boy I had a thing for and he was having a two friends over, so I invited two of my friends over to his house so his two friends would have playmates.
Who thinks it's going to impress a girl to introduce yourself by saying, "Hi, my name is Dan. I have a third nipple."? Ann-Marie spent the night all grossed out and trying not to pull up Dan's shirt to tweak the nipple.
What is the fascination with boobies? Everyone has them. Even some guys have a rack befitting of a bra, but men don't seem to be quite so turned on by them. Is it that the boobies are attached to someone with a vagina?
No, really.
Yeah, so it's warmer today in Fargo, North Dakota than here in Philadelphia. By six degrees.
It's mid-May, people! It should be in the low 70s. I should have dreams of the ocean, sand, and deep sea fishing right now! I should be craving that nasty smell of suntan lotion. Instead, I'm thankful I haven't put away my winter clothes yet.
I should be planting my flowers and vegetables today. I'm afraid if I do that they'lle freeze and die overnight. I can only look longingly at the bags of dirt and fertilizer on the patio.
Now excuse me while I go put on my parka.
The last 30 minutes of work is excruciatingly painful. My knitting projects are calling to me. My comfy pajamas are calling to me. I need a nap. I need a blankie. I need a cookie and a Diet Pepsi.
I need to leave.
There's currently an Avon war being played out in my office building. You how how it goes: two Avon ladies waging war on one another, secretly scheming to steal customers.
In this case it's an Avon lady and an Avon gentleman. Things are getting out of hand. I heard the Avon gentleman tell some woman in the hall just now that the Avon lady stores all her stock in a rat infested shed. Yeah, things are getting ugly.
I'm just trying to keep off the radar.
Of course, neither of them gets my patronage. Avon cosmetics are crappy and overpriced, and I'm convinced they contain crack or some other mind altering drug. How else can you explain the battalion of women [and men] schlepping this shit to everyone they know?
My mother used to sell Avon back in the 1970s. She went door to door, ready to give her pitch to anyone who would listen. She quit after someone opened the door with butcher knife in his hand, but before she came to her sense I had the full complement of Avon products for children. I had cheesy gold plated jewelry and piss-smelling kids perfume in the shape of a tooth fairy, and all the mini lipstick samples I could ever want.
This turf war thing is weird. The other day I was talking to a co-worker, singing the praises of Max Factor Lipfinity lipstick and Kiss Me mascara. Avon lady stuck her head in the office and claimed that Avon had better products than those and she could prove it. She pulled lipstick and mascara samples out of some secret Avon/Stepford pouch and did some sort of Vanna White-esque hand flourish and told us to try them.
Oddly, everything smelled like...oil. And fish. And then I had a flashback and passed out.
When I awoke my face felt funny...suffocated. I looked in a mirror and Avon lady had gotten at me with her vat of samples.
OK, that last part was not true. Really, we just looked at each and said, "No thanks."
Because crack kills, kids.
It always happens that way -- the salon gets a new tech, she does my nails perfectly and then she gets shipped out. And then the old crappy techs do my nails and they're all jacked up and filed all weird.
Dammit.
Yeah, so I was just trapped in a meeting all morning. That last post was during my five minute break. My ass is completely asleep.
I hate meetings. All everyone does is read from a sheet of paper that they've distributed copies of to everyone. I can read, yo. I don't need someone to read to me or make sure I understand the concepts. Unless there's some discussion that needs to happen, I don't need to be at a four hour long meeting.
And I have the attention span of a gnat in meetings. I end up focusing on things that bother me and then that drives me nuts until the end of the torture meeting.
Today it was an account manager who has a unibrow. I don't mind if a woman doesn't wax her eyebrows or whatever. I mean, eyebrow care is a personal decision. But if you have a fucking Bert-esque unibrow going on, you need to do something about it. This woman looks like someone took an extra wide black Sharpie marker and drew a huge line across her lower forehead.
It's frightening.
So I just returned from the salon. I was sitting in my stylist's chair after my color, but before my cut. She's on the phone and I'm getting impatient. She finally hangs up, comes over to the chair, and say, "My cat just died."
There's a traumatized woman with a pair of scissors and she's coming at my head.
What do you say to something like that?
Believe it or not, most of the time I'm a really polite person to strangers. I hold doors, say "pardon me" with a smile when I get in someone's way, and "thank you" when someone holds a door for me. It's common courtesy, and I'm a big believer in it in my daily life.
As a result, I get inordinately irritated when people do not hold to my particular level of politeness. And everyone today so far has been horribly rude to me. This morning I went to Wawa to hit the ATM and I accidentally stepped in front of a woman on the way out. I smiled and said, "pardon me!" and then got the hell out of the way. The woman just stared me down. OK. I held the door for a guy at Dunkin' Donuts on my way to my morning coffee. He gave me a sneer. A sneer!
Now there are days when I'm surly and I don't feel like dealing with people. I will admit to days when I'm just rude to people. Perhaps this is my karmic payback. But even on my rudest days I'm a "please" and "thank you" kind of chick. Maybe I should pack it up and go home.
I must admit that I really enjoyed participating in the May Day Project on Saturday. It was really difficult to choose photos that didn't reflect what a mundane life I lead. Who wants to see a photo of my ass sitting couchside, right? But I like the way my day turned out.
My big goal today is to check out some of the other entries in the Project. What, with the Race and all, I didn't really have time to look.
I can't hula hoop. It's my badge of shame.
What's strange is that I can't do it. I've got hips. My hips are good farmer stock, breeding hips. I should be a championship hula hooper. Hell, I should be able to hula hoop like there's no tomorrow.
But, for whatever reason, I start the hoop going, wiggle and gyrate and shimmy my hips like a nutcase and the hoop just drops like a stone. The only thing I'm left with is the fact that I look like a complete idiot while attempting to hula hoop.
I need remedial hula hoop lessons.
Another Mother's Day, another Race for the Cure. There was a minor set back involving bleeding feet, but I finished. And Tracey did great! She finished a couple minutes ahead of me.
I'd like to thank the following people for sponsoring my run this year: Joe, Sarah, Solonor, Kymberlie, and
If you've never participated in any kind of race for a cause, it's sort of a weird experience. People stop along the race route and clap for you. You might end up, as Tracey did, running behind a father with his young son wearing signs that say "In Memory of Mom" and "In Memory of My Wife," which is really heartbreaking. I ended up running close to a group of survivors who are identifiable by their pink shirts. All of them have signs that say "In memory of" and "In celebration of." I don't think many people run the Race for the Cure just to run...everyone knows someone or is related to someone who has had breast cancer.
And then let's not forget the free spread that Wawa puts out for us after the Race. All the donuts, bananas, muffins, and pretzels you could ever want. Hooray for Wawa, yo!
And oddly, I got to take Tracey and her boyfriend Jim on a brief tour of Kensington on the way to the subway. It's really sad when the cleanliest place in an entire neighborhood is the subway station. But now Jim nows right where to go if he's ever looking for a toothless hooker!
Sadly, I am frequently mistaken for a ho in that same spot. Who mistakes a woman in a suit with a briefcase [with all her own teeth, I might add] as a neighborhood hooker? An optimist, that's who!
I have downloaded 133 songs since Tuesday. Craig tells me he's going to get me an eye patch, a peg leg, and a parrot.
Yes, I have turned into a CD-making obsessed idiot. This morning when I met Tracey for a run, I gave her a present -- a CD hand-burnt and mixed lovingly by me. It's only a matter of time before I start making my own cover art, because I'm a total smack and I take everything way too far.
Eventually I'm going to find the perfect go fish mix and then I'll just start handing out copies like candy to perfect strangers on the street. Stop me before I burn again.
Dammit! Like an ass, I forgot to take my umbrella out to lunch with me and, of course, it started raining like a muthafucker. Now I have that crunchy hair you get when the acid rain hits hair with a little too much product in it. I'm starting to look like I've got a jeri curl going on. Ick.
But the food was fantastic and worth my new "drowned rat" look. To hell with it, I'm going home.
I know this will come as a huge shocker for those who have been reading go fish for a while, but I have no patience. Zero. Zilch. Not even a smidgen.
A few years ago I tried to teach Craig how to write simple HTML code. We sat down, I explained the basic format of a single website page written in HTML. He seemed to get it. Then I went on to explain image and URL links, and somehow lost him. I went over it twelve more times, and he still didn't get it. Finally I just blurted out, "I don't understand why you're not getting this. It's so easy."
End of lesson.
This is one of the main reasons I don't want to have children. Kids are trifling to me, because they require good-natured patience. I don't have that. If the kid can't be potty trained the first time I explain the situation, there are going to be problems. It's also the reason I decided against being a teacher.
Let's take poetry as an example. I love poetry. In college I tried to explain how to pick apart poetry to get the deeper meaning to my roommates throughout their various literature classes. No one got it and eventually stopped asking me to explain how to do it because I got all irate when no one could see the obvious vagina references and sexual imagery in Kubla Khan.
You would think that I would have a lot of sympathy for people who challenged in some things, considering my major math problems. Oh sure, I can do the basics, but algebra, geometry, trig -- all far surpass my meager mathematical skills. You can try to explain it to me over and over but I still don't get it. My friend Joe tried to coach me in Logic and was rewarded with a blank stare.
But no. Forays into educating the masses usually end with my hair being pulled out in large clumps.
Oh, sweet Friday! I think I might take a half day constitutional today. Because less Friday is even better than Friday itself!
This weekend promises to be interesting. Tomorrow it's all about the May Day Project. There are roads to run with Tracey, flowers to buy, gardening to do, CDs to burn, Dad Vails to marvel at.
And let's not forget Sunday -- it'll be shoe hitting pavement, sweaty bouncy boobs-a-plenty, and huffing and puffing as I shave half a minute off my time in the Race for the Cure. Don't forget that Tracey is running too this year and we will love you, pet you, and call you George if you make a pledge to the Komen Foundation for our respective runs.
I feel like skipping.
Want to know what my favorite song of all time is?
It's Erotic City. The link is for the mp3 of the Prince extended version but I also really dig the George Clinton version.
I'm serious -- above all other songs, Erotic City is my absolute favorite.
UPDATE: the link apparently doesn't work. I'm trying to fix it.
The last 3.5 hours were spent in a meeting, sitting on a very uncomfortable chair that let out huge squeaks whenever I shifted in my chair. It was a really enjoyable way to spend the time.
I kept hoping a bolt of lightning would somehow sizzle me and put me out of my misery. You really shouldn't trap someone who hates their job for several hours with nothing better than to think of how much she hates her job.
Now I'm bordering on homicidal.
So I'm sitting in my office just now and the patchouli stink woman stops by my office for an afternoon chat. Today her funky smell is combined with body odor. Yum, yum--patchouli and BO. How did I get so lucky?
Anyway, she sits down and bends over to play with some of my magnets. As she points her butt toward me she lets out a little poot. She sits down and says, "Excuse me. I just let out a little gas."
Who says that? "Let out a little gas." First of all, I have the sphincter control not to let one out in a co-workers office, but if I did and it was obvious, I think I'd probably just say, "Oooo, pardon me for the fart."
Professional? No, but neither is cutting the cheese in someone else's office. And now I'm left with the smell of patchouli, BO, and fart. I hope no one comes into my office.
My good friend, Tom, gets embarrassed every time he hears "Come on Eileen." He's one of those people of Irish descent who turns blotchy red when he blushes.
Every time I call him, I sing "Come on Eileen" at the top of my lungs. I requested the band to play it at his wedding. Once I got a few friends from different parts of the country to handwrite the lyrics and send him a copy. I know it's really strange, but I get a kick out of making him get blotchy.
He told me the first time he heard the song was with his uber-Catholic grandmother who went apeshit and lectured him on the perils of sex and masturbation and "wasting seed." He was 11 years old.
That kind of shit can be traumatizing.
The great "cement" debate has got me thinking. I travel a bit, and I know people from varying parts of the country. I hear all sorts of accents, both foreign and domestic every day.
Sure, Boston-ian accents and South Philly accents do not exactly make one sound like a rocket scientist. But, without a doubt, the accent I could do without ever hearing again is the Deep South accent. If you have a bit of a twang or the softest edge of a drawl, I don't mind it too much. But Deep South accents make me think of incest, overalls, bogs, Bloodhounds, and Deliverance. It's my one serious prejudice. So help me, I hear a Deep South accent and I will immediately assume you can't add or subtract.
I'm not saying I'm right or that it's the truth, but that's what happens to me when I hear that particular accent. I have never been able to watch Designing Women because those accents made my skin crawl. Maybe that's a good thing, though.
There's not much of an accent to my speech. I say a couple of words funny, one of which is "car." Sometimes it comes out as "caaar." But I don't say "warter" [water] or "dindja" [didn't you?] or anything like that [which is common locally]. I will say that if I had to choose an accent, I would choose a Scottish accent. I get weak-kneed for Scottish accents.
It makes listening to Sean Connery speak quite an experience.
So I'm at this private club last night during my work event. Three Geman tourists are running around taking photos in all the rooms [this sounds like the beginning of a bad joke]. They stop dead when they see me standing registration duty outside the room. One of them points toward the room and says, "May I look?" I nod, quietly, hoping I can convey with my solemn nod that if he and his little friends take a photo in my conference room I will have to bounce their silly asses out of there. Apparently it worked. The guy sort of poked his head in, looked around hesitantly, and practically fled.
It could have been my steely glare. I've been told before that my icy gaze/evil eye can turn a man to jelly within seconds. Of course, I don't see it -- I think I come off as ridiculously overblown in those types of situations.
Perhaps I've just gotten better at the dagger stare.
Awww yeahhhhhh! Right now I'm typing on my brand spankin' new keyboard! Wooo!
I got home from my event tonight and Craig had it all set up. As it turns out, those crazy UPS fools delivered it right after he got home! Yay!
Now tomorrow I will visit Staples for some recordable CDs and spend the next couple of days figuring out how it all works!
This monitor is fucking huge.
I have breasts, much like half the other people on the planet. I'm fond of them -- they're nicely shaped and have served me well over the years. I think I'll keep them.
Breast cancer runs in my family. My mother is a survivor and so are several of my great aunts. Unfortunately, a couple of great aunts have not been so lucky in the fight. It's for the survivors and those that lost the battle that I'm running in the Race for the Cure on Sunday.
If you've got a buck or two burning a hole in your pocket, why not support my run? A few of your already have, and I'm really grateful for the support -- thank you so much! Make the world a safer place for boobies everywhere by throwing a couple of bucks at the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. Alternatively, if you've got nothing better to do on Sunday [Mother's Day], come down to the Parkway in Philadelphia and either walk or run the Race yourself or cheer me and Tracey on.
Like all good fundraisers, I don't ask without promising something in return. I found some entertaining boobie-related links for you below....enjoy!
I don't mind it when it rains, but I have very specific criteria which make it acceptable. For one, it can't rain on a Monday during the workday. It's bad enough that I'm depressed I'm at work, crouching in my cubicle, trying to stay off the radar...but now it has to rain, too?
Sunday, or Monday through Wednesday after 8pm, is the only time it should rain. And I should be in my house, not responsible for going anywhere, with a large supply of comfort food.
Comfort food to me involves the following:
More fall out from helping Ruby move yesterday: I twisted my knee. I'm hobbling around the house like a 90 year old woman today because every time I take a step my knee gives a resounding twang.
And, of course, I had plans today. Tracey and I had a running date this morning, which I had to cancel. And I was going to make sushi for Statia later on, which I have also cancelled. All I'm going to do today is lay couchside with my heating pad and an economy size bottle of Aleve. I refuse to use BenGay on principle, so at least I won't be smelling old.
Perhaps I will force Craig to be my beck and call boy today. Think he'd listen if I ordered, "Fluff my pillow, bitch!"?
I'm constantly doing stupid things. Like today for instance -- I missed my mouth with a forkful of salad. So now I have four tiny tine marks below my lower lip. Yeah, I really stabbed myself pretty hard.
Also on my list of stupid things for today is volunteering to help my friend Ruby move her shit to a new house. Craig and I were at her house by 9:30am [OK, so I volunteered the both of us]. It's the two of us, Ruby, Ruby's parents, and a bevy of Ruby's crazy cult church friends. Ruby isn't even fucking done packing yet [hello, advance planning - look into it]. Luckily Ruby's church minions buddies must have assumed we were already part of the flock -- there was no "So, have you accepted Jeebus as your Lord and Savior?" or "Do you want to join our church? It's super fun!"
But there wasn't a whole lot of moving going on, either. If I help someone move, I help them move. I don't sit around and shoot the shit, gossip about the neighbors, or watch other people move shit. About two out of eight of Ruby's Jeebus freak crew actually picked up a box. The rest of them just got in the way. Oh, and did I mention there were children of the freaks running around, getting underfoot?
What I find especially funny is that a whole troop of Jehovah's Witnesses were out today in Ruby's neighborhood [the place she was moving out of]. The Witnesses didn't seem to know any of Ruby's churchfolk, yet there seemed to be a little stand off. I'm not even joking. I thought for a minute someone was going to bust out some West Side Story moves and the two factions would have a little dance off. Instead, Ruby's friend Tara casually sauntered up to one of them and sweetly asked, "So, are you one of the chosen ones?" The Witness stared at her stonily and walked off in a huff. Of course, Tara should have been helping us load up the truck but that's already been covered.
I used to move quite often. I moved at least once or twice every year for about seven years. I don't know, there's just an appeal to getting to pack up all the shit that has cluttered up your house and start fresh somewhere else. Of course, that was before I started to accumulate a lot of stuff. Now I have real furniture and an obscene amount of kitchen appliances...it's really too much of a hassle to move. I have informed Craig that the next time we move we're leaving the majority of our stuff here. It's not getting packed or shipped or whatever. I'm just going to hack up the furniture and throw it out a window. I'm going to travel light.
I'm in the mood to knit socks all of a sudden. So I walked over to the yarn shop on Locust Street and picked up some yarn and some new double pointed needles. Guess it looks like I know what I'm doing this weekend.
I also stopped at Kiehl's. I'm excited -- they have tinted lip moisturizer now, so I can look my best when I'm at the gym or running. Woooo!
But, overwhelmingly, the thing that has perked me right up is the roasted beet salad I picked up at DiBruno Pronto. Beets are yummy and fun -- first you eat them and then you pee pink for three days. Tell me that's not fun!
I'm just going to say this: no one, under any circumstances, should wear white pants. Ever. OK, two exceptions - nurses and other medical related fields are OK, and if the pants are super-lined, then they are acceptable.
I know that there are come cute white pants going around, but they only look good on the hanger. Really. People forget that you can see right through white pants. They tuck their shirts into the pants and then you just look stupid...because you can see the pink shirt through the white pants. It looks ridiculous. Then there's the issue of underwear. No matter what you will have VPL...there's just no getting around it. If you wear a thong, it's still visible and then I can see that shiny ass through the white pants. I'm especially repulsed by people who forget that red underwear under white pants is not attractive. And white denim? Don't even get me started...it's right up there with white leather. Or white pleather. This is not the 1980's -- live in the now.
I'm anti-white pants, yo. Step away from the white pants and no one gets hurt.
Argh! I forgot that I had another pointless departmental meeting this morning. I ran out to grab a bagel and arrived back at my desk to find a terse note on my chair directing me to join the meeting asap. So I abandoned my bagel and my dreams of boosting my mood, and arrived at the meeting just in time to hear the Vice President cursing out my entire department over something stupid.
And now I have to devote three hours of life every Thursday, plus assorted other time throughout the week, to developing some ridiculous process manual that everyone is going to ignore anyway. Not to mention that the schmuck heading this whole manual thing up is someone no one likes. Under normal circumstances I would not make fun of someone with a lisp. But this woman has real personality issues and I have to listen to her speak for hours, skipping R's and killing S's. It's as if some karmic bad thing in my past is making me suffer....in spades.
Not to mention that when I was on my way back from getting my bagel I encountered something that infuriates me. Let me clarify that -- it infuriates me when I'm in a bad mood. When I'm my normal, smiling, cheerful self, it merely amuses me. What I'm talking about is this: I was waiting at the elevator, had just hit the "up" button. The button was lit. Some fucking asshat comes along to wait with me at the elevator, but feels the need to push the elevator button five more times. Like pushing the stupid button half a dozen more times is going to make the elevator arrive any faster. Like I am too idiotic to push the button the correct way. Like the elevator doesn't like me, but will only respond to someone else's commanding finger.
OK, I have vented and I'll be getting outside soon for a little retail therapy. Feeling a little better....
I'm cranky today.
Yep, remember a few weeks ago when I mentioned giving blood and told you my tale of bloody woe? Today was that day. Luckily I remembered this morning and dressed appropriately. I hate it when I forget and then have to stretch out the sleeve of a sweater to get to my elbowpit.
I ended up having a lengthy discussion with the nurse about sushi. I had sushi for lunch, about 10 minutes before giving blood, so I wouldn't feel woozy or anything. The nurse was freaked out by the idea of sushi, and then she said that she was under the impression that all sushi was raw fish. So I had to explain to her about veggie sushi, and the cooked kinds, like eel, squid, crab, etc. She was endlessly fascinated and kept asking questions.
Or maybe she was just trying to distract me so I'd fill the bag faster and get the hell away from her.
Have I mentioned lately that I really like my feet? I know a lot of people think bare feet are gross and ugly, but I kind of think I have pretty feet. Everyone thinks they have one perfect feature, and my own little bastion of perfection is my feet. I keep them moisturized and pedicured and there are no things like corns or bunions lurking anywhere. I usually wear a toe ring, and sometimes an anklet -- because feet, like penii, should be adorned.
I fully admit that some people should not be allowed to show their feet. If you don't take care of your feet and have cracked, grey heels, put those dogs away. I don't want to see them. No one else should have to look at that. Or if your feet stink -- hide those bombs. People with skinny feet make me nervous.
My grandmother had to get some toe bones removed last year. It comes from a lifetime of trying to stuff her size seven feet into size five shoes. I can't look at her weird floppy toes. It's a good thing that kind of grossness doesn't run in the family.
Yep, I'm glad it's Spring. I love sandals and open-toed shoes. I love walking barefoot in the grass.
How freakin' hard could it be to find nice flowers online to order for Mother's Day? This is just ridiculous -- everyone has the same old tired FTD crap.
Where do you order flowers from online?
So when I was at the evil communion mass from hell on Sunday Craig and I saw a lady with a bionic leg. OK, maybe not bionic, but it looked like something out of The Terminator. And then I told him about Stuart from Beyond Northern Iraq, who lost some of his leg in a landmine incident. So last night in bed Craig and I were talking about having a prosthetic leg, and what kind of fake legs we might like to have if the need should ever arise.
For starters, Craig and I agreed that having a Terminator type of leg might be really useful. You could have a detachable foot, and all these really cool attachments...
Our pillow talk has really taken a turn to the strange lately.
I was over at Clumsy Twirler Diaries just now, reading Andrew's latest entry. It's about finding your personal scent and how certain perfumes remind you of specific time periods in your life. That Andrew, he's got great stories!
Coincidentally, I was just thinking about this same topic. I'm not a successful perfume-wearer -- it seems as if I put perfume on and five minutes later the scent completely disappears. But I still try. The first perfumes I can remember wearing are Love's Baby Soft and a perfume made by the same company called Rain. You know what I discovered today? You can still purchase Love's Baby Soft. Who knew?
Anyway, yeah, I wore Love's Baby Soft, like every other pre teen girl on the planet. I don't think I ever really liked the way it smelled so much, but it was cheap and it's all I could afford. It was either Baby Soft or that hideous, grandma-smelling Avon crap that came in my tooth fairy statue/perfume bottle.
After I started working, I could afford to move up in the world. I started wearing Anais Anais. Who knows why we do the things we do...I can't stand the way it smells now. Oh, and then there was the Liz Claiborne phase. Who amongst us has not owned at least one triangle bottle of Liz?
I bought three bottles of perfume when I was in Paris. Since perfume purchased in Europe has longer smelly power than perfume able to be purchased in the U.S., I thought I'd give it a shot. And it does actually last on me. But now I worry about being one of those women who smells like I bathe in perfume.
Sometimes you just can't win.
On a different note, over the last few days Kathy and Statia have both posted about lurking visitors and discovered a huge amount of people who read but don't leave comments. go fish doesn't get nearly the traffic that they do, but I wonder if there are any lurkers here. I don't know, just a thought.
I know this is a little strange, but nothing fills me with glee like a new magazine in the mail. Today my issue of Interweave Knitting arrived, heralded by the piquant odor of my mailman.
I rushed to the door and groped the plastic packaging for a second before I tore into it with overwhelming passion. A new magazine! Could this day be any better?
When I was in junior high I subscribed to Seventeen and a few other stupid girlie magazines. In high school I was addicted to my mother's subscription to Cosmo. I was a Details subscriber, long before it became a GQ clone. Back then it was devoted to the club scene. Later on I subscribed to writing journals, paper arts magazines like Somerset Studio, and various cooking magazines. Now, as an adult [if you can consider me one...I sometimes don't], I subscribe to various knitting journals, a couple of cooking mags, and two art 'zines -- one is called Play and it's about art journalling, and the other is called Dog-eared and it's about bookbinding and journal arts.
Yes, I'm a total magazine junkie.
As much as I love to read books, there's something so "instant gratification" about magazines. I always have to have one on hand just to get a quick reading fix. I do the same thing with knitting. I almost always have a baby sweater in process. No, really -- you know I'm not a big fan of children [babies, in particular], and I know of absolutely no one in my daily life who is having a baby and will need a sweater. But baby sweaters knit up quick. So in addition to the full on project for myself [let's say, an adult sweater] I have on needles, I always have something else going that I can finish quickly.
Call it multi-tasking if you want to, but really it's just for my instant-gratification needs. It's a sickness.
How did I not know it was going to rain this early? Either way, I'm glad I took today off from work -- the morning was gorgeous. I took a nice run, I even walked down to the grocery store, and my banana bread just came out of the oven. I'm even marinating chicken in tikka sauce for later on. And I sat outside and read I, Lucifer for about an hour. How is that for a fabulous morning?
Notice that I am studiously avoiding all contact with actual news today. I heard this morning that U.S. troops opened fire on a protest in Iraq last night, killing and injuring quite a few citizens. That pissed me off enough to just want to stick my head in the sand for the day. So Iraqi citizens in the crowd were shooting first, eh? Oh, is that like when U.S. troops shot up the journalists' hotel because gun fire "appeared" to be coming from it, except there wasn't?
I will admit that I watched Jon Stewart this morning. It was the show from the day of Hussein's birthday. And it only served to convince me that Bush is a lying sack of shit. And before you go all "Clinton is the devil" on me, may I remind you that lying about your sex life doesn't endanger the lives of Americans everywhere, OK? It's unbecoming and, under oath, it's certainly illegal, but it doesn't make me [an American] a pariah in every country other than the U.S. So shut it down.
OK, starting to feel bitter and angry again. Think nice, fluffy bunnies. The Serta sheep. Whiskers on kittens. Reigning in my disgust now. Feeling a little better. Head firmly back in oven sand.
Much better.
So.....who's watching Buffy and American Idol and 24 later?
Sometimes I think I might be half vampire -- I look at my skin and it's so white and see through that I have to be descended from the undead. No normal human is quite as pasty white and ghostly-looking as I am.
I'm thinking of purchasing some self-tanner this week. Of course, I'm deeply afraid. I have only used one of those once. I think Coppertone made it back in the mid-80s. It turned me orange and I forgot to wash my hands, so the palms of my hands were dark brown. A very pretty look for me, let me tell you.
I know that self-tanners have improved since then. So I leave it up to you -- I need suggestions. What do you use, why do you like it? Or what have you used that was the worst product ever? I can no longer bear to look dead. Help me!
I'm extending my party, yo. I woke up this morning, turned on the local news and decided it's going to be much too beautiful to work today. So here I am at home in my PJ's, not wearing a bra. The freedom is almost too much!
So what am I going to do today. Well, first on my agenda is a nice jog around the neighborhood. The Race for the Cure is coming up shortly [less than two weeks] so I've got to put in some extra time.
If I wasn't next to dead broke [it's rent time, you know] I'd take the train to NYC. There are a slew of exhibits going on that I'm dying to see. At the very least, when I hit New York on June 23 I'll be able to see the Goddess exhibit at the Met.
Maybe I'll make banana bread. I know, stop the fun train -- I want to get off! Woooo!
Well. Another exciting Saturday evening with a bottle of wine.
I was going through my huge stockpile of books the other day and ran across an old copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I have always adored that book, and re-read it every now and then. Today I found out that the house in which C.S. Lewis grew up in, and which is said to have inspired that story, is up for sale and there is concern that it might be demolished. I hope there is a way to save the house.
Not every single book I read gets sucked into my permanent collection. In fact, I make it a habit to go through the books that I've collected in the last year and weed out the ones I don't want to keep, and I either sell them to a used book store or I donate them. I would estimate that I get rid of 35 books every year, roughly half of what I buy each year.
I don't read nearly as much as I used to. It's almost impossible to read while knitting or bookbinding or making a shrine. Reading used to be my only hobby. I read at least three or four books every week. Now I share my free time with the rest of my interests. The only time I still read half a dozen books in a week is when I'm on the beach. Now I'm down to about one book every week.
I have a real thing with books. The first thing I do when I buy a new book is smell it. New books have their own smell, sort of like a new car or fresh dittos. I especially love the smell of old books. My grandmother recently gave me a box full of vintage knitting books and for the first five minutes I just smelled them. There's something about books that just connect with something in me, and that's probably why I handmake books -- I feel really connected with the form of the book when I finish a new journal or album.
And it's not just the book form -- it's the words themselves. My mother tells me that I taught myself to read when I was three years old by watching Sesame Street. Ever since I've been reading and writing. I have a fascination, bordering on obsession, with words. That might make some sense out of the three dozen journals chock full of my thoughts beginning at age 9, and the 1000+ journal entries I've made here in the last year.
Some of you might know that I'm finally a senior in college. I'm 31 years old, and it's taken me two years of full time college and nine years [off and on] of night classes to make it this far. It should take me two more years to get my bachelor's degree in English Literature. To be honest, I've never had a clear career goal in mind. I just knew that I wanted to do something that involves words. Now I'm thinking of three things -- a master's in Library Science, or Speech and Rhetoric, or some specialty of Literature.
One day I'll figure it all out. In the meantime, I'll concentrate on the words.
On this day of bloggery celebration, I thought I'd let you in on another of my weird phobias. I don't wear skirts. Now I have relented on this rule of mine a few times -- when I got married, for instance. Sure, I wore a dress that day. But, 99.8% of the time I am strictly a pants wearing girl.
The truth of the matter is that I was severely traumatized in a skirt-related disaster some years ago. In high school I got used to having my ass hanging out in front of large crowds of people. I never really gave it much thought -- short skirts were just part of the uniform. In college I wore skirts occasionally, but they weren't conducive to keeping decent while staggering home drunk. It was when I first joined the adult workforce that it happened.
I was working at headhunting agency in Bala Cynwyd [a suburb of Philadelphia], and it was required to dress a little bit on the business-y side. So I bought a couple of skirts. I made the hazardous mistake of purchasing a wrap around skirt, one of those kicky little A-line plaid pleated ones that come just above the knee. And, being poor, it was of craptacular quality.
I'm crossing the busy highway one fine Spring day when the wind catches my skirt in just the right way and blows it up. Way up. Like around my ears. For what seemed like an hour I fought with the wind to get a literal grip on my skirt and compose myself amid the beeps and cheers from a myriad of drivers stopped at the light. It was then I noticed that my boss and three clients were stopped first at the light. Damn.
Now luckily, I was wearing underwear. Yes, it could have been worse. However, the underwear was red with the words "Eat here" written across the crotch. It's doubtful that anyone had eyesight hawkish enough to read the writing on the bush, so to speak, but it was traumatizing nonetheless.
And so, no skirts for me.
So. Take Our Daughters To Work Day. Well, technically, now it's Take Our Daughters and Sons To Work Day. Eh, whatever.
I don't get involved with this. For starters, I'm really not such a big fan of children. Every year my company emails us asking for volunteers to babysit a bunch uninterested kids from the local schools and every year I ignore it. Usually the Vice President of the department signs up to get a kid and then books himself for eight meetings and pawns the kid off on us.
Is it just me, or do none of these kids have social skills? It seems like the only kids who sign up to take part are the ones who either want a day off from school or are required for some reason to participate. They're all monosyllabic, and try to stare you down with that vacant gaze of hatred. And I'm kind of a smartass. When the unlucky employees bring their ward for the day around to meet everyone, I'm all perky and shake hands with them because I know it makes them incredibly uncomfortable.
Plus, most kids don't know how to shake hands properly.
To be honest, most adults don't know how to shake hands properly. You get a clammy limp fingertip squeeze or a manly knuckle squisher. With kids, from really young all the way up to high school seniors, they will look at your hand like it's got cooties and then tentatively lay their hand limply in yours. And then they start blushing uncontrollably, like they just saw you nekkid.
Maybe the kids who sign up for this little Day o' Fun in other regions are more excited, brighter, less sullen. I hope so. Otherwise, I weep for the future.
Now, I realize that, in theory, TODASTWD [nice acronym] is an important program and I should be thrilled to get involved with an event that encourages girls [and now boys] to "achieve their full potential, whether it is in the home, workplace, or community." But I don't really think it does much, other than to expose kids to the tedium of the workplace. Do you really think now is the time to bring kids in here to see the wonder and joy of employment when half the fired employees are in here packing up their desks? If I were a kid coming in here today I'd take one look and vow never to work for a non-profit.
Well.
I have some good news and bad news. Actually, it's all the same thing: I still have a job in the midst of the big restructuring. No unemployment line for me. Yet, anyway.
Of course, as with all "tighten our belts" type of meetings, this one encouraged us all to be passionate about the mission and be fired up and team-driven every day. I thought for sure the Executive Director was going to ask us all to get tattoos of our logo and go on extended ancient bonding rituals together. Nothing says "team" like walking over hot coals together, right?
Meanwhile, my entire department hates coming to work every day, hates the company, doesn't believe in the mission, and was not-so-secretly hoping to be restructured.
Where are my bonbons, dammit!
The shit has officially begun to hit the fan here at Panhandlers Central. You might remember last month I was lamenting a possible unemployment stint. Well, the time is neigh.
I ran down to the supply room to grab some pens for this evenings festivities and ran into one of the supply room employees. She informed me that she was about to go meet with HR and she had a sneaking suspicion that she and the other two mailroom/supply employees were going to be shitcanned, and all services outsourced.
This news has set off a chain of events and clandestine espionage. We are cooler and cucumber-ier than Spy vs. Spy.
We have spies reporting back that one of the mailroom employees has been sighted crying and then speaking to HR, being asked if he was going to be alright. We also have confirmation that at least one person has been told that this same employee has been fired.
My department is having a meeting tomorrow to announce the "restructuring" plans. There are reports that half a dozen people are cleaning out their desks in anticipation of getting the boot. I have it from a good source that seven people in my department are going to be fired tomorrow, so I guess desk cleaning isn't a bad idea. Although, unfortunately, I also have it on good authority that I will not be one of the lucky ones. And I was so looking forward to a summer collecting unemployment -- dammit!
And then there's the whole thing with re-applying for jobs as a way to get rid of people. My department is the only department not doing that. Hmmmmm.
But word spreads like wildfire around here. Rumors are running rampant, with everyone trying to pump each other for information.
Things are about to get ugly.
I get emails from a high end cosmetics store here in town. They also offer facials and massage and waxing services. Today they sent me an email about their new eyebrow guy. This person does nothing other than shape brows.
Sorry for the constant barrage of emails, but I wanted to let you all know that Saturday with Robert, our new "eyebrow guru", was absolutely AMAZING. In fact, it was so amazing that beginning this week he'll be here on Saturdays every week. We had a huge response, and everyone was completely thrilled with their brows. Mine, for one, have never looked better. Again, the details: for $30, you'll get an eyebrow consultation, and then your eyebrows will be plucked and tweezed (he doesn't use wax, which means that you don't have to walk around red all day). Plus, he'll instruct you on where your brows are going, and what you need to work on with him to have perfect arches.I get my eyebrows waxed regularly, but I find the idea of consulting with someone over the future of my brows kind of weird and off-putting and just way too high maintenance for even me.
And $30 for brows? That better comes with an orgasm.
Ah!
Wow. Reading over today's entries -- I don't think I could get any whinier, do you? I guess everyone needs a day to bitch and complain.
Tracey and I finally got to run again this morning. It's fucking cold, but at least it's not raining. I walked about 5 miles, and ran a little over 2 miles. It was a good morning.
And right now Craig is being goofy. He's standing behind me completely naked, smacking his ass. Is that an invitation?
And he's gone.
As I was saying, Tracey and I got our training run in this morning. With the Race only three weeks away, I feel pretty good that I should be able to run it in a little faster this year. That reminds me, if you want to throw a couple of bucks my way [every dollar counts, yo] and be an official sponsor for the Race, now is the time. Now is also the time to throw out some ideas for Mother's Day gifts.
Every year I send my mom a bouquet of flowers and I call her and send a card. But I hate those stupid FTD arrangements, so I always try to find something different. The last few years I've been fond of those gorgeous hand-tied bouquets. Maybe it's time for something different.
What are you giving your mom for Mother's Day this year? Come on, I need some ideas.
Yesterday when I was being reduced to a blissful idiot at the nail salon, I also got my eyebrows waxed. At the end of this little procedure I was given a mirror to check out the handiwork. The girl who waxed me looks down at me with fake-sincerity and says, "Do you also want your lip waxed?"
Someone's been taking Up-sell Tactics 101.
When I was in high school I worked at Burger King for about a week [I had to quit -- the uniforms were horrifying and my complexion was suffering]. They drill it into you that you should always ask if the customer wants "fries with that" or a larger drink for "just 10 cents more" and stuff like that. When I was working in the retail clothing industry, we were always required to compliment whatever the customer was trying on, and say "We have a great shirt that would look perfect with that. Oooo, and this belt and earrings would complete the look!"
Beauty up-selling is a whole other matter because it really preys on insecurities. By the wax girl staring at my upper lip and asking if I wanted it waxed, she immediately made me wonder if I needed it. Is my lip so hairy that it's frightening to look at? Are the hairs long and have mind of their own...do they wave hello at people before I say anything? How could I not have noticed it before? Maybe I should get lip waxed. But I don't see anything. Well, better safe than sorry, right? I should get my lip waxed, you know, just in case.
And then I got a grip and regained control. I am a natural blonde. My face hair is light blonde, and I have almost no hair on my face at all. When I told Craig last night about the up-sell trick he made me sit under a bright light and inspected my face for wax-able hair. "I just don't get it," he wailed. "Where are these hairs she wanted to wax?"
But, you know, the waxing tech is smart. She knows the way to a woman's wallet is through fear. I can't count the number of push-up bras and other figure enhancing lingerie is currently slumbering in my underwear drawer. The media pushes this crazy vision of beauty being perfect skin, hair, and figure and advertisers take advantage of it. The message is that unless you have this flawless outside, no one will ever love you. They propagate this ridiculous fear in women that to be less than perfect is to be less than a woman.
I try to ignore the pressure, I really do. But fucking-A, you should see my bathroom -- it is a tribute to the cosmetic and hair product industry. I have a special hair dryer that promises to make my hair fuller with more body, because boys love full and flowing hair. I have vats of moisturizer and hair gels and lipsticks, all in the pursuit of perfection. The industry is making a killing off of me.
So while I recognize what's going on, I'm still a whore to the Beauty Industry Man.
Is it strange that I kind of feel like asking my nail tech to marry me? The girl turns me into a melting puddle of goo whenever I get my nails done. Her foot and leg rubs are divine. Her hand massages are killer.
If only she had a penis.
I just had a meeting with a donor. She's old and frail, and I was afraid to shake her hand too hard for fear of busting every bone in her hand. What made it worse is that she's a close-talker.
She stood six inches or less from me at all times and breathed her moldy breath on me for 30 minutes. I feel like I need a bath.
A couple days before I went to France at the end of February, a friend gifted me with a book about how to swear and cuss effectively in French. Now, my foreign language skills are limited, despite having taken three years of French, a year of Spanish, and a year of Latin in high school and one semester of Spanish more recently. At the moment I could survive speaking to a four year old in Spanish or French, but anyone older than that and their vocabulary is going to be much greater than my own.
My introduction to French cussing 101 involved calling people a lot of names and swearing like a French trucker and interesting epithets like "dog breath" and "son of whore" and stuff like that. And I was amused. The likelihood of having to curse out a local Parisian just seemed unlikely though, and so I didn't commit any of it to memory.
Little did I know that there is an entire industry devoted to teaching tourists to swear in every available language.
I'm not anti-cursing -- my everyday conversations are peppered with numerous "fuck" and "shit" and all manner of other expletives. My entries are littered with cussing. I just think it's a little strange that there's an obsession with teaching Inga the Swedish immigrant when the appropriate time is to call someone a motherfucker.
Craig has worked in several factories as a shipping and receiving manager. One was in Trenton, New Jersey and made parachutes and life rafts. The other was in Philadelphia and made tableclothes. In both there were many many employees who spoke Russian, Vietnamese, Polish, and Spanish. In such a multi-culti environment, can you guess what he learned? He learned how to swear in Russian, Vietnamese, Polish, and Spanish.
Fucking-A.
Susan was just talking about how her green gazing ball broke over the long Winter. When I saw the photo she posted with the entry, I breathed a sigh of relief.
I'm freakishly frightened by gazing balls.
My grandmother has always had a least one gazing ball in her yard. They always struck me as kind of spooky anyway, but when I was six years old I read a book about a witch who stuck her enemy inside of a gazing ball. When your six years old something like that can stick with you.
And it did.
So now I have an unhealthy suspicion that gazing balls are just not good. And, from watching too many horror movies, I also have this silly sense of dread when I'm walking up a staircase that isn't solid, as if some dead, slimy thing is going to reach through the slats and grab my ankles.
Sure, it's irrational...but just like some people won't step on cracks or walk under ladders, or are afraid to be alone in their basements, or frightened of what might be under the bed at night, it's just one of those things that we all carry with us from childhood.
The circus is coming to town next week.
I know a lot of people have a deep fear of clowns, and others don't like the way the animals are treated, and all of that would prevent someone from attending the circus. I've been to the circus about three times in my life, and my reasons for not being a big fan of the circus are a little different than that.
Everyone is too happy.
I'm serious. People who are too happy make me really nervous. They're just ticking time bombs of repressed anger. Even when I was a little kid I didn't like the circus for that reason -- all that smiling and peppiness freaked me out.
A couple of years ago I attended a clown college audition with a friend of mine. That experience is the main reason I can deal with clowns. I guess I just see them as normal people acting happy.
And many of them are hot.
The ringmasters and trapeze artists, though...they still freak me out.
It's the all boring, all the time, all staff meeting here at panhandlers central here today. Why anyone would think a two hour meeting is the answer to anything is beyond me.
Argh.
I wonder if I can fake death to get out of it?
Oh, and this is one of the funniest posts I've seen all week!
Craig and I are painting the living room. That's our paint chip over there on the left. The middle color is what most of our walls are going to be painted, and the lightest color is for the baseboard, windowsills, and trim. We're painting one wall with the darkest color. Our current wall color is yellow with a darker yellow special overlay. That is what comes of watching entirely too many episodes of Trading Spaces.
It's when Craig and I go through our home improvement phases that the obvious differences in our personalities come up. For starters, Craig is slightly colorblind. Under normal circumstances this is not an issue, other than the occasional mismatched clothing choice. However, Craig has been arguing with me for the last two weeks that those colors we chose are really green. I remind him that he's colorblind, tell him they are shades of brown, and assume he will accept it. I should know better. Until everyone who comes in the house tells him its brown, he will refuse to accept it. After the third time that this becomes an issue it gets a little annoying.
Then there's the issue of the painting itself. If I decide to do something, I buy the supplies and I do it. I'm excited about the project and complete it right away and do a good job. Craig is the exact opposite -- he's a procrastinator. All conditions must be optimal. The planets must be aligned, the sun must be shining, the weather must be above 50 degrees. And when the perfect painting moment is at hand, he thinks that taping is unnecessary. He thinks he has the steadiest hand in the East, and he'll be able to use a detail brush to get a perfectly straight line.
Coincidentally, after the project is complete and he gets his way about not taping, he bitches about how horrible the lines look and tries to blame it on me.
This time I used a combination of shame and compromise. I compromised by waiting until a day when it wasn't raining, but when he tried to stall me today I shamed him into backing down by telling him I wasn't asking for his help, that he could just sit on his ass and watch television all night, all I wanted to do was paint one wall. Then I moved the furniture, gave the wall a good wipe down, and taped the edges of everything. By that time, he started to feel guilty and ended up helping me. It took all of 45 minutes, and now he's taking credit for wanting to paint tonight.
I just roll my eyes and walk away. Sometimes it's better just to let him think he's gotten his way.
I really like shoes. At the moment my herd of shoes has been thinned out quite a bit -- I'm down to about 60 pairs. But there was a time I had upwards of 120 pairs.
The reason for this is that I'm a total packrat. And shoes, well, you never know when that pair of electric blue alligator skin pumps will come in handy.
At the moment, I own three pairs of sneakers, three pairs of Doc Martins [black oxfords, 8 hole purple, and 10 hole black metal tips], about a dozen pairs of random colored shoes, and the rest of my shoes are varying styles of black. If you are a woman, you can probably understand the necessity of owning over 60 pairs of black shoes. If you are a man, you probably think I have some sort of weird and crazy phobia. Let me tell you, for those of us who adore shoes, we can't imagine how you can live with one pair of sneakers and one pair of black dress shoes.
Something that pisses me off about buying new shoes is breaking them in. We can fly people around in outer space and create a phone that fits in your dental fillings, but we can't make a pair of shoes that doesn't scrape four layers of skin off the back of your heel for the first six times you wear them?
That just doesn't make any sense. Shoes have only been around since 4000 B.C. Come on, people, let's build a better shoe!
I am particularly angry at the person who invented high heels. Legend has it that it was Leonardo da Vinci.
I've never been particularly graceful in high heels. I sort of look like a fledgling drag queen hauling my carcass around the room, thinking a broken ankle is coming with each step. I need training wheels on my heeled shoes.
Although, let's face it, I'm not particularly graceful out of high heels.
Oh, for anyone who wanted to see my brand spankin' new hair...
No more red for me!
Despite the rain outside and the near hurricane happening outside my window, I am in a happy, sunny mood. My work computer has had it's boo boo fixed, and I am now back in my own little cubicle from hell, admiring my collection of Homies, my filing cabinet magnets, and my beloved mess.
That also means my digital camera is back in action, since I was able to load the software here again [my IT department must hate me]. Thusly, I have some things to say. Or photos to post, really.
Do you remember when Statia came over for lunch a few weeks ago? I didn't mention it then because I had no photographic proof to back it up, but Statia is a total perv. Look at what she did to my magnetic dolls of Venus and David!
I begged her to put some real clothes on them, but she wouldn't hear of it. Now David and Venus have SARS and it's all her fault. Well, her and the crazy pigeon lady.
I need assistance [and not of the mental health provider variety, for a nice change of pace] --
I'm on the prowl for a good RSS feeder. Anyone have suggestions?
Here's a tip: do not drink coffee on an empty stomach and then go running. No good things can come of it.
Tracey and I met up at the art museum this morning to run. Not too bad, considering I thought I was going to pee my pants the whole time -- we ran 2 miles and walked 2 miles. And I walked an additional 2 miles up to meet her.
Oh, and I saw an entire busload of tourists run the steps of the art museum screaming "Yo Adrain!" and then do the Rocky celebration and pushups at the top of the stairs. Here's another tip [I'm so helpful today]: don't do that, you just look stupid. Statia gave me permission to drop kick them from the top of the steps.
If Tracey hadn't shown up when she did, things might have gotten ugly and I would've been blogging this from prison.
Hi mom, I"m in jail...
It's a beautiful day and I'm going running! Woohoo! If it were just a tad warmer it would be one of those days where you look outside and swear you hear singing.
As is, all I can imagine is the icicles forming on my nose.
Just a reminder to all you local kids --
Next Saturday night is the first en masse meeting of the fabulous people in or near Philadelphia who keep a blog or online journal and the wonderful people who love them. Everyone is welcome to join us. And if you love me [and I know you do], you'll give this little meeting a plug on your own blog so we can be sure no one is left out who might live close by.
The details for the party can be found here.
I'm taking the day off! Woohoo! *does the cabbage patch* I have the day off!
Yesterday I started thinking about how much I would like to laze around the house today and have a long weekend, so I called out this morning. Of course, I really won't be lounging couchside -- I'll be taking a jog later and hitting the post office to flirt with my favorite postal worker. I know, the excitement never ends around here, but it's a mental health day, not a single-handedly save the world day.
You could say that I'm avoiding work for peace, if you like. I'm willing to make the sacrifice.
Yesterday at the doctor's office I relayed a few symptoms I'm having [which shall remain a mystery to you]. I said, "I'm having a problem. I have X and Y. Do you think it could be a medical problem?"
My doctor sort of looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and asked, "Are you depressed about anything?"
"Um, no," I answered. "There's the normal bad mood kind of stuff that everyone has, but nothing out of the ordinary."
She turned around to face me, and said, "Do you cry?"
"Well, no. I'm not really having a problem with my mental health," I said, wondering what she was getting at.
Without any further questions about other physical symptoms I might be suffering, she told me that I am probably just depressed and I should shop around for a good shrink.
I have nothing against seeing a psychologist or whatever, but I'd much rather actually be tested for a few things before I run off and get counselling which won't help if it's a medical problem. Call me crazy, but it seems prudent to rule out physical causes before someone starts talking about putting me on medication for depression I really don't have.
Maybe she thinks I'm making shit up to get the good drugs or some attention. In the 8 or so years I've been seeing my doctor I have never once complained about any kind of problem. Take me seriously.
Two and a half hours in the salon last night, and all I got was a new look. That time spent should at least come with a foot massage or something. Or complimentary crack.
I'm a closet high maintenance kind of girl. If you met me for the first time, I'm fairly certain I don't come off as someone who spends hours in the salon, gets her nails done every other week, and is slightly hoity toity about food. Just for starters, I usually look like shit. But delving into my personal grooming habits is a scary world. Between the hair care, the waxing, and the facials, well, it's a minor miracle that I can manage to leave the house in the morning.
To be fair, my general maintenance routine allows me to spend less time on myself on a daily basis. A good haircut and excellent color means that I spend about five to ten minutes every day to make my hair look presentable [blowdrying through hairspray]. I can tell when it's time to get a cut because I spend an inordinate amount of time fucking around with my hair. Facials mean I spend less time trying to make my skin look good. See, there's a method to my high maintenance madness.
The problem right now is clothing. I'm bigger than I want to be and choosing clothes is agony. I'm always freaking out about my ass looking big, or my arms looking huge, or my gut looking obvious. But I'm working on it. For those of you playing along at home, I'm down 8 pounds. Yay for me!
I need a nap.
There's gratitude for ya -- one of the Carnival post writers from this week took a pot shot at my site design.
That's just not nice at all. [adopts cheerful Candystripper voice] Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed today? You must have a case of the Wednesdays! Here's a cookie *pat pat* [/end voice]
Remember when I was babbling last night about wishing there was a service to convert cassette tapes to CD? I found out that there are a few services available like that. Most of them are cost prohibitive, but here's one that doesn't seem to be a small fortune.
Maybe I'll try it out!
Yeah, so today is a busy day for me -- I have my annual poke, prod, and scrape at Ye Olde Gynecologist today at 10am and then I get to visit the hair salon after work.
Craig and I had a discussion last night while I was alphabetizing my CD collection about having sex before a trip to the gynecologist. I prefer not have little sperm swimming around in my equipment when I go to the gynecologist. It probably doesn't matter if there are. I mean, if you're going to the gynecologist you're probably sexually active. I just feel weird about it. I can imagine the lab techs inspecting my pap smear and yukking it up because I've had sex recently.
My main concern is that I'll have another pap come back "irregular" because of it. There's a history of reproductive organ cancer in my family, and a few years ago I had a pap come back that wasn't quite normal. Then I had to go back to the gyno for a pap smear every two or three months for a year, and that was just a pain and it was really stressful. Who wants to be worried that you have cancer for a year, right?
Or, again, maybe I'm just a freak.
VANITY, n.
The tribute of a fool to the worth of the nearest ass.
Without further ado, I give you:
Mankind must put an end to war or war will put an end to mankind. ~John F. Kennedy
Politics is supposed to be the second oldest profession. I have come to realize that it bears a very close resemblance to the first. ~Ronald Reagen
Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not. ~Emerson
What the mass media offers is not popular art, but entertainment which is intended to be consumed like food, forgotten, and replaced by a new dish. ~W.H. Auden
The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four Americans is suffering from some form of mental illness. Think of your three best friends. If they're okay, then it's you. ~Rita Mae Brown
Next week the Carnival of the Vanities travels to Solonor's Ink Well. I'll pack it a nice bag lunch for the trip.
I've decided to stop blogging. It's been nice getting to know all of you, and appreciate those of you who stop by and leave comments for me, but it's just gotten too personal.
My friend Robin just bought a new house. She, like me, has only lived in rented apartments and rented houses. She doesn't have nice things because she hates to accumulate stuff if she has no where permenant to put it.
So she was talking to me about having a house warming party. I said, "Where are you registered at?" Robin looked at me like I had grown a second head. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you know how people register for gifts for weddings and baby showers?" I said. "Why don't you register for gifts for your house warming?"
Robin thought about it for a second, and said, "But won't that make me look greedy?"
I, like a lot of you, having wishlists. Whenever there is an occasion where gift giving to me is appropriate, I always say, "If you don't know what to get me, here is the URL of my wishlist. Have at it." I don't think it means I'm greedy or anything bad -- I think it means I prefer that people don't gift me with things like ugly ceramic baskets or other assorted fugly chotchkies. You know, stuff I'm going to have to return or throw out.
I know Robin very well. Most of her relatives are like mine -- intent on showering me with flowery or cartoon-laden dishtowels and milkglass candy dishes. Or, for those of us who have similar tastes, they always seem to buy something you already have.
So why not make it easier by registering somewhere?
I absolutely hate it when I have to go to an event where I have to give a gift, but there is no registry. If there's not registry, I almost always go with barware. If it's a baby, I knit a sweater and buy some foofoos or socks to go with it. Inevitably, the gift does to a person who doesn't drink [or thinks it's acceptable to drink wine out of a Dixie cup] and the sweater doesn't go with their color scheme.
But I think I have Robin convinced to register at Williams-Sonoma and Crate and Barrel. Now maybe she won't have to gush over the lovely ceramic duck she'd be sure to receive.
Thanks to Kymberlie of Neurotic Fishbowl for becoming my fourth Race sponsor! Woohoo!!!!
I hate it when you wake up with plans, but then notice that the weather is going to ruin your plans.
Tracey and I knew that there was a chance of rain, so it shouldn't come as a huge surprise, but dammit I really wanted to run today!
The other day Tracey said that she was already panicking about running the Race. Now that I ran last year, I'm not nervous or panicked at all, but last year I was looking for any excuse not to go. The day of the race I kept thinking 'What the hell am I doing? There's no way I'm going to finish this race. I'm going to come in last. I'm going to embarrass myself.'...you know, blah blah blah. I felt like I was going to puke.
Like most things in life, pushing through the fear and just getting on with it are usually rewarding. Like when I got my ears pierced for the first time, for instance.
I was five years old, and my mom took me to Ames department store. I was a pretty serious kid. I wanted earrings, but I was scared shitless to have a peice of stainless steel shoved through my earlobe. So I turned to my mom, and said, "Mommy, just let me shake for a little bit, and then I'll do it."
So I stood there in the store for 15 minutes, shaking like a leaf, and then I pulled it together and hopped into the chair. Simple as that. I did the same when my mom had to change my earrings for the first time -- I asked her to let me shake for a while, then got a grip and let her change them.
I'm bored.
Anyone read any good books lately?
Last night I was sitting around ignoring the incessant news coverage of the death and destruction going on in Iraq, as usual. All of a sudden, it was like a light went on in my head [you know, ding!] -- I had just purchased two brand spanking new pairs of jewelry making pliers, and I had just received an order from Fire Mountain Gems. So I yanked out my supply boxes and made a bracelet.
Ever since Bomby McSmarmypants and company have been ramping up with the invasion rhetoric, I've been more concerned with people dying and having the right to say that I'm concerned than with being artistic. Destruction and death and being worried just suck the creativity right out of me. It was the same after September 11 -- I had so much emotion it just got bottlenecked inside of me and I couldn't paint, or make shrines, or make jewelry, or books. It was just a big wall of artist's block.
And so I was relieved to know that I was able to make something --anything-- just to get out of my rut. Hell, I haven't even been inspired to knit. I have a half-finished sleeveless sweater sitting at home awaiting my attention, not to mention a couple of books I promised to people.
Do you find that when you're uptight about something going on that another part of your life suffers? It's always been some aspect of creativity that gets the shaft when I worry. All creativity doesn't come to an end -- I'm [obviously] an obsessive journal-keeper, and have been since I was 8 years old. Some things never change. But I guess the part of me that creates shrines and found object art and altered books freezes because I find it hard to see the good in things...you know, the forest through the trees.
I'm going to make another piece of jewelry tonight. It might not turn out pretty, but at least I'll be making some effort to break the block.
And at least that will be something.
Thank you to my first Race sponsor: Lisa!
Lisa, could you please email me so I have your email address handy? That goes for anyone who pledges a gift for my Race for the Cure run -- email me!
Thanks again Lisa!!
So I registered for the Race for the Cure online today. This will be my second year running it. If you're around Philadelphia on May 11 and want to run the race with me, let me know. I tried to talk Statia, Kathy, and Ericalynn into running with me, but they just laughed at me. And then I made my sad clown face, which neither sad looking nor clownish.
Of course, feel free to support my run with a pledge [benefitting the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation]. I love how the Komen Foundation sets you up with your very own pledge page when you register!
As an incentive, if I don't beat my race time from last year, I pledge to do something silly for those brave souls who donate to the cause [other than thank them profusely]. I'm not sure what that something will be yet. I doubt it will be showing off my boobies, because that's already been done. Maybe I will send you some of my world famous kimchi. Maybe I'll make you a piece of jewelry. I don't know, I'm open to suggestions.
Oh, and if you're interested, I'm hosting Carnival of the Vanities #28 here at go fish next week. So send me your good entries.
You can check out week #27 over at Dancing with Dogs.
On Saturday before we went to the Degas exhibit, Christy and Craig and I stopped at a restaurant on the Parkway called Mace's Crossing. Despite the fact that I work really close to it and it's always packed for happy hour, I've never set foot inside.
Now I know why.
It's just standard bar-type food, and I really didn't expect anything spectacular. I do, however, expect the waitstaff to keep their asses covered near my food. I know it's a lot to ask, but I don't want to find dingleberries or any other kind of nether region droppings in my food.
But our waitress couldn't be bothered with issues of hygiene and public decency.
I don't mean to say that she was running around with her pants around her ankles rubbing her twat in the food or on patrons or anything. It's just that her sheer mesh cornflower blue thong was hanging out of the back of her pants. Now, I know some people find a little bit of thong-age attractive, but this was far beyond the standards of attractive. I couldn't figure out if her pants were just way too low or if she had her thong pulled so far up her ass crack it was sawing her in half.
There was an older couple sitting at a table across from us who were absolutely fixated on the crack of our waitresses ass. Even more so then the three of us were. It was funny.
What was really funny was that our waitress was wretchedly bad. She seemed to forget about us for long periods of time. Craig thought it would be fun to lasso her back to our table by hooking a finger into the floss of her thong and dragging her over, but I told him I'd have to disinfect him afterwards.
Eventually the older couple started trying to throw pennies into the crack of her ass just to get her attention.
While pondering my likely future that involves collecting unemployment, a thought occurred to me [yeah, I know...shut up]. What happens to my 401K money?
Anyone know the answer? I'm assuming there are options, but I don't have a clue what those options are.
So if you know the answer, clue me, OK?
CYNIC, n.
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be. Hence the custom among the Scythians of plucking out a cynic's eyes to improve his vision.
~Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary
I have always been what some would consider kind of cynical. As a kid, I never really believed in Santa Claus because his schtick just didn't make sense, and no one could offer me any hardcore proof of his existence. The only reason I put my lost teeth under my pillow was so that my mom would exchange it for a dime.
I was told that sex was a bad thing and I shouldn't do it. So I went and found out for myself. I was told that certain books were evil -- so I went out and read them so I could judge that for myself. I was led to believe the being different was bad, so I was different so I could make sure. I was always told that god and jeebus were the answer to all my questions, but that didn't make any sense, so I started research other religions.
Is it any wonder, then, that I take everything with a grain of salt?
I skirted a lot of heartbreak because I can separate love and sex -- people love to equate the two, but I know better. The media never reports anything truthfully. After having been a journalist, I know this to be the absolute truth. Politicians lie to make themselves look good for the public. It's a fact. Corporations never have your best interests at heart.
I just shake my head in wonder at people who are so naive they believe every word that's being broadcast by CNN right now, or who are hanging on every word the current administration is spinning. Sometimes I wish things were that simple for me, that I could be content to just believe any old thing that was presented to me.
It's not like I've never been schnookered before. I bought into the whole Milli-Vanilli is real thing. I even tried to like thongs because everyone kept telling me how comfortable they are.
It came as a great surprise to me when I was taken in by the "bombing Afghanistan will rid us of a great evil" propaganda a few years ago. I think, like most Americans at that time, I was freaked out and frightened by what happened on September 11th. I was all for just fucking flattening the entire country, not giving any thought at all to the innocent Afghani citizens who would die. And the profiling and security measures that came up right after? I thought to myself, "Hey, if you haven't done anything, you have nothing to worry about." So I deluded myself into thinking that this was all being done for my safety and so it must be OK.
After I saw the devastation that war wrought on that country I felt ashamed that I had condoned it. Sure, the U.S. drove out the Taliban and probably made life a little better for the citizens. And that is good. But the attack didn't kill Osama bin Laden. It didn't make me any safer. And those security measures? It took away some of my rights as an American. It made me feeling like someone was watching me all the time. And I worried that some of those security measures could get screwed up and I could be targeted because I check out a book out of a library that is red-flagged, or because I buy a CD that might be considered controversial, or because I think a certain thing.
Now I'm just happy that I've come to my senses, and regained a foothold in reality. I wish some other people could get a grip.
I may be easily amused, but I've been playing Piercing Mildred all morning.
Fear me: I am bored.
Idolizing girls and women just for being pretty is a very strange thing. I know that a lot of pageants claim not to be about beauty -- they're about talent, poise, and money for college. But, in the end, it's really all about being able to smile and walk at the same time and having an attractive face and body. The minute they choose a bald, size 26 woman with a lisp, a limp, and a harelip I'll believe it's not about standard issue external beauty.
Two very good friends of mine were briefly involved in pageants during college. I tend to think of willing contestants as former prom queens, sorority girls, and ruthless pageant veterans. So it almost floored me when I found out Christy and Sharon were going to compete in the Miss Bucks County pageant. I mean, Christy has never been on time for anything in her life and runs around half the time with mustard on her face and stains on her shirt, and Sharon can't go two hours without getting lit and is a headbanging altern-girl. It turns out they'd been schnookered by a recruiter who got them all excited by promising them it wasn't about bodies and beauty, and there was lots of scholarship money involved.
Yeah.
I attended the pageant because it just seemed hilarious to me. The things I remember: the horrific talent portion of the show [and I use "talent" only in the general sense...I don't consider playing the spoons and losing a spoon halfway through "talent"], Sharon's ridiculously funny serious drama reading, one contestant falling off the stage, and the Glamour Photo makeup jobs Sharon and Christy had on them. Oh, and I remember the day Christy taught me the official beauty queen wave -- "OK now, wave to the crowd...elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, general, general, specific, specific...now clutch the breast!"
Neither Christy nor Sharon won any scholarship money and the whole thing just left them feeling bad about themselves because they didn't win or even place.
You have wonder what kind of effect that kind of rejection has on kids. I know that every parent thinks their little angel is so beautiful that they'd win a pageant with no problem. I wonder what motivates normal parents to put their kids through the torture of being on constant display, though. Is it just that the parents want recognition for creating such a beautiful kid? I would think that exposure to a pageant atmosphere would do irreparable harm to a kid -- what kind of person would you be if you grew up thinking that your only worth were to look pretty?
The whole thing just kind of puts me off, and I kind of feel sorry for everyone involved.
Now give me a wave.
The moment you've all been waiting for:
What: First [?] meeting of Philadelphia area bloggers
When: Saturday, April 12, 8pm
Where: Xando/Cosi coffee house, 325 Chestnut Sts, Philadelphia
Please RSVP to nicole@thegofish.com
A few of us have been talking about getting together just to get to know one another a bit [since our lives are on display in our blogs it might be nice to meet in person], and we finally set a date. We hope you can make it on the 12th!
The plan is to meet up at the coffee house, stay for an hour or two, and then go out boozing if anyone wants to. There are lots of great bars in the area within walking [or staggering, as the case may be] distance. For those of you who drive, there's also an ample amount of parking lots in the area. And for those who plan to take the train into the city, it's easy to find from the Market East train station.
So come join in the fun, excitement, and pageantry [OK, maybe not pageantry] of our first get-together. Bring your significant other or roommate or friends, whatever - just be sure to be there!
Oh, and we need publicity! So if you think there's a Philadelphia area blogger who might not be aware of what's going on, please invite them! Talk about it on your blog, pretty please!
See you in April!
UPDATE [April 11, 2002]: The nice manager at Xando/Cosi promised to block off a section for us tomorrow night. Look for me or you might also look for the girl with the hot pink hair [that's Cyn], and I will also try to fabricate some sort of signage.
See you tomorrow night!
Glamour photos just crack me up [and no, that's not a photo of me]. Any photo studio in a mall promising to re-make you into a sultry sex kitten is, by definition, total entertainment. Every once in a while I like to sit and watch the people go in. They're usually frumpy, middle-aged haus fraus who think that big hair and pancaked-on makeup will transform them into come-hither seductresses. I've seen the photographic evidence -- these photos really make them look like skanky hos [maybe the Glamour studios should read John's post about "Releasing your inner slut"].
Sometimes you just wanna call out to them and yell, "Honey, there isn't enough vaseline to put on the lens of the camera to make you look glamourous!" Of course, I don't do that because then there would likely be a rumble and I try to refrain from causing public ruckuses.
Secretly, I've always wanted to have a session. I want to go in there and see just how sleazy I can be made to look. A can of Aquanet on my head? Yes! Sparkly blue eye shadow? Bring it on. Pasties and a feather boa? Definitely! Drag queen heels? Hell yes!
For those of you wondering when you might hear something about a Philadelphia blogger meeting, there will be an announcement here and email invites sent later tonight/early tomorrow.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
By the way, we're looking for a good URL name to buy for the Philadelphia blogs website. Any creative ideas?
It's going to be an exciting day around here, let me tell you. I get to visit the eye doctor again, order a year's supply of contact lenses, and then dialate my eyes for an exam. Woohoo.
So the latter half my day today will feel a little surreal. And it should be a real treat to attempt the walk back to work. With a little luck I won't step off any curbs into traffic or hipcheck any old ladies.
It freaks me out just a little that later today someone will be poking around in parts they have no business poking into.
Apparently, I might not have a job for much longer.
Here at Professional Panhandlers R Us the administration is feeling the effects of a crappy stock market and people holding on to all the money they have in case fleeing the city becomes necessary. Under normal circumstances downsizing is handled with certain amount of aplomb. Healthy severences are handed out, and, even though people might not be happy about having been laid off, no bridges are burned.
At the new and improved PPRU that is not the case. All of us are being required to re-apply for our jobs in a few months. People who have been with my company for 40 years are being asked to provide a resume, writing samples, and references. If this was about an easy way to get rid of people not doing their jobs, I'd be a little less offended. But it's not.
It's about getting rid of anyone who makes too much money, and then not having to pay severence packages.
Isn't that the shittiest thing you've ever heard, especially in this economy and coming from a non-profit agency that claims to care about people?
I'm told that I don't have much to worry about. I'm told that the Vice President, who is the main boss of my rather small department, loves the work that I do and he will try to protect me. The only thing I might have to worry about is being hired back at a lower salary and having to pay more for my insurance. Yeah, I sure don't have much to worry about, do I?
This whole situation is absolutely disgusting to me. I'm toying with the idea of just not re-applying for my job and collecting unemployment for a few months. Right now I'm trying to determine if I'd make enough money on unemployment to survive.
It looks like company loyalty is a thing of the past.
Anyone need a personal chef or personal shopper?
It's a minor Christmas miracle [and right now, I'll take any bit of good news I can get and party like it's 1999] -- I have finally picked up my corrected eyeglasses from For Eyes and they are breathtakingly clear.
Of course, the day they show up it has to be raining like a motherfucker. And, because I have no luck at all, I only have one of those tiny ass umbrellas in my bag. You know the ones -- they fold up really tiny and then unfurl into the size of a postage stamp. So the front of my head did stay dry, but the rest of me is a soggy mess. Hooray!
Have you ever stood on a street corner [not in the working girl sense] or been walking on a sidewalk when a car will come along, hit a puddle, and completely soak you with puddle water? It's happened to me once or twice. Drivers seem to delight in it, which puzzles me. They certainly wouldn't like it if it happened to them.
Anyway, I have managed to avoid it but it came close today. Instead of me, it was the poor woman ahead of me who got it. And then what can you do? You're covered in dirty water and feeling icky.
I vote to go home. Hell, I only got rained on and I want to go home. Bed. The bed is calling.
Craig and I are buying a new car. Actually, I should clarify that: Craig is buying a car. While I have my drivers license and I know how to drive, I do not drive nor have I ever owned a car.
I'm sort of the everpresent passenger and fierce pedestrian.
I remember being very excited about getting my license when I was 16. It puzzled me to hear that some people flunked their driving test. In my hometown, the test course involves driving around the block where the testing center is located, doing a 3 point turn, and then parallel parking [which was really just pulling up to the curb since no other cars were ever parked]. So I aced the test and got my license. I even remember what I was wearing -- a gray concert tshirt from the Richard Marx concert I had been to the night before.
Yes, I'm totally serious.
My mother was a bit insane at the time. We had, let's say, a rocky relationship when I was younger. She was afraid to let me touch her car for a social occasion, so the only experience driving I got was driving to the store when she ordered me to get milk or something. And even then, she was afraid I was going to party in the car on the way there. So I think I drove about 5 or 6 times when I was in high school.
And then I moved to Philadelphia the second I graduated from high school. There's no need to have a car here because of the public transit system. So for the last 13 years I haven't had need to drive a car. OK, that's not quite true -- I've driven twice.
Once on the way up to my mom's house, Craig shamed me into driving on the turnpike. After five minutes he begged me to pull over and let him drive because I was so shaky with the wheel.
And while at a family picnic my aunt asked me to move her van. So I did....with the parking brake on. Considering I have rarely drive and have never engaged the parking brake, how was I to know it was on?
Whatever.
So ever since, I have somewhat of a reputation as a bad driver. Of course, at this point, I agree -- I'm a terrible driver. How good of a driver would you be if you've only driven a handful of times in the last 15 years?
Now you can see why the new car purchase has very little to do with me.
Me, I'm voting for a Cooper Mini. I think it would be a great little car in which I could re-learn to drive. I have to face facts -- I won't always live in the city and I won't always live in a town with easily accessible public transit. Plus, I feel kinda guilty for making Craig drive every place we go. Hey, I'm a good wife and I'm willing to drive just for him.
Unfortunately, Craig is resisting a purchase of a Mini. He's a slave to those consumer reports magazines, so he's looking at Toyotas and Saturns. He doesn't quite understand why I find it so difficult to drive a car with a hood any longer than a foot or so. In a strange way, I'm sort of dreading giving up my staunchly pedestrian lifestyle.
Stay off your sidewalks people -- trouble is coming.
Since I am refusing to think about or acknowledge the fact that we'll be at war shortly, I'm going to revert to being 8 years old. So I'm declaring today knock knock joke day here at go fish.
Warning: Not telling me a knock knock joke will be considered anti-American and unpatriotic.
Here's a few to start you off...
Knock Knock
Who's there !
Abyssinia !
Abyssinia who ?
Abyssinia when I get back !
Knock Knock
Who's there !
Adore !
Adore who ?
Adore stands between us, open up !
Knock Knock
Who's there !
Tad !
Tad who ?
Tad old black magic !
*maniacal laughter* Yep, these are just full of funny.
I have always had dental issues. I'm not afraid of the dentist. In fact, my last dentist congratulated me on taking three shots in the mouth with nary a twitch. No, it's not that at all -- I am squicked out by people with serious dental problems.
I go to the dentist like clockwork, every six months. My teeth are naturally pretty straight, and I've only ever had one cavity. If I can take good care of my teeth, any fool can do it. If you're poor, call your local health and human services place and find a dentist who will see you for free. There's no excuse for bad teeth. Really, I'm a total freak about it.
So when I saw that some nutcase pulled her own tooth out, I was incredibly grossed out.
"I don't want to be rude or anything, but could you stop doing that while I'm here?""I don't want to be rude either, but no. No, I cannot stop. This tooth needs to come out TODAY."
As soon as he left I went into full dentist mode. I got pliers, tweezers, and a Pabst Blue Ribbon TallBoy. Into the bathroom I went, looked myself in the mirror and said "You WILL get this tooth out today. You're not gonna pussy out this time. It's gonna hurt, you might scream, but you will do this, and do it now."
I picked up the tweezers and wedged them into the little gap I had been making with the plastic calling card earlier. I used another tooth as leverage, and started to push.
Oh fuck no. That's what dental insurance is all about.
Heh. May I present the Kill Puppies for Satan game?
[Note: this in no way implies I a] condone killing puppies for any reason and b] believe in Satan. Talk amongst yourselves.]
So I went out walking during lunch today. I wanted to get outside and enjoy the warm air. Remember that hopefulness I was talking about earlier? It's gone.
I ran over to pick up my trial contact lenses. There's usually something oddly wonderful about putting on a new pair of contacts for the first time, but I could barely get up a woohoo over the event. I went to the bookstore, an event normally guaranteed to generate the secret thrill of a closet bookworm. Nothing. I walked around and looked at people, and everyone just seems defeated. Our President has abandoned us, and seemingly abandoned his sanity.
You know, I've read some of those pro-war, ultra conservative, far right Republican blogs. Most of them seem to have this crazy idea that most Americans are firmly planted behind little George and the administration when it comes to invading Iraq. I'm the first to admit that the media doesn't so much report actual news and facts as it does propaganda. And to my pro-peace mind, their poll numbers for pro-peaceniks are a little low. Personally, I know exactly two people who support a war with Iraq.
Whether the media polls should read higher or lower, everyone is preoccupied today and feeling kind of doomed.
I need to get myself out of this funk. So I ran over to Ruka and looked at mendhi designs for my hand. For some reason being mendhi'd always makes me feel better...maybe the henna has sweat in it [haha]. It didn't matter -- they don't mendhi on the fly.
I'm really whiny today.
As usual, SEPTA broke down again on my way to work this morning. *grumble grumble* So I got off the train at 11th Street and hoofed it to work. Luckily, it is spectacularly gorgeous outside right now and walking the 7+ blocks to work was an absolute pleasure.
Kathy talked yesterday about how great it is to people watch in the afternoon at Rittenhouse Square. While I do agree that it's really a great way to spend a weekend afternoon, I prefer to be out and about in the city in the morning before work.
People seem to be more hopeful in the morning.
No, it's true. Think about yourself in the morning. You might dread going to work or whatever, but don't you always think to yourself, just for a minute, "I hope today is the day"? Whether it's the day that changes your life, or the day that is the most wonderful day ever, or even if it's just a day better than yesterday -- people are hopeful in the morning.
By the afternoon or the early evening when people are out for lunch or going home after work, that spring in their step that was there in the morning is just gone. People know that this day was just as crappy as the rest of them, or that no perfect job came their way or no perfect love bumped into them on the street. I prefer to see people when they're optimistic, even just a little.
I'm optimistic every morning, so I might just be projecting. Every morning I wake up and hope that I've woken to an alternative universe where there's peace and the U.S. government isn't trying to tell me what I can and can't do with my body. I hope that I'll wake up and find the perfect job for me. I hope to wake up a perfect size 6.
I have hope.
Statia does not own a corkscrew.
Panic almost set in yesterday when I arrived at her house for the slumber party extravaganza with two bottles of wine only to discover that there was no corkscrew. It never occurred to me that someone might not own a corkscrew. My own kitchen is stocked with every kind of toy imaginable [like the Italian cheese knives that I took to the part-ay], so it seems freaky to when people don't own things like corkscrews.
Statia did, however, produce something she tells me is called a wine butler. It's sort of a handle with two prongs, and the idea is that you're supposed to slide the prongs into the cork and magically the cork will come right out of the bottle.
I think someone told Statia a big old lie.
First of all, the prongs do nothing except push the cork further into the neck of the bottle. And then at a certain point in the proceedings pushing the cork that far down causes the wine to come shooting up. I completely soaked myself and Statia's kitchen in Bordeaux when I discovered that design flaw. Eventually, with the use of a butter knife to push the cork all the way out of the bottle neck, I was able to break into my wine.
So what did I learn? I will never again travel without a corkscrew because you just never know when one will come in handy. Or I will buy Statia a corkscrew for the next appropriate gift buying holiday. Or maybe I will just stop drinking so I don't need a corkscrew.
Or not.
I'm beginning to feel a little less icky now -- watching Grease, When Harry Met Sally, and several episodes of The Brady Bunch have done wonders for my health and general disposition.
Maybe I should start my own alternative medicine branch that endorses watching classic movies to improve the immune system. As part of my mystique as the cult leader I could wear feather boas and rhinestone eyeglasses.
Worship me. Or not.
The Cool Rider dance lives. Let it never be said I'm not afraid to make an ass out of my self in front of people. Maybe I should run for political office.
Today, of course, I'm couch bound. The combination of too much wine the previous night, too little food to provide a good anchor for it all, and motion sickness this morning while Kathy drove us home proved to be too much for me. It was ugly and so was I.
Those young whippersnappers outlasted me last night. I was asleep by midnight or 1am, but they all stayed up until 4am and then had to listen to me snore. Poor girls. But here's something kind of scary -- I apparently can correct grammar while asleep. At least it's a skill. I guess I should feel lucky that my hand didn't end up in warm water and my undergarments didn't end up in the freezer. Maybe they took pity on an old geezer like me.
Now grandma's going to sleep it off.
Surprisingly, my new glasses came in already -- and I'm pretty sure I don't look "positively goofy" [I'm the new Jan Brady]. In fact, I readily admit to liking them quite a bit. I am usually not such a big fan of chain stores, so I wasn't expecting much from For Eyes. Imagine my shock when I received the call to come and pick them up this morning!
I was all set to come back here and sing their praises. Really, I was. But then I stopped at my local nail salon to get a pedicure and eyebrow wax. Before I sat down for 30 minutes of calf muscle thumping, foot rubbing, nail painting bliss I took my contacts out and put my glasses on.
Despair overtook me.
Somehow For Eyes fucked up the protective coating on them -- it's like looking through a fog. I took the glasses off and took a good look at them...there is what appears to be circular scratches over the middle of each lens. Looking out the sides of the lenses I can see crystal clear, so I know it's not just me.
So now I have to take the fuckers back. And I was so excited about getting them in such a short amount of time. I should have known.
And to top it all off, I stopped at the Rite Aid to get contact solution and a new contact case so I could wear my glasses right away. I took the case out of the little package [labelled Deluxe Lens Case] and noticed that both chambers were marked "L"...you know, for left.
Yes, that's some Deluxe Lens Case they sold me. Because I have two left eyes.
At the very least, my feet and eyebrows sure are prettied up to impress the girls later tonight during our slumber party. I hear Statia has Grease II all cued up and ready to rock. And I am prepared to dance the dance of the fabulous as I recount the Cool Rider dance: fear me.
There is a woman who works on my floor who has a very distinctive smell. It's not like she has bad B.O. or bathes in old lady perfume, but you know whenever she's been somewhere.
She has [thank you Rob Gordon] patchouli stink.
Sometimes it's eye-wateringly bad.
The winter is miraculously drawing to a close and my mind is focusing on the fun to be had this summer.
Summer. I would do some very sick shit right now for just one 80 degree day. Just one!
Craig and I usually take a few road trips each summer. Our standard is the Long Beach Island trip to go deep sea fishing and tanning. I was thinking some different things might be fun. Of course, if gas prices keep rising we might have to ride our bicycles to get there!
Where would you go if you lived in Philadelphia and had two or three days to drive somewhere and back? Is the world's largest ball of twine within driving distance?
I hate that stupid blast of air from the glaucoma test when you visit the optometrist. You'd think there would be a better and less icky way to test for that.
So I know you're just dying to know which glasses I chose, right?
They are like this pair, but the color is more like my hair.
Goddamn, I love Eyeglasses.com.
And the eye doctor bitched at me for wearing my contact lenses all the time. Apparently I have some wicked blood vessels growing into my cornea. Pretty, isn't it? But when I get my new and fantastic glasses in I won't have to wear my contacts all the time, now will I?
Today at lunch I'm going to the optometrist to get my eyes checked. I haven't updated my prescription since the month before I was married. Considering I'm blind as a bat without my contact lenses, I thought it was time to go.
I'm also getting new glasses. I haven't gotten a new pair of glasses in about ten years. I started wearing glasses when I was in third grade. It all started with one of those hideous pairs of pastel plastic frames, with the arms at the bottom of the frame, and lovely gold initials in the corner of the left lense. Oh yeah.
I have a problem picking out frames. I have one of those really big round faces and I think I look horrific in glasses. But I'm determined to find a pair that I'm not embarrassed to leave the house in.
Enter Eyeglasses.com.
I fucking love this site. I could kiss whoever thought of it. You take a photo of yourself and upload it to the site, and then you pick out a bizillion pairs of glasses and you get to try them on your photo.
I'm having so much fun.
Yes, I should be working.
I once made an assertion that I didn't believe there were really all that many truly ugly people in the world. There were people who were unattractive by virtue of having bad teeth or bad hair or bad posture, but all that kind of stuff can be fixed. Unattractive people can, for the most part, be made attractive.
I take it all back. Every last word.
[link via Inside Gretchen's Head]
I just ran over to a building a few blocks away for a meeting with some catering people. It's the tallest building in Philadelphia, and the meeting space is on the top floor -- the 52nd floor. It's windy today in the city and so the doors were all creaking because the building was swaying a bit.
Elevators always seemed so bizarre to me when I was younger. Most of the buildings in my hometown are so small they don't need an elevator, and so whenever I went someplace that had an elevator my stomach would always do that weird flipflop thing while ascending.
And then I came to school here in Philadelphia and I got used to taking an elevator everyday -- I lived on the ninth floor of my dorm. There was no one way I was going to take the stairs twelve times every day. My stomach no longer got all jumpy and things were good.
I had to get used to things again when I worked on the 45th floor of Philadelphia's second tallest building for a few years. Especially since I had to deal with that whole swaying building thing. That takes some time to get used to.
Now I'm an elevator pro, even though I only take the elevator here at work to the 4th floor. The only thing that bothers me is that my ears pop at the 41st floor of whatever tall building I'm in.
It fucks with my equilibrium.
I get pissy when I go up to the breakroom in my building and there's only crappy ass snack food like chips and candy bars to choose from. I want real food -- fruit, maybe some good cheese and crackers, or a little mini crudite platter.
But then I think about how often the junk food gets changed and I'm glad that we don't have a fruit and veggie vending machine -- it would be nothing but rotting fruit and hairy vegetables. And the stank from the cheese would kill us all.
Last night I cleaned my refrigerator. Craig likes to make fun of me by calling it the "Magic 'Fridge" -- he seems to think that I have a warped idea that food can remain good for years if only confined within the four chilly walls of my refrigerator.
Au contraire, mon frere!
I'm perfectly aware that food can go bad. I just refuse to discard such items until the last possible moment. I had a carton of milk that was so old and so nasty that it was solid. It was so filled with mold that it didn't even smell bad anymore. It probably could have sprouted legs and walked away without even so much as a limp. I had eggs that could have given me a hearty wave and a "Helllooooo!" as I opened the refrigerator door.
But last night the mold did fly as I tossed out furry lunchmeat and expired jelly. No one has to worry about me actually eating any of the science experiments hiding out in my 'fridge.
I love it when Craig eyes a carton of milk, hands it to me, and says, "Taste this -- is it still good?" Because it's well worth getting botulism just to find out if the milk has turned.
It completely makes me laugh that the USDA has written articles about what to do with moldy food date with New York singles who searching for love . Um, it gets tossed, right? Apparently there are people out there who will eat moldy stuff anyway, and worse yet, they're sniffing it. Ew.
Personally, I think Craig is completely obsessed with food and mold. He needs help. Maybe I can find some sort of a 12 step program that will gently bring him down to a normal level of concern over food safety.
I would like to know how I ended up sixth at Google for old grandmother sex.
Furthermore, I'm seventh at Yahoo for hookers on crack suck dick.
From the hits I'm getting you'd swear that I lead a much more interesting life.
Move it along now, nothing to see here.
Let it never be said that I can't hang with the young folks. Statia was concerned about the hat having lice, but since we both wore it we'd have twin sets of itchy head by now. Unless the eggs haven't hatched yet. Hmmmm. There's something fun to think about for the rest of the day.
Yes, as promised, here are the photos from our big night out and our chance encounter with that supergroup, The Breathers. Uh huh.
I was perusing my extensive blog list just now and ran across an entry over at Robyn's discussing a strange movie inclusion - the spontaneously occurring group sing-a-long and synchronized group dance.
Now, sure it's completely cheesy and unrealistic. The only time group dances break out is at weddings when an unimaginative DJ busts out the Electric Slide or the Chicken Dance, or at dance clubs when YMCA threatens to raise the roof. I think I've seen group sing-a-longs where everyone knows the words only at showings of Rocky Horror Picture Show. But I have a deep and unabiding love of bad films during which all of these things happen.
Some of my favorite movies that involve perfectly choreographed dance scenes and karaoke group sings are as follows:
It would be an instant smash hit.
I have always had a flair for the dramatic. If I had been born a boy I would no doubt have become a drag queen. As it is, I am probably better suited to a job where I can make an ass out of myself in front of large groups of people.
So since I'm not really qualified to do much, I leave it to you to suggest some new career paths. I no longer want to be a glorified panhandler. I need something fun and interesting to do. Something where I get to dress up in feather boas and wigs would be good, excluding a career as a stripper. I doubt I could get away with pretending to be a drag queen -- I'm not tall enough.
Maybe I should run away and join Clown College.
I introduced Statia to two of my favorite bars in Philadelphia last night - Fergie's Pub and Dirty Frank's. Ericalynn was mysteriously missing from our excursion. I know she'll be sorry when she sees our dufus photos from Dirtys.
That's right, I have dufus photos. I am not normally one to whip out my camera in a dive bar and start annoying all those drunk people around me with flash photography, but the dufus boys started it. No, seriously.
Here's the situation:
There were four boys hanging out at the bar dressed like they had been tossed out of the '70s party. One had a digital camera and the other had a video camera with a huge light on the top of it. They started filming our table.
I'm sure they thought this would be a great way to pick up chicks.
"U of A?" I asked one of the dorks. He nodded and laughed. But then another one of these morons started laying this huge lie on us that they were a band called The Breathers from San Francisco and that they were in town visiting friends. I played along, because I'm a nice girl like that.
So young and stupid. But entertaining -- both Statia and I got to play with their accessories. There were cowboy hats, pimp sunglasses, flying skull caps. Oh yeah, good times.
I can only imagine how silly they would have been if I had been toe up sober.
If I ever, through some strange twist of fate, have children I will never give them dolls to play with. Let me explain...
I had a lot of barbie dolls [the generic ones, of course -- 'cause we were po'] when I was little. I played with them up until the time I was 12 years old. Now true, dolls can be very useful to developing imagination skills. But I didn't need dolls to help develop my imagination -- I was good to go in that particular area from day one.
I used my dolls to play out social situations. By this, I mean I used to get my barbie and ken dolls together and they would have sex. No, really. I was a weird kid. I would fully expect any offspring of mine to be just as warped as I was, so no dolls for them.
Yet another reason for me not to procreate.
As soon as I woke up this morning I jumped out of bed, strapped my boobies down, and went for a run. It's beautiful outside today, and I'm glad I was able to get out.
For not having run since October or November, I did surprisingly well. I ran for half a mile before I had to take my first break. I remember when I first started to run I could run just about a block, then walk a block. I decided to take it easy for my first time out -- after that first half mile I walked another half mile. My total mileage this morning was 1.16.
Tomorrow I'll aim for a little more than half a mile, walk a half a mile, and then run an additional half mile. By Mother's Day I should be tackling that 5K race with no problems whatsoever. My goal for this year's race is to shave at least five minutes off last year's time. I can doooo eeeet!
I don't drive. But just because I haven't driven in over ten years doesn't mean I've never driven. I have my license, I know how to drive. I even have some roadkill to my credit.
Growing up in the absolute stick-iest parts of Podunk, it's not hard to rack up considerable "meals from under wheels" type of damage. With 'possums, raccoons, fox, skunk, etc., constantly in the road I don't think I can be held responsible for the deaths of a couple of them. Sure, I felt bad when I accidentally ran over an entire family of 'possum one horrible night but what the hell were they doing there anyway?
They should learn to fear things with loud engines and bright lights, like the rest of us.
My mother hit a deer once. Or, should I say, it hit her. It just sort of exploded out of the woods on the side of the road and plowed right into the hood of her car. I was in high school and waiting for her to pick me up after a game. She showed up, two hours late, front of her car all jacked up. I didn't realize it at the time, but she's lucky she wasn't hurt. It's not unusual to hear of fatal car accidents caused by deer jumping out at your car.
Every time Craig and I are on our way up to my mother's house, I say the same exact thing on the stretch of road where she hit that deer -- "Craig, please be careful. Look out for deer, OK?" Normally, I'm just being overly cautious but this past week on the way up for my grandfather's funeral we must have seen three dozen deer or more by the side of the road, just sort of eating and watching traffic go by.
The strangest thing about our trip last week was all the wild turkeys that were dead on the side of the road. I even saw a few live ones near the road, but for the most part it was just turkeys that hadn't been quick enough to get the hell out of the way.
Speaking of roadkill, I have a relative or two who make scrapple from scratch. One of them, bizarrely enough, informed me that he and his wife made 640 pounds of scrapple the week prior. What do you do with that much processed pig parts? Oddly, they decided to bring it with them to the funeral. I refuse to eat scrapple, having seen it made...but Craig loves the stuff. So we came home with our very own piece of memorial scrapple.
My family is so fucking weird.
It's looking like Ericalynn, Statia, and I are going boozing tomorrow night. If you're in the city tomorrow night and feel like joining up with us somewhere, let me know. Or just look for the three drunk girls picking up sailors.
I've been completely lazy for the last month or two. I have done hardly any exercise and have eaten super badly. I have hardly done any real work at work. I feel like a slug.
I could chalk it up to the weather, or the fact that this winter has lasted entirely too long. I think everyone has been a little blah these last couple of months. People are pissy. I'm easily bored.
But it's coming to an end now. I feel a real change coming, deep in my bones. I'm going to perk up, you're going to perk up, we're all going to get happy.
The mail held a notice for the next Race for the Cure. It's the perfect thing to motivate me to get my fat ass up off the couch, and get running again. I'm going back to the gym on Monday after two and a half weeks of nothing.
It's funny how easily I can get so down on myself. After a few weeks of relative slothfulness [even though I walked about 5000 miles in Paris, or at least feel like I did] I feel ugly and bloated.
But all that's going to change. For me, and for everyone -- you watch!
Most people who meet me are surprised to learn that I am, technically speaking, a total hick. I embrace all that is urban, yet I grew up in a town where the entire town shows up for the Friday night high school football game and people actually go cow tipping. My high school was closed down on the first day of buck season to allow people to go hunting. The middle school has a Rifle Club and the high school has a chapter of Future Farmers of America and Future Homemakers of America.
I even forget about my sordid past. That is, until I go home. It slapped me in the face when I got out of the car at my mother's house Tuesday night: the smell of liquid cow manure.
I know what you're thinking -- how did I know it was not regular cow manure? Right? I'm sorry to be able to say with authority that there is a huge difference in fragrance. Liquid cow manure is way more putrid smelling. Farmers use it because it's easier to spread, but anyone who lives near a corn field or something likely wishes the old fashioned way would come back into style. How crazy is it when cow shit is preferable to something?
The stench of cow manure flavors a lot of my memories. My mother threw me a party when I graduated from high school and the farmer thought it would be a great day to spread a fresh layer of manure on his fields. Trust me when I say that no one stayed too long at my party. I didn't even want to stay. The air was rife with the odor of manure during all of my proms.
Good times.
I have the day off today...part of my "bereavement" leave from work. The Flower Show was really calling my name but it's icky out and cold and I'm depressed enough without adding the weather into it. So I'm going to hang out here at home with some of my stanky smuggled French goat cheese and a bottle of wine [obviously one of the bottles that didn't shatter in the Charles de Gaulle airport]. Maybe I'll get loaded, or maybe I'll show some restraint. I know the suspense over what choice I make will be killing you.
So I guess my big accomplishment for the day will be that I just made my yearly hooha inspection and probe appointment. I know it's strange to say but I absolutely adore my gynecologist.
Now true, I don't particularly enjoy the poking, scraping, and speculum action. But my doctor is a champ. She calls herself a "sports gynecologist" and is just excellent. And her staff is excellent. I've been going to my gyno for the last 10 years. Her staff recognizes my voice over the phone even though I [under normal circumstances] only see them once every year.
There's something to be said for a doctor who knows your family history and really pays attention. There's a lot of reason for me to be vigilant -- my mother has had both cervical and breast cancer [although both were caught really early and it's all fine now], and several of my great-aunts have died from breast cancer. I'm one mommy boob lump away from starting mammograms now, at age 31. A couple years ago I had an irregular pap and my gyno insisted I come in ever month for six months for additional testing, just to be sure.
I have yet to find a regular family doctor that I like. I've had bad primary care physicians in general -- one tried to tell me to lose 20 lbs. when I already weighed 115 [obviously this was a few years ago! *grin*] because the less weight on my knees the better, one was older than dirt and accused me of sleeping around saying it was the cause of my bronchitis. My current doctor spent two seconds with me when I went in for an annual physical. He was reading other patient's charts as I was talking to him. His office never got back to me with my test results. I'm going to assume that I'm perfectly healthy since no one left me any urgent messages.
Why is it so hard to find decent medical care? I'm on the verge of declaring Suzie my principal care physician and driving six hours to get to Pittsburgh when I'm sick. It would be a beneficial relationship -- I would be assured of a doctor who gave a shit, and she would have at least one patient who believes in the power of birth control and the evils of tobacco.
Oh, and Statia made a button for me in honor of my birthday last week! Thank you Statia! I love it!
Now who wants to upgrade my MT? Heh. I've been too scared to try it. I swear, by the end of next week I'll give it a shot but I'm sort of afraid that I'm going to destroy all that is good here! *grin*
I haven't publicly thanked all the crazy kids who guest-posted to go fish while I was away on my big adventure, including Laurence who posted today as part of the Amish Tech Support Blog a Day tour. Good times!
I love going away and leaving other people to blog at go fish. I'm always anxious to come back and read what others have written. Sometimes you can say things on other blogs that you can't say on your own. Things are funny that way.
I called Statia from the airport last Friday while I was attempting to pass the time, since I did [as Kim predicted] breeze through security in five seconds and have hours to kill. Statia read me the first two guest-posted entries at go fish and I was relieved that it was all in good hands.
So thanks! Not just to the guest posters [although, surely, I am deeply appreciative and wish I could have taken them all with me]...but also to everyone who stops by here for a read every now and then. Really -- thanks, I appreciate it.
As you might know, I turned 31 on the 23rd of February while I was in Paris. I can't image a better way to turn a year older [and more fabulous, of course].
So what did I do to celebrate? I began with a croissant and some coffee in the hotel breakfast room. It was an auspicious start to my day. And, by the way, photos of this whole excursion are forthcoming, but my photo cords are all at work...so you'll have to wait until Monday. I know, I know, but you'll just have to contain your excitement!
What kinds of things do you associate with Sunday mornings? Maybe church services? Breakfast and a newspaper? Sleeping late? Out of those three things I'm sure you'd never believe in a million years that I, hater of all that is organized religion, attended a church service.
A Catholic mass, no less.
It wasn't on purpose, trust me. Craig and I headed over to Notre Dame Sunday morning, not thinking that there are actually still masses held there, or that they'd allow stupid tourists like me inside while mass was happening. But then I would be wrong, very wrong. There wasn't a line to get into the church so I followed a few people in, past the unbelieveable face and spires of the church and past the old women begging for change.
I was greeted by the sound of chanting. And it was spooky, because Notre Dame has some amazing acoustics. I felt a little strange walking through the sides of the church while people were trying to listen to the service and pray and stuff, but hundreds of people were running through the church, gawking at the parishioners, and taking photographs. So I shrugged and did the tourist thing. A very memorable experience, I must admit. The church is beautiful and if I were going to be religious I would want to worship there. Craig considered doing the whole wafer thing because he is actually a confirmed Catholic [despite being agnostic] just for the fun of "eating the cookie" in Notre Dame, but decided the line was too long.
A trip to the Catacombs was next on the agenda on my 31st birthday. I will always associate the Catacombs with stairs. Why? Because you descend a very narrow staircase into the very depths of the city. You literally climb down 60 feet worth of stairs. It seems like forever, and you're just walking around and around in tight circles. When you finally reach the bottom you're so dizzy you have to sit down for a minute. We were the only other people in the Catacombs [that we could tell, anyway], which is totally spooky. There are just miles of limestone corridors with very dim lights. You have no choice but to follow the corridor -- there's no place else to go. Eventually you reach the entrace to the bone tunnels.
I can't quite express what it's like to walk through a mile of tunnels lined completely in bones. Some of the chambers are 80 feet deep in bones. There's hardly any light and you're just surrounded by the bones of millions of "permenant Parisiennes." It's strange, to say the very least. And just a little scary.
A good ending to any day is excellent food. We were were so tired from climbing up those 60 feet of stairs from the Catacombs that we went to restaurant that was at the end of the block from our hotel. The restaurant was called Chez Larry. No, I'm not kidding: Chez Larry. I can speak a little bit of French and I always carried a translation dictionary with me. Craig knows only a few polite words of French. The owner of the restaurant [also the waitperson and cook] knew hardly any English. This is how ordering went [I apologize for misspelled French]:
She must have called her official waiter to come in because a guy who could speak relatively good English arrived on the scene midway through our meal. He asked where we were from. I said [with a straight face], "Je suis Canadian!" while Craig answered, "from the States." There was a couple who came in after us who was from West Orange, New Jersey. The waiter had lived in New York for a few years and brandished his New Jersey Devils baseball cap from his back pocket and bought us all a round of drinks.
Thus ended a perfect birthday in a wonderful city. Feel the love! Or is that my liver crying?
When the cats away, the mice will play....or, in this case, the fish will be in Paris for a week and the cool kids are going to take care of the aquarium. Or something like that.
I've recruited the finest blogging minds of our generation for a weeklong guestblog-a-palooza. Meet them, love them, read them.....
Oh, and I'm celebrating my birthday today instead of Sunday [well, I'll be celebrating then too] since this is my last full day on American soil for a week. So....
I'll take the birthday counter down in a minute...no sense in leaving that up! *grin*
Why the hell didn't anyone tell me that carry-on luggage was so expensive? I just ran over to Strawbridge thinking I could pick up a nice carry-on bag for $100 and was I ever in for a rude awakening! Holy schmoly!
A lovely black trash bag as my carry-on is looking good right about now.
Well the first thing you know ol Jed's a millionaire,
Kinfolk said "Jed move away from there"
Said "Californy is the place you ought to be"
So they loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly.
Hills, that is. Swimmin pools, movie stars.
Lately I've been thinking about The Fonz when Craig and I are making with the sweet, sweet love. I know it sounds little strange, but hear me out. Craig's technique for unhooking a bra is just like Fonzie's!
No, really. I only realized it recently. Damn that TVLand! The very first episode of Happy Days was on about two months ago. You might remember it -- Fonzie shows Richie how to unhook a bra with a deft little one handed tweak in the bathroom of Al's. Do you remember that episode? The bra on the radiator?
So the very night that I watched the episode Craig and I are, well, being marital, and Craig reaches behind me, sort of twists his fingers on the bra hooks, and the bra sort of slingshots off of me in this weirdly fluid motion. I just never noticed it before, and I started to giggle uncontrollably.
Giggling never goes over well when you're half naked and about to get busy.
And then I had to explain the whole thing to him, which[along with my giggling] really ruined the mood. Then we had to have a whole discussion on how Craig learned to unhook a bra, and whether or not he practiced on a radiator, etc.
The problem is that now every time Craig goes for the bra hooks, I giggle. It's a vicious circle.
What a fun and potentially deadly commute into work today! I feel strangely alive, sort of like you do in near death experiences.
Just thought I'd share some of the excitement of the last few days:
So what does it all mean? Well, there's a car buried in a snow drift, and me in my back patio. But I'm leaving in just about 48 hours for greener pastures so I'm pretending it doesn't exist. It's that Vulcan mind trick thingy: you do not see the snow...
Two photos approved at Picture Yourself...
Note: new entry is up at fisheye.
Yeah, it's snowing again but it hardly seems worth it to bitch. After all, I have gotten an official snow day off work here today. Woohoo! Snow day!
Craig, on the other hand, jumped in his big white work van and is attempting the trek into work. It took him about 45 minutes to dig his van out and traverse the 1/2 mile to Girard Avenue. He's not a happy guy. Especially when I told him the news of I-95 and 476 being completely packed where he has to go.
Poor Mr. Fish.
So what am I going to do today? Not much. I have to get to the post office, but I think I might blow it off until tomorrow. I don't really feel like wading through the frozen tundra today. If I can find a little bit of milk in one of the corner stores nearby [which is doubtful] I will make broccoli cheese soup. Other than that, I guess I will just clean up around the house and knit.
I really want to go shopping but I don't think anything is open, and getting to the subway stop would be ridiculous anyway.
Waaa, I'm so whiny when housebound.
I think the snow has finally stopped, at least temporarily. I tried going out on the patio to take out some garbage, but the snow is up to my waist. I'm sure that is due, at least in part, to snow drifts, but still -- it's just disconcerting.
Craig is out shovelling the walk and stoop for the 18th time since yesterday morning. I hear it's supposed to snow a little more tonight and tomorrow morning. I wonder if my office will be open. Even though I have little hope of seeing an actual snow plow in my neighborhood, I will feel compelled to at least try to go in since I'm leaving on Friday for Paris and will be away all of next week.
Hee -- I'm going to Paris! I'm going to Paris! With only a few short days before I leave I think I can safely get excited.
Fuck. I spoke too soon...now it's sleeting agin. Argh.
[sitting in my art studio in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, muttering] Must. stop. the. snow. Snow. must. be. stopped. Hate. the. snow. [end muttering]
So it's still snowing. Oh, and it's sleeting too, which is just excellent. So now, in addition to the fact that I can't leave the house for fear I'll be swallowed whole by a snowdrift, I'm being driven even more insane by the pinging of sleet off my windows. Pennsylvania is in a state of emergency -- it's illegal to be on the roads. My patio furniture and grill have disappeared into the snow. It's good practice for nuclear winter, I guess.
In all seriousness, we have at least 20" on the ground here in Philadelphia. All you crazy people who live in, let's say, Buffalo must think this is small stuff, but I'm used to getting a couple of inches at a time. I'm not sure what the snow estimate for total snow is these days....last time I checked it was 25-32 inches.
The thing that really sucks about this is I had off from work today anyway. I keep hoping that the snow emergency lasts until tomorrow so I can get a real snow day off from work.
So what I am going to do to pass the time? Well, for starters, there's a good cheesy bank of movies on channel 2 -- Matilda, Jumanji, and The Wedding Singer. I've been thinking of putting on Grease 2 and practicing the Cool Rider scene, since I promised Statia and Kathy that during our Grease 2 party, providing Statia can produce a step ladder, I will do the entire Cool Rider scene -- dancing and singing. It might keep me from locking Craig out of the house next time he runs out to shovel the walk.
Of course, what would a snow day be without hot cocoa and knitting? So I started a sweater yesterday and I'm now halfway done with the back of it. It's a fairly simple project -- a fitted turtleneck. I may decide to make it into a jacket though, depending on how much yarn I have left after the back and the arms. The yarn is really great -- olive green chenille.
It's times like these that I wish Craig liked to play board games. I really like passing the time with stupid things like Scrabble, Monopoly, and Trivial Pursuit. Craig hates them though -- he says that board games make him feel stupid. But at least we wouldn't be bored.
Pretty soon I'm going to start knitting clothes for Sassy and taking glamour photos of the kitty.
I feel vaguely like Homer in the Halloween episode of The Simpson's when they spoof The Shining....all work and no play make Homer a.....
*maniacal laughter*
There's a new entry up at fisheye this morning!
Even though I'd like to trample on Craig's cell phone for calling me a million times a day, I love him more than I love cheese [which is really saying something].
So here's the card I got him. It's one of those really neat pop up cards. I'm so cheesy.
Of course, Craig's cheesy too. He gave me my gift earlier this week: the third season of Buffy on DVD.
Craig has requested a meal of comfort foods this evening for our Valentine's Day extravaganza. I guess it's a good thing, since our our romantic evening is off -- we've invited Christy to join us for dinner.
We went to the viewing for Mr. S last night and Christy was bummed because her current snack has to be elsewhere this evening. I don't want her to be home by herself feeling crappy so she's coming to the casa de go fish for a delightful meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and broccoli.
We can have a delayed romantic meal in Paris next weekend.
I mentioned it to Statia the other day, and Cyn and I talked about it yesterday -- since Blogger Meetup isn't really working around here, it's time to take matters into our own hands.
So here's what I'm thinking -- when it gets a little warmer out [like end of March, beginning of April] maybe we can all meet up at a coffee house with the option to go boozing later. I'm thinking the Cosi at 4th & Chestnut in Philadelphia on a Saturday night. It's centrally located, easy to find, secure parking is right around the corner, and it's within staggering distance of many fine drinking establishments.
I'm going to start stalking Philadelphia area blogs to get an invite list going, but if you definitely want to be on the mailing list for this, please email me. I'm sick of being jealous of other towns [who shall remain nameless] that have a huge scene going, dammit! *grin*
I was playing with the video mode on my new digicam the other day, and I forced Craig into making our very own love day message to you all. So here it is:
P.S. I hope this works!
I just had fun lunch with Cyn, and some nice lady offered us to take our picture after we took this very unsatisfactory one! Cyn borrowed a wig of mine so that she can look pretty for her Dolly Parton goodness.
Raise your hand if you're surprised I actually have a Dolly-esque wig. Hey, Dolly-love runs in my family!
If Cyn sings Islands in the Stream at any point in the proceedings, there had better be some video coverage.
I'm just saying....
I put a new entry up at fisheye this morning. Go ahead, I know you want to.
Did I mention that the birthday onslaught has begun? Last week I received a birthday check from my in-laws and a coupon for a complimentary "sensory relaxation experience" to celebrate my birthday from Aveda. Over the weekend my friend Renee gave me a huge chunk of I Should Coco soap from Lush. Life is good.
Today I used the coupon from Aveda. I currently smell of grape Bubble Yum. Aveda calls it Sand Verbena, but really -- it smells just like grape Bubble Yum, and that is oddly comforting to me. I chose the Sand Verbena massage oil for my "sensory relaxation experience."
Somehow I'm not all that relaxed, but I sure do smell like I'm 8 years old.
OK, here's the deal -- for my birthday thing-y the Aveda rep sat me in a chair and I had to smell all these oils and then pick one for my free Pure-fume [which is a nice little travel-sized spray]. Oh, and they forced their icky "Comforting" tea on me. And then I had to pick another oil for the massage-y part of the "experience."
The problem is that I cannot possibly relax when I'm in one of those weird little massage chairs where you're all scrunched up with your face in what looks like a mini toilet seat. And I certainly can't relax when the chair is in the front window of the Aveda store so that I'm on display like some oddly positioned, high maintenance mannequin. So the Aveda rep is giving me my "sensory relaxation experience" and my neck muscles are tight as a drum. All I can imagine is that a crowd of tourists is gathered round outside of the window, pointing and saying things like "Well, golly gosh, Cleetus, will you look at that!"
I think Aveda should renamed the "experience." Instead of sensory relaxation, it should be sensory anxiety.
Can you believe I got called to jury duty again already? The city of Philadelphia is about to spiral into financial ruin because of the stadium deal and a wretchedly bad mayor, but the court system can't get a computer system that flags accounts that have already served jury duty within the year.
If I have to attend jury duty my first work day back from vacation I am going to be a very unhappy woman.
I don't even understand why they bother to call me anyway. No one ever wants me on their jury. I've been mugged, witnessed violent crimes, have police officers, doctors, and nurses in my family, have criminals and drug addicts in my family, my friends and family have been sued and killed and in car accidents and committed suicide, been victims of medical malpractice. There is not one single crime that I could serve as a jury member for. And yet the city keeps calling me to serve.
Maybe it's just that I always show up. Maybe I should start being one of those people who throws away their summons and ignores it until the police come and haul my ass in jail.
One of my gel nails popped off Friday night when I was giving Gromit a good scratch. Today after I had lunch with Christy I stopped off at the nail salon to get it fixed.
I was just sitting here at my computer and noticed one of my trouser socks was a little saggy, so I pulled up my sock. Unfortunately, I forgot that my nails weren't entirely dry. So now instead of having one missing nail, I have ten screwed up nails.
Curses, foiled again!
I think I finally got this photoblog thing figured out. Here it is -- the new and improved go fish photoblog:
Let me know if you think there should be improvements.
Sometimes something can happen that just tears your heart out, and makes everything else in your life seem trivial. Christy just called and told me her grandfather had a stroke, and isn't expected to live.
I'm very close with Christy's family -- they are my surrogate family. I've spent more holidays with them in the past 13 years than with my own. I love Christy's grandfather with all my heart.
Christy's grandfather is in the book of world records. As a steward, he has logged the most transatlantic flights in the world. He's been everywhere. If you tell him where you're going, even if it's the crappiest little town in the entire world, he knows where to find a good restaurant. He has 1001 stories. Most of the time you've already heard the story, but he's such a great storyteller that you stay and listen anyway.
When other people refused to give in to the fun of our wedding, he came dressed like a wizard. He had more fun out at Fort Mifflin for the ghost tour during our wedding then any other person there. Mr. S knows how to have a good time -- he could have a good time anywhere.
When I first met him I was a platinum blonde. For years he called me The Blonde Bombshell.
A few years ago Christy's grandmother died. They had been married forever. He was sad, but made such an effort at her funeral to be genuinely happy to see everyone. It was almost as if he was trying to make other people feel OK about her passing. About a month ago, Christy's parents had to take his driver's license away. He was upset about it, but accepted it. He's almost 90 years old -- while he's still in relatively good health, he knew that anything could happen so he let it go.
And now he's lying in the hospital and he isn't awake, and he's not doing very well. I guess they're just waiting for him to die. I wish I could be like him and make Christy and her family feel OK with it. Or make me feel OK about it.
Statia has her action figure collection at work to keep her amused, and I have my collection of of Homies and other toys.
There's nothing wrong with a little stress relief.
But Nicole, you may exclaim, you have a boring job that doesn't require much thought, let alone cause undue stress. Why do you need such silly accoutrements?
To this I say shut up and mind your own damn business.
I like my toys. My collection of Homies is hilarious. My Meanies Lucky the Rabbit keeps me from going off the deep end. I even have toys at home -- my collection of The Nightmare Before Christmas coffins keeps me company in my bedroom.
When I was little the only toy I played with regularly was my huge collection of Barbies. Or, more accurately, my collection of fake Supermarket Barbies...think of them as Barbies' trailer park cousins. I had nine million of those, one or two real Barbies, and one very special Cher doll that came with a bendable wrist. Unfortunately, none of these cherished treasures still exists in my collection today.
Instead, I make due with my volumes of magnetic poetry.
There's something slightly off-putting about waking up in a puddle of drool. Honestly, we all do it. There isn't a person alive who hasn't found themselves cheek down in a wet spot on their pillow, saliva crusted in the corner of their mouth. It's just one of those gross things about being human. But it's made much worse when your husband is face to face with you, waiting for you to wake up, amused look on his face.
There should be a law!
I'm happy to report that all signs of my hangover from yesterday are gone. I think I would have felt better sooner except that the reek of those awful fruity drinks from Pod, identifiable by color only, was oozing through my pores, reminding me of the fun from the night before. There should be a deoderant or soap or something created to block that kind of thing. There was many a morning after in my earlier years when the stale smell of Miller Genuine Draft from a keg party kept wafting through my pores, keeping my head firmly in the toilet.
The good news is that I finished the baby sweater. I sewed the buttons on this morning and I am done. That makes me so happy, especially since this is my first official paying knitting gig. Technically, I guess this sweater will pay for my brunch today at Las Cazuelas with my friend Renee. And I'm so hungry for Mexican right now.
Obviously a sign of my returning vigor.
So I hear that France and Germany are putting forth their own proposal for Iraq. Good for them! It's nice to see a country other than the U.S. taking some initiative. I hope George, and Donald, and the rest of those assholes are hopping mad this morning. What really cracked me up is that the news reported this morning that George is very distressed since France and Germany are the U.S.'s "closest allies." Um, didn't your little flunky just refer to them as "Old Europe" the other day and basically call them out as ineffectual?
Let me tell you something: I'm fucking old.
I should require Statia and Kathy to cut my drunk ass off after four drinks. I should be flagged. It should come as no surprise that after 5 glasses of wine and two cocktails of colored, fruity drinks I am slightly, um, pained today. I can feel my liver kicking me in the ribs, yelling, "Hey you! That's right, I'm talking to you, you big lush! No mas, no mas!"
Now where did I put those Excedrin?
It's official: I hate to shovel snow.
7 inches of snow on Nicole's sidewalk=Pissy, grumpy Nicole
And I have to dodge half-assed snowballs from a roving band of 10 year old miscreants. Shouldn't they be in jail or something?
Hrmmmm.
I knew it was supposed to snow last night/this morning, but this is a bit excessive -- especially in light of the huge amount of trouble Statia, Ericalynn, and Kathy, and I took to make plans to get together for dinner tonight. Although Statia does have that massive SUV...I'm sure she'd be able to make it even in the case of nuc-yooo-ler winter. I'm sure she would just arrive on the scene, unruffled, Gromit in the back, ready to hand out pink crash helmets to all and sundry.
The newscaster just said that this winter is now approaching a "normal" level of 20 inches of snow per winter season. I can't remember the last time it snowed this much...well, that's not entirely true, I guess. There was 1996 when it snowed 36 inches in the space of 24 hours or so. That kind of sucked, but I think it ruined the snow curve.
Yeah, so I had off from work today anyway, but now my office is closed for the day. I keep hoping my boss calls and takes pity on us by giving us Monday off instead. Wish hard for me! But I got up early, around 8am. I had a plan. Regardless of the weather this morning, I wanted to test out my new camera by photographing the excellent and very old Palmer Burial Ground down the street from my house. And with snow -- so much the better.
So I hauled my ass out of bed, bundled myself tightly, and hiked the four blocks to the cemetary. Curses, foiled again -- because of the snow, no one unlocked the cemetary gate. I took some pictures anyway through a fence, but it just wasn't the same. And I forgot my USB cord at work anyway.
I guess I should prepare to shovel the walk.
I hate the smell of most Aveda products. They sort of smell like Vicks VapoRub to me. But I do use Aveda color conditioner in Bixa -- it keeps my fabulous red hair fabulous between visits to the salon. Today I ran in to buy a new conditioner and the counterchick offered to custom mix it for me.
You know I'm a sucker for anything custom blended, right?
And when did this start? It's not only incredibly cool, it's actually cheaper than buying premade conditioner! What?
So now I have my very own custom blended shampoo and conditioner. It's a banner day.
Every once in a great while I'm struck by weird little things that affect me that are directly related to not having a dad around when I was growing up. One of those things is that I am endlessly fascinated by watching men shave their face scruff.
Until I was in college I had never seen a man shave [live and in person]. My college boyfriend didn't really need to shave very often, so it was rare that I actually got to see him shave. Craig needs to shave every day [although he usually doesn't], so I have ample opportunity to indulge in my strange desire to watch him shave. It's not that it's a sexual thing -- it's just inexplicably interesting to me.
Unfortunately, he doesn't like me to watch. It makes him nervous. He's afraid he's going to get freaked out that I'm watching him shave, and that he's going to shave off his nose or something. But the whole ritual of applying shaving cream and shaving with a razor is so mysterious to me, that I find myself spying on him.
A few years ago I bought Craig one of those shaving cream brushes and a stone bowl for the shaving cream, and a really nice razor. I don't think he's ever used it. I don't know that anyone really shaves that way, but I like the idea of watching him shave with the traditional shaving accoutrements.
Craig will only usually let me watch him shave when he's using an electric razor. I guess there's less of a chance of actually hurting himself. Last night he decided to shave off his goatee, against my wishes. So not only did he let me watch, he also let me document it for posterity! Woohoo! So this is how it all went down:
There's no good reason why I'm so interested in seeing the shaving of a face, other than the fact that it's a novelty. You'd think I'd be bored of it by now. Craig and I have been married for over two years, we've lived together for over five years, and we've been dating for over seven years. I know I've seen him shave five or six dozen times or more.
Maybe I'm just weird.
I totally love my boss.
You might recall last Friday when my boss ordered us to hit the road Friday afternoon to go see a movie.
She has just informed me that she's giving us all the day off on Friday.
This job may suck occasionally, but I do love my fringe benefits!
I've been considering a new tattoo recently. I'm not much of an artist in the I can draw stuff well sense, so I've been searching for an appropriate symbol of some sort. Nothing has struck me as perfect yet, so the search continues. This site full of celebrity tattoos has kept me entertained for at least the last 20 minutes.
Craig has also been wanting a new tattoo. He wants to get something Halloween-related, which I think is a fun idea.
When I first met Craig many years ago, he wanted to get his name tattooed on himself. I've never understood the idea of having your own name or someone else's tattooed on your body.
In the instance of having your own name tattooed, why? Are you afraid you're going to go all Memento and forget who you are? That you'll need a roadmap back to your former life? That you'll get drunk and temporarily forget your name? Luckily, that phase passed for him before he could do something stupid.
As for getting someone else's name tattooed on your body, well...I just always think of relationships and marriages as potentially temporary, whereas ink is fairly permenant [and laser removal is painful and expensive]. So it just seems like a bad idea to me. Yes, I know it's a little fatalistic to think that way. Yes, my marriage is strong and we're in love. Right now. I don't anticipate things going awry, and I'm sure neither does Craig. But it could happen. Maybe I learned this from my parents, each of whom has been married and divorced numerous times.
I mean, how awful would it be if I had gotten my first boyfriend's name tattooed in a heart on my ass?
I tend not to post about my poor, overweight cat too much. However, because I feel the need to share photos I've taken with my brand-spankin' new [and hard won] camera, I'm going to subject you to it.
Without further ado, this is my cat, Sassy [no, I didn't name her]:
As an aside, when Statia saw my cat for the first time she asked if my vet was concerned that she's so fat. Sassy hasn't been the same since.
I don't really have any strong feelings about getting older. I'm not sure what 31 is supposed to feel like, but I don't feel old. I feel just like I did when I turned 25 -- like celebrating. I don't even know what 31 is supposed to look like, but I'd like to think that I'm relatively well-preserved.
Craig will turn 31 about two weeks after I do, and he is having a nervous breakdown. He will rarely even admit to being 30. He'll probably spend the day sulking and refusing to acknowledge his birthday.
Age has never struck me as something to get irate about it. It's not like you can control that sort of thing -- you're going to age no matter what. And it's true that you're only as old as you feel. I'm healthy and I take fairly good care of myself. I may bitch about "those damn kids" not knowing the correct rules of etiquette in a mosh pit every now and then, but I don't feel like an old biddy.
The Franklin Institute has this machine that's supposed to show you what you'll look like when you get old. By age 75 it looks like my face will felt off. That sort of scared me a bit, but even my mom is well-preserved. So....
So what's on the plate for my birthday celebration this year? I'm going to celebrate in Paris. I can't think of a better way to turn 31. You can bet that at 6:32 pm EST [the hour of my birth] I'll be doing something fun -- maybe I'll be at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
It is gorgeous outside today. It's the kind of day I wish I could bottle and let out when it's 2 degrees and windy. I was going to hit the gym this afternoon during my lunch hour, but instead decided to take a walk.
That's sort of exercise, right?
So I walked up to Fresh Fields to grab a salad for lunch. There were these two old women in the dried fruit aisle discussing the instance of sulfur in dried fruit. Particularly, they were questioning if sulfur was in the fruit itself. Now I know the answer to this question, but I was too weirded out about butting into stranger's conversation due to me eavesdropping.
I hate it when I'm in out and about and some random person interrupts me and tells me something stupid.
Like I was out shopping yesterday and I wasn't sure which block Philadelphia Soap Company was on [think excellent chocolate soap made with Hershey's cocoa], so I stopped someone and asked. It was an older man. He was only to happy to direct me, but then made sure I knew that a couple of gay guys own the shop. Well, yes, I know that and what the hell business is of his anyway? Like he expected me to gasp, clutch the pearls, and run screaming the other way.
I did our taxes last night. There was a brief and awful moment when I thought we owed over $3,000.00, but I should know better: I always do our taxes wrong the first time.
Mostly I usually either forget to take deductions or I do the math wrong. This time it was the deductions. In the end it all worked out and it's all good now. We're even getting a little back this year, thanks to my tuition credits.
This time of year is always stressful. And I hate doing taxes.
I've been taking birth control pills since I was 16 or 17 years old. That means I have [in theory] possibly 800-ish extra eggs just hanging out in my ovaries.
A few years ago I considered becoming an egg donor. I figured that I wasn't going to use my eggs, so maybe someone else could. I've never questioned the issue of my own fertility -- I come from good farmer stock, a long line of pregnant at the drop of a hat women. I'm relatively intelligent, have no serious health problems, etc.. So I thought I'd make a good candidate. Plus, you get paid up to $5,000 [sometimes more] for a donation.
I have to confess that I never made it past the first meeting. Hearing about what one has to go through to retrieve the eggs practically made me run out the door. You have to inject yourself daily with fertility drugs for a week or two and you're not allowed to have sex for fear that you will get pregnant. Then they stick a massive needle into your ovary and "aspirate" the eggs while you're under only light sedation.
As a rule, I don't mind needles. But when you're talking about shoving a needle the size of an ice pick into my girl parts, well, I get a little nervous. And then I started thinking about the legalities of the whole mess. In 18 years I might get a call from someone claiming to be my long lost child. I wasn't psychological prepared to deal with that, and I'm still not.
My husband's secretary is having fertility problems. In the last couple of years they've spent thousands and thousands of dollars on fertility drugs and therapy. I don't know that they ever considered an egg donor, or if it is even an option. At this point they have started the adoption process -- I think they're going to adopt a baby from China.
But I wonder if I would go through the process of egg donation if someone specifically asked me to do it. It's one thing to decide against it in the face of a nameless couple who needs an egg donor, but what if his secretary had asked? Or a close friend?
It's a strange situation, and I kind of wish that I had the intestinal fortitude to do it when I went to that first meeting. It's in my nature to help people in various ways, but I just couldn't get past the idea of having to go through the medical procedures and then run the risk of having to invest emotionally later on. I guess we all have our limits.
I just braved the frozen tundra of the Benjamin Franklin Parkway to get my fingers and toes massaged and painted. It was worth it -- the new nail tech gives a kick ass foot massage...much better than the half-assed attempts I get from Craig. You'd swear I had toes that could catch salmon or something, instead of the beauteous, goddess-like feet that I possess.
What I am not digging, however, is the plastic wrap she put on my toes to keep my toenail polish from smearing when I put my socks on. It feels like I'm wearing a giant sweaty condom over both feet. Not that I have ever had a giant sweaty condom over both feet, but I'm just saying.
The streets are pretty bad outside, and it just keeps snowing. And those bastards in administration aren't letting us go so that we may have a chance of getting home without being killed. I just know this is going to turn out like that episode of The Simpsons where Skinner makes them go to school and then they all get snowed in and the kids have to ration out relish and mayonnaise packs to survive.
...Reunited with Nibbles, Skinners directs, “Now, chew through my ball sack.”
It's been snowing like crazy here since I woke up. We're only supposed to get 1-3 inches, but if it keeps up like this we're going to get more snow than that. I keep waiting [and fervently hoping] to get an email from the President telling us to run for cover.
Of course, I do have a pedicure and manicure scheduled for 1pm. But I'd be willing to put off my beauty rituals for a day.
Come on, snow day!
I just returned from my first triumphant gym trip during my lunch hour. Let me just say that, while I am not a prude, I would rather not watch anyone trim their pubes while stark raving naked. Nor do I want to sit on the bench in front of my locker after this same woman has sat bare-assed on said bench. There's something to be said for having just a modicum of modesty in the interest of not grossing me right the hell out.
What is it about locker rooms that cause ordinarily normal people to become insane? I mean, yes, the locker room is a naked place. I have no problems with getting naked in a locker room, changing my clothes in front of other women, or showering in front of other women. It goes a little too far when naked women start traipsing around the locker room, asking strangers to inspect the cut of their bikini wax. It's nice that you're interested in what I'm reading, but I don't want to have a staring contest with your nipples as I'm explaining the finer points of John Irving.
You can't take some people anywhere.
There's something marginally terrifying to know that you've haven't been to sleep yet despite actually laying in bed since 11pm, and then looking over at the alarm clock to discover that it's 4:30am. And knowing you have to get up in 1.5 hours to get a shower and go to work. And it's 10 degrees outside.
Can I be held responsible for not making it to work today?
I'll admit that I will use any excuse to not have to work, but I can't stand being at work and craving just a few hours of sleep. I'm always afraid I'll end up face first on my keyboard, drooling on my desk.
After Statia had lunch at casa de go fish yesterday and gave my cat an inferiority complex, Craig and I went grocery shopping. We're exiting the parking lot of the Superfresh on Delaware Avenue, stopped at the traffic light. Directly in front of us, across the from the Superfresh parking lot, is a Show and Tel sex shop. I'm told they have a massive selection of porn and sex accoutrements, and a stage on which toothless strippers jiggle their parts for nickels.
Anyway, we're stopped at the light and this guy comes out of the Show and Tel. He's wearing a grey sweatpants and a short denim jacket, and he's got a raging hard on. You might think it must have been a gargantuan hard on for me to see it across the street, but no -- it was the fact that he was wearing sweatpants. According to Craig [my resident expert on the penis], there is no way to camoflauge a boner in a pair of sweatpants unless you're carrying books. It looked like someone shoved a flagpole into the front of his pants, and he had his own Big Top Circus going on in his undercarriage.
So I, being about 12 years old, start laughing so hard I almost pee my pants. All I can do is wheeze and point until Craig notices what I have noticed. And then Craig starts to giggle. Luckily the traffic light turned green and we had to go. I don't know if I could have survived even another 30 seconds of looking at the guy.
It occurs to me that owning a penis must be very hard work. Just for starters there's the whole issue of circumcision. And then whether you are or aren't must be something difficult to deal with in locker rooms and stuff. But then there's the major factor of being attached to a peice of equipment with a will of it's own that takes every opportunity to embarrass you. It just sounds like too much work for me.
Sometimes I'm so fucking happy to be a woman.
I feel like a little old lady today. My shoulders ache. My back aches. My legs ache. It's not because I'm an arthritic old hag [although surely, sometimes I am] -- it's because of yoga yesterday with Statia.
The first time back to yoga in a couple of months can be a traumatizing experience. And it probably wasn't a good day for Statia to try it for the first time, either. Instead of 105 degrees in the Bikram studio, it was more like 115 degrees. I didn't leave feeling particularly refreshed, like I normally do. So while I, of course, will go back for more, I'm convinced Statia thinks I was trying to kill her and it was all one big joke on my part.
Erica Lynn should feel really relieved that she wasn't home [or just had her cell phone turned off when we tried to call after class] yesterday. The stench coming off Statia and I was almost too much to bear. Craig used the word "eye-burning."
Oh, and don't let Statia tell you any different -- she did great in her first class! She didn't pass out, and she finished the class. Excellent job!! It's just a shame the old guy in the jock strap had to camp out in front of us.
Re-joining the gym has left me with an empty feeling. Maybe I expected to get hassled by the plastic-y breast-implanted gym rep, or maybe I just expected them to suck up to me a little more. I fully expect gym sales people to fawn a little, but it just didn't happen today.
I guess maybe because I am a former member they didn't feel the need to bombard with propaganda.
My history at the gym is long and varied. I never worked out before college. As a college cheerleader I was required to work out with the team every day and go through weekly weigh-ins. After that my commitment to the gym was, and continues to be, somewhat sporadic.
My situation here is ideal -- the gym is a 5 minute walk from my office and it's usually completely empty by 2pm. I can work out without having to listen to some 'roided out freak grunt his way through dead lifting a bizillion pounds.
When I first joined this gym a couple of years ago I met with a trainer. It during the lunchtime work out rush. The trainer led me back to the machines and warned me about one thing. Apparently there was a member who was slightly mentally unstable. As soon as he started talking about the guy he magically appeared, as if summoned by his description. He was a total freak.
This guy was about 5'1" and about 120 pounds soaking wet, had a greasy mullet and acne. He sort of stalked back to the lateral raise machine, put the pin in the 20 pound bar, and screamed through a set of 50, acting as if he were lifting 500 pounds. Did I mention that he was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and a pair of acid wash Cavarrici jeans while he was getting his weird work out in?
I pray that his membership ran out.
I just had to sit through a lecture from the Marketing Director on the importances of carrying my business cards.
"Oh, but you must carry business cards!" she shrieked. "It's so important, especially for you! You meet people all the time who qualify for your young executives programs!"
Um, I think she lost me right there. Has she seen some of the places I hang out? Does she honestly expect me to walk up to the guy drooling on the bar at Dirty Frank's, hand him my business card, and say, "I'm sure you can afford to give my agency $1,000 and why wouldn't you want to network with a bunch of schmucks Philadelphia's elite young executives?" Or maybe when I'm at that Rollins Band show at the TLA I can just shower the crowd with my business card. I'm sure there's tons of people who are just dying to go through Board training.
There are lots of people who live to network. I'm a fairly social person, but I don't gauge a potential friend by the business contacts they can provide me with. I think the very idea of networking sucks -- it sort of sucks all the fun out of meeting new people.
And, of course, I'm not particularly ambitious when it comes to my job. I have no desire to climb the nonprofit ladder. I do my job, I do it well, and then I leave. You won't see me working until 9pm. People who are networking in order to claw their way to the top of their industry scare the hell out of me.
So if I don't carry my business cards on me at all times, please excuse me. It's only because I know I'm not going to press the flesh on behalf of my agency after work when I'm crying in my beer at McGlinchey's.
What I am about to admit is so embarrassing, so shocking, so.....crazy sounding, that I barely believe it myself:
When my husband plans to be away from home overnight [like tonight], I go out and buy tons of food. Then I go home, put on my dancing shoes and some good old-fashioned cheesy disco, and I totally cook like a rock star.
It's shameful, I know.
In all seriousness, Craig is staying overnight at his parents' house tonight so he can babysit the dog while they're away [yes, I'm serious] which means I get the house to myself. It's mine, all mine [she screeches, followed by maniacal laughter]!
I like to cook. No, scratch that -- I fucking love to cook. From making instant pudding up to making creme brulee from scratch, I love everything about it. It's an alchemy of sorts that blows my mind. I'm often amazed that I am able to churn out such excellent dishes. It comes as a huge surprise that I am able to admit to being a fabulous cook, considering my early history of not even being able to cook sausage without burning it.
My main problem is that I like to cook alone. I'm not sure if that qualifies as being problematic. I know that when people like to drink or eat alone that usually means they've got an addiction. I like to cook when the house is empty and I can crank up Disco Inferno as loud as my stereo will go. Grating and stirring and sautee-ing just seem to be more fun as I do the Hustle across the kitchen.
I'm not really sure what I'm going to make tonight. I took the subway down to Reading Terminal Market during lunch [and had a lovely interlude with some asshat trying to lure me into the fold of Jehovah's Witness-dom. She backed off after I told her that she should take her Awake! propaganda and shove it up her ass since only 144,000 souls are getting into heaven anyway.] and picked up a huge bag of groceries. I ended up with leeks, beets, hazlenuts, baby potatoes, patty pan squash, parsnips, brussel sprouts, mushrooms, poblano peppers, jalapeno peppers, goat cheese, brie, and a couple dozen bags of spices. I'm thinking beet and hazelnut salad with goat cheese and maybe soup of some sort. I should have bought some salmon.
I can practically hear the strains of You Make Me Feel Like Dancin'.
Of course, I'm now issuing an open invitation to anyone in the area who wants to come for dinner. I might like to cook by myself but I prefer to eat in the company of others! Or maybe I'm just trying to convince myself that I don't have a problem.
....gonna dance the night away....
So I grew up just above the Pocono mountains [or, for those of you who are geological sticklers, that's the Pocono divided plateau] and it was pretty fucking cold. It's the reason I hate snow and super cold weather. The only good part about it is that I have a fair tolerance for cold weather.
When it's 30 or 40 degrees I can usually handle it without freaking out and going all frozen tundra bundled. Right now, however, it is 12 degrees outside. Yes, you read correctly: 12 degrees, with a wind chill of about -5. Now is the time when I get all pissy and snivelling. Oh sure, it could be worse -- it could be snowing. It could be -50 instead of -5. But who cares -- it's fucking cold as the proverbial witch's tit right now.
I'm having erotic dreams about electric blankets. It's sick.
Statia has been having problems with being cold and pinched nerves lately. After doing Dancer's Pose in 105 degree heat on Saturday morning, Statia will no longer have these problems.
That's right, Statia is going to a Bikram yoga class with me Saturday morning. You just don't know someone until you lie in Corpse Pose next to them when you're sweating like a pig. It will be a bonding experience. A smelly bonding experience.
I checked out the nominees for the 2003 Bloggies this morning. It's nice to see some different blogs get nominated this year, although some of the list is fairly similar to last year. Very few of the nominations on my list made it to the finals. Waaaa.
I was really happy to see that Mikey got a nomination for best tagline. A few other blogs that I read got nominated for various things, which is also nice. Congratulations to all the nominees!
I did get excited there for a minute over the last day or two. I noticed that I got two hits from the nomination site over the weekend -- I thought maybe go fish got nominated for something. But with only two hits from the nomination site, I'm sure that must have been a weird glitch. I mean, I would imagine that there are more than just two judges and I'm sure all the judges check out the entire list of initial nominees before making their final nomination choices.
Looks like I'll have some new blog reading today before I vote! Woohoo!
I guess it's safe to announce now that I am playing The Dead Pool this year over at Amish Tech Support and list my nominees:
Now, I'm certainly not actively rooting for Death to come a-knocking [well, not for most of my list anyway], but not one single person playing The Dead Pool has gotten any points yet.
So I think I'd like to offer up some sort of bribe to Death to get the ball rolling. Even if I, personally, don't get any points...someone playing in The Dead Pool has got to get some points soon! Perhaps Death would like to share some yummy chocolate covered blueberries. Maybe I'll leave them out on a saucer with a glass of milk, sort of like for Santa Clause.
Like a total smack, I decided to take a walk over to Lord & Taylor during my lunch hour. Apparently I was braindead on the way into work this morning, because I conveniently forgot that it's just about 2 degrees and windy as hell outside today. But I persisted in the name of free spending money in the form of a Christmas gift certificate.
I pretty much hate Lord & Taylor. I've never been able to find much that I like in that store. It's sort of mostly old lady apparel along with some freakishly hip clothing that is made for those with supermodel bodies [i.e., girls with no hips or boobs]. Trying on clothing at Lord & Taylor is an exercise in futility because nothing ever fits right. And don't even get me started on their pitiful Petites department...I mean, just because I'm short doesn't mean I like to dress like a kindergarten teacher.
But they do happen to have a killer shoe department. So imagine my delight and surprise when I found a pair of new black boots on sale in my size! They're perfect, and comfortable enough to join my list of "stuff to pack for Paris" list.
Yes, I really do have a list like that. I've had it since November. I'm über-anal retentive about travelling. And I'm a compulsive list maker. In one of my old journals from high school I actually have a list of people that I smooched. I suppose it's sort slutty that I needed to keep a list in order to remember, but keep in mind there isn't a lot to do in the small town I grew up. It's either smooch a lot of boys, take up a life of crime, or experiment with cow tipping. I think you'll agree that I made the right choice.
But I digress! List making. Compulsive. Practically OCD about it. If I'm not making lists of stuff I need to take to Paris, or lists of things I want to see in Paris, I'm making lists of things to do before I die or inventories of CDs and books that I own.
In the grand scheme of things, list making is not such a big deal. At the very least, I'm an organized crazy maniac. It drives Craig crazy though -- I generally don't title my lists [except in my head] so he's forever finding slips of paper around the house that might say:
Want to have a photo associated with your blog? Visit Zen Block -- they're putting together a list of blogger mini-portraits.
I submitted this lovely photo this morning.
Go ahead, be a pepper.
OK, I'll admit it: I'm sorry that the Eagles didn't win today. It was a good season for them and every time one of the sports teams get to the play offs it's a nice thing. But my feelings are all tied up in the Vet, and I would have liked a win for the last game there.
That said, I'm not completely unhappy that the season is over for the Eagles. I'm happy to leave all the crappy rhetoric thrown around over sports to Buccaneers fans and whoever they play in the Superbowl. I've never understood the tendency to get so crazed over your favorite team that you have to insult fans of the other team [and believe me when I say that Eagles fans are just as guilty, if not more so, in this whole fucked up thing]. And what bothers me even more is when fans of the other team feel the need to generalize all Philadelphians. If one more person tells me, as a Philadelphian, to bite their ass because the Eagles failed to win the game today....well, it's insulting and annoying.
I shouldn't take all of that shit so seriously, but I'm so tired of it. It's a sport. Some fans act like they're on the team itself and that they personally had something to do with a win or a good season. Football players make scads of money, more than I will ever see in a lifetime, because they were born with the ability to run, throw, and catch better than other people. They aren't necessarily smarter and they don't make the world a better place. They play a game. The importance of it gets blown out of proportion, both by themselves and the fans.
All right, I've had my little hissy fit and now I'm fine with it. I'll quit my insulted whining and wish all you fans good luck with whoever you're rooting for.
Apparently Christy's new boytoy really is connected to the mob. He came right out and told her. I guess that sort of takes that question off the table.
It's the fact that she still is half considering taking money from him and dating him that absolutely kills me. It's as if Christy has just gone totally outer limits, to rip off a line from an '80s classic.
Phil [a friend of Christy's] and I have always said we'd co-orchestrate Christy's wedding. It would be a nightmare -- large men in sharkskin suits carrying guns; loud women in red lipstick, high hair, and spangled gowns; the necessary italian food traditions -- and, without a doubt, the chicken dance and all bizillion versions of the electric slide. And we wouldn't be able to say no, for fear his connections would kill us. Maybe even a mob hit during the reception.
I keep hoping Christy wakes up!
So last night Christy and I went to the Khyber. Or, really, we tried to go the Khyber. Somehow we couldn't get in because the place was packed. Of course, it didn't help that Christy didn't show up to my house until 11:30pm.
So instead of seeing a band, we ended up at Cafe Monticello at Third and Market. Despite the fact that it was very late, they were still serving food. The food was good -- I had a portobello mushroom in cream sauce with crab. Unfortunately it made me sick as a dog when I got home.
It was rough day for restaurants.
Oh, and Happy National Sanctity for Life Day. Barf.
Let me take this opportunity to say this to Bush and his administration: kiss my ass.
What is the expression -- something about getting back on the horse?
After my harrowing morning of roaches and Chinese food, I made the decision that I had to have some really good restaurant food before the stigma of eating food not prepared by me set in and I'd never eat again.
So I shook off the Ho Sai Gai funk [yes, the one in the Port Richmond Plaza, Heather!] and Craig took me to lunch at Las Cazuelas, a fabulous Mexican restaurant down the street from my house where I met Statia for the first time. I'm happy to say that no roaches or other assorted vermin were in evidence. And I'm always happy to get to speak Spanish to native speakers who don't laugh at me for my feeble attempts, so that made me cheer up a bit too.
And people wonder why I hate the pigeon lady so much.
Upon the advice of several people re: my last post, I've decided to contact the Health Dept. It's curious that so many people associate the lack of hygiene with ethnic cooking. I've worked in enough restaurants to know that all restaurants have cleanliness issues. If I let it get to me I'd never eat in another restaurant again. But I choose to ignore it and enjoy myself. It's only when that grossness presents itself to me legs-up that I can't live in my own little fantasy world anymore.
Tonight I'm going out with Christy. I'm anticipating a highly entertaining evening of making fun of her. She's lucky we'll be at the Khyber and the band will be too loud for me to do much more than point and laugh like a lunatic.
A couple of weeks ago she called me up all nervous. One of the father's of her dance students wanted to take her out. My "bad idea" radar perked up. I said, "Well, that's probably not a great idea. I mean, he's a lot older than you, has a kid not that much younger than you, has been divorced twice, and when you go out with him and it doesn't work out you're going to have to face the weirdness of seeing him and his daughter weekly."
Christy's response: "Yeah, you're right. But he's rich."
I knew right then that she wouldn't listen to reason. Christy is blinded by dollar signs.
So she calls me this afternoon to firm up plans for later, and she says, "I have a story for you. You're not going to be happy."
I snickered. "Who'd you fuck?" She has a history of very bad choices.
"No one," she said. "I went out with that guy. He blew an outrageous amount of money. All told, he spent two grand last night."
My mind went blank. Who spends $2K on a first date? "Uh, what does he do for a living?" I asked.
"He owns a restaurant and about 15 other business. He also offered to give me $600 that I owe for my trip, and said that if I married him I'd never have to worry about money again."
That's when my "mafia" flag went up. I'm more than a little concerned about the way this could all turn out. If he lived in South Philly I'd be even more concerned, but he lives in Bucks County. She says she isn't even remotely attracted to him, which would be good except that she said the same thing about her last boyfriend and that last for a few months until he broke up with her.
This is going to be bad. So I'm going to make fun of her until she cracks.
This morning I made myself a bowl of leftover rice noodles with pork and shrimp from my favorite Chinese restaurant, Ho Sai Gai. That particular dish has made a fabulous breakfast for me on many an occasion. This morning when I got to the bottom of my bowl I noticed a weird little brown peice of something that looked like a fat grain of wild rice. I nudged it with a chopstick and flipped it over. Fucking legs!
I screamed at the top of my lungs and dropped the bowl. Craig came running into the room, thinking I was being murdered. I told him to pick up the bowl and take a look. Craig turned green and set about the business of throwing out all the leftover Chinese food in the house and tearing up the menu. Meanwhile, I am holding my stomach wondering if I can make myself throw up.
A roach! A roach in my fucking food! At the bottom of the bowl no less! I'm thoroughly disgusted. We have gotten take out delivered from Ho Sai Gai almost weekly since we moved here just over two years ago. Now I'm wondering how much extra protein I've actually consumed. I probably have some sort of roach-carried plague.
This is not the best way to start a weekend. I hope it's not an omen.
Things are shaping up for an excellent week of guest posting here at go fish at the end of February during my trip to Paris. At the moment there are seven intrepid bloggers who have volunteered to entertain you.
Craig picked me up from work last night. I climbed into the truck, situated myself, and then noticed that Craig was holding a massive bouquet of gorgeous tulips in front of my face.
"These are for you," he said. "I love you."
How sweet is that? I may get pissed off at him for doing stupid things occasionally, but I think I'll just refer back to the tulips when that happens.
Sometimes I think I don't deserve to have someone as wonderful as Craig. He is forever doing little things for me to make me feel special, or indulging me in my silliness. I wish there was some big gesture I could make to let him know how much I appreciate him, but I can't think of anything. He doesn't really have any hobbies, and he doesn't really need anything.
If you were a boy [or you currently are one], what could your wife do that would express ultimate gratitude? I'm not talking about anything sexual because that's well taken care of. I need ideas.
I'm one of those people who tends to remember dreams very vividly. I generally remember two dreams from each night of sleep. Supposedly, the average person has 5-7 dreams per night, although each dream can be an amalgam of random snippets and themes.
This morning the alarm clock went off and I turned toward Craig, opened my eyes and said, "Thank you!" It took me a minute to figure out what the hell was going on, but right before I woke up I had been dreaming that Craig and I were going to a restaurant and he held the door open for me. So my natural response was to thank him.
I do that kind of thing alot -- a couple of weeks ago I dreamt that Craig was chasing me around the room with a knife, and I was so pissed off at him when I woke up I punched him in the arm before I realized my dream was over and I was awake.
What worries me is that I occasionally have the erotic dream involving a person or persons other than Craig. Craig would be a little concerned if I woke up out of a deep sleep yelling, "Give it to me hard, Fred! Ride me like a horse, Annie!" It would be a little disconcerting, don't you think?
A few nights ago I dreamt that I was being manhandled by Henry Rollins, and we were rolling around, doing some heavy petting. I woke up in the middle of the night, and Craig just happened to also be awake. I swear, I almost called him Henry.
Maybe I should wear a muzzle to bed.
So Craig and I are going to purchase a camera after work today. I have it narrowed down to a Fuji Finepix 2650 or a Kodak CX4230. I have about $200.00 to work with, so those two seem to be the best two in my price range.
Anyone have something to contribute that may sway me toward one or the other? My main concern is that I am able to have physical photographs printed out, and that I am able to purchase a large memory card. I really would love to take just one camera to Paris.
If I hear "E-A-G-L-E-S, Eagles!" or the Eagles fight song one more time I may have to transform into my raging alter-ego, The Crazed Fish. Beware my wrath -- I'll slap you with my flippers.
See, here's the thing, I wanted the Eagles to win last weekend because of sentimental reasons, and I'd love them to win this weekend too. Not because I'm a rabid sports fan, but because of issues I have wrapped up in the Vet. I'd like the old stadium to go out in a blaze of glory, so to speak.
But, you see, we have in Philadelphia what is known throughout the land as drunk and disorderly gorillas. Or, as they like to call themselves, Eagles fans. There's even a jail and courtroom in the Vet. It gets a lot of use. I doubt Eagles fans are really the worst in the country, but I will admit that most of them get a couple of beers in them and turn into fucking idiots.
Kathy found out the hard way not to even try to go anywhere in South Philly during a big game. When I lived in South Philly I was afraid to leave my house during a game for fear some crazed lunatic would run me over in the street or worse. I lived close to the stadiums during the last time the Flyers were in any sort of play-offs and the noise was so loud no one could sleep. I lived next door to a neighborhood bar, so I was rinsing piss off the side of my house for days.
So yeah, I'd like to see the team win this weekend, but I don't need any constant and crazed reminders that the game is happening. You can take your Eagles Green Friday and shovel it.
Far be it from me to deny a Princess her due, so here I am about to undertake my part in the Bloggin' Lovefest.
The problem is that I love so many blogs/journals, it's hard to go with one [or even two]. I have already professed my deep, undying love for Mrs. Roboto yesterday, so today I think I will slobber all over myself to sing the praises of two of my favorite guys: Scott from The Gamer's Nook and John from Thud Factor.
So without further ado, here is my Ode to Scott and John....
Scott and John, with your political commentary so witty
You are truly two of the most entertaining male bloggers
Scott with your hockey-infested appearance and
John with your strange mulletted evangelist-looking guy,
how could I not love and adore you guys?
All right, that's enough of that -- my Odes are not exactly the stuff of Keats. But seriously, I can always count on John and Scott to keep me informed and keep me laughing [or cringing, as the case may be] and keep me entertained.
Thank you both for doing what you do -- my day would be a lot less interesting without you.
Want to make Robyn a happy girl? Grab a peice of the Bloggin' Lovefest while there's still time!
Cover bands have their place. That place is usually a beer bar with no carding policy, frequented by freshman college students. Every college town has an astonishing array of barely talented cover bands making the rounds, playing badly arranged versions of Brown Eyed Girl and Oh What a Night.
The Philadelphia area has it's fair share. Having not been a college freshman in 11 years, drunken sing-a-longs with bad bands has lost it's appeal [as if it ever had much of an appeal]. I always assumed that college bands were like college students -- you graduate or leave school and you move on with your life. Apparently, I am dead wrong.
Last night Craig picked me up from work to go window shopping for a digital camera and the radio was on. Some cheesy college bar was advertising the bands for this weekend, and, for some unknown reason, I paid attention. Much to my surprise, most of the names sounded very familar. In fact, I had seen almost all the bands [even though I recall it through a beer-soaked haze] in my college days.
Do college cover bands just continue forever? I wonder what their fan base is like -- I mean, 30-something and 40-something guys playing covers of Journey can't be that attractive to an 18 year old girl. Will they just continue to tour the city's underage drinking establishments until they're old and gray?
Will I listen to the radio in 20 years and hear, "And this weekend come to Brownie's Central East for a groovin' to the oldies weekend with Love Seed Mama Jump! Ambulances will be standing by..."?
So I went on a mild shopping spree during lunch today.
Since Craig has already given me my birthday present early [the glam coat], I bought him a watch he's been drooling over and I plan to give it to him as his early birthday gift. And I did the normal beauty product drag up Walnut Street. Now that the new Kiehl's store is open I fear I will drop a boat load of cash on prettying myself up.
But the real mission for today was to finally purchase a book on NASCAR for my stepfather. Since it isn't supposed to be too awfully snowy this weekend, Craig and I are making the three hour trek home to my mom's to celebrate Christmas.
And I will admit that I put off purchasing the book because I'm so mortified to actually purchase it. However, considering I need to wrap the book this evening in order to leave here right after work tomorrow, I couldn't blow it off anymore.
If it's possible, I think it was worst than I anticipated.
I searched Barnes and Noble, looking for the sports section. No sports section was evident to me. I asked, innocently, about the sports section. It was hidden away in a corner. There were no NASCAR books in the sports section. I debated whether or not I should ask. Finally, I bit the bullet.
As luck would have it, this totally hot [and terminally hip] guy was behind the help desk. I gave an inward shudder and hoped an embarrassed red glow was not spreading over my face the way I thought it was.
"Could you direct me toward where books on NASCAR are located?" I asked with great trepidation.
The hottie immediately got an amused look on his face. "Uh, you're looking for a book on NASCAR?" he asked, snottily. "Yes, that's in the transportation section. Right over there in the corner next to Sports." And I swear to you, he snickered.
They probably took a photograph of me and are passing it out all over town with this caption: "this girl is a total hick -- she purchased a book about NASCAR." It was awful.
But the humiliation wasn't over. I felt like a total ass to begin with, and I couldn't very well just buy a book on NASCAR. It would be like going into a drug store and only purchasing condoms and/or a pregnancy test. You don't want to look skeevy or sleazy -- you have to purchase something normal to keep up the outward appearance of nonchalance. So I hunted around and picked up a new paperback: Gould's Book of Fish by Richard Flanagan. I get to the counter, NASCAR book carefully hidden underneath the novel, hoping the ultra-hip girl behind the counter won't notice what I'm buying.
She picks up my purchases and scans them. And then smirks. And then, the worst: she called me ma'am! "Have a nice day, ma'am," she called after me in her snarky little chirp.
My stepfather had better appreciate the fact that I lost all of my street credibility just to purchase this book for him. I'm ruined for ever, I tell you! I will be laughed out of all the cool bars and restaurants in town! I will have to hide my face at clubs! My library card will be revoked!
Next year I will definitely purchase over the internet.
You know I think all of us East Coast Bloggers are all that and a bag of Rap Snacks. Thus, it is with a heavy heart that I announce I am unable to attend the East Coast Blogger gathering in the Poconos on March 14.
I just know those bastids are going to frolic amongst the heart-shaped tubs and champagne glass jacuzzis, and I'm going to miss it all.
Curses!
Solonor linked to the hidden bias tests at the Southern Poverty Law Center, and I must admit that I was curious how it would come out for me, so I took the tests.
My results -- I have a "slight automatic preference" for gay people, other people [who aren't Arab Muslims], and thin people; a "slight automatic association" between blacks and weapons, and European looking face and being "American;" a "moderate automatic prefence" for white children; "little or no preference" between white and black adults, and light or dark skin tone; "little or no automatic gender association" with science and liberal arts; and a "strong automatic preference" for the young.
We all have some biases, whether we know it or not. The result I was most surprised about what my slight preference for white children -- I don't like any children at all, let alone a certain color children.
I'm going to take some of those tests over again in a few weeks to see if the results vary at all. I guess I should just be thrilled the tests didn't reveal that I'm a raging racist with huge preferences over one thing or the other.
And Solonor brings up an interesting point -- the tests really only measure your immediate reaction. Of course, I'm a strong believer in going with your first reaction. The validity of these tests could be, and likely has been, debated to death.
How did your tests come out?
As many of you know I will be leaving the frozen city of Philadelphia late next month to visit the equally cold city of Paris for a week. But who will keep the home fires burning?
I already have one spectacular guest poster lined up, and I sure could use a few more. I'll be handing out guest post passwords like candy! I know you want one.
Here's the deal -- I'm leaving Friday, February 21 and returning Saturday, March 1. Anyone who wants a password has to post at least once during that time, but you can post as much as your little heart desires. I would prefer not to come back and find out that go fish has been splattered with porn, though. I know that's a deal breaker for some of you.
I'll be taking guest post offers until February 14 [Valentines Day, awwwww] and then I'll email out all the passwords that week.
Come on, wouldn't you like to be a fishie too?
How did go fish end up being the fourth site listed for underarm stubble on Google?
Oddly enough, I also got a hit from a search for Yemeni stripper girls. Um, sorry -- no Yemeni stripper girls here.
Sometimes it helps me to get through a Monday if I just get my eyebrows waxed and get a manicure.
Aw, don't my brows look delightful?
I'm so boojie.
I am the original high maintenance type of chick. I don't like to go without showers, dig in the dirt, sleep on the ground, live off the fat of the land, or anything like that. But every once in a while there will come a day when I spend the entire day in my pajamas and yesterday's undies, with no shower, underarm stubble screaming to be shaved, doorag perched on my head.
Sloth, thy name is Nicole and today is that day.
I guess I'm just feeling lazy -- I got up kind of late [9am] and it's snowing like crazy outside and started to stick to the ground. There's no good reason for me to get pretty or clean today. Oh sure, maybe later I'll get the urge to bathe or shower. But for now I will remain vaguely funky.
In other news, go fish is slowly but surely shaping up. My designer is hard at work fixing the bugs with the calendar navigation and a host of other things. I'm trying to figure out a way to import my old MT database since I wasn't able to export the file before it died. Before long things will be perfect. I hope.
Gee, i stink.
It's no secret that I hate the Mummers. And after their late night serenade a few days ago, I like them even less than usual. Of course, it should come as absolutely no surprise to me whatsoever that they have managed to ruin my plans this fine Saturday.
Christy and I decided we'd take the 9am Bikram yoga class. I got excited just thinking of it last night -- it's the perfect way to begin a cold, Winter morning. And then we were supposed to run over to Pearl Arts to get her the ingredients to cook up a lovely photo album in which to deposit her huge collection of photos from Africa.
I should have known those fucking Mummers would come between me and my good stretch.
As it turns out, because the outdoor portion of the Mummers Parade was cancelled on New Years Day, it was rescheduled for today. And my yoga studio is right in Parade Route Central. As much as I just adore drunk drag queens, I had to decline to visit the studio today.
So here I sit, saddened by this horrible state of affairs. It's a travesty.
It's time to nominate blogs for the 2003 Bloggies! Woohoo!
Do your duty and go nominate your favorite blogs -- I'm on way to do that right now....
My first day of work in the brand spankin' new year, and, boy oh boy, is it ever exciting. Not only do I have to sit here all day while I am secretly pining to be at home in bed in my flannel pajamas [yes, imagine the glamorousness that is my bedtime attire], but I also get to begin my day with a boring all staff meeting.
Sometimes too much information is a bad thing.
To top it all off, it looks like Craig and I will not be traversing the three hours to visit my mom and have Christmas with her and the rest of the family this weekend. The Poconos are supposed to get a foot of snow today. I don't want any part of that. Of course, maybe it's not such a bad thing that I won't have to spend the weekend congratulating myself on escaping the horror that is my hometown.
Maybe I can fake a brain hemorrage to get out of this meeting....
Yeah, so thanks to Christine of Big Pink Cookie and Blogomania [for reinstalling MT for me], and Starli [for tweaking my design and doing some coding], go fish is almost back to normal.
You'll notice things looking all screwed up around here for at least the next day probably, but then life at go fish will return to it's normal degree of frenetic posting. How I've missed those days.
Until things are all purty again and all of my archived entries have been uploaded, why don't you go and visit the old go fish blog? You know you want to.
Yep, Happy New Year everyone! Already things are looking up.
'But it's not even been 24 hours since 2003 began, Nicole,' you may be asking yourself. Well, it's not every day that I get an apology from those bastards at SEPTA. Some of you may remember my nastygram to SEPTA a few weeks ago when one of their drivers almost ran my sorry ass over in the road while I was actually crossing in the crosswalk legally.
Today when I checked my email, I received this missive from SEPTA's Deputy Director of Transportation....
Maybe this signifies the year of the empowered Nicole -- able to complain like a pro, and leap SEPTA vehicles in a single bound. No pushover I! I will take names and make complaints. Crappy employees everywhere, take note: beware my potential wrath. *maniacal laughter*
Or not.
Like an ass, I ventured out shopping yesterday. I should know better. There are two days when I generally don't go anywhere near a store -- the day after Thanksgiving and the day after Christmas. I was obviously delusional yesterday.
Or maybe I was just schnookered by all the doomsday reports of this shopping season being the Worst In Thirty Years! Big huge sales, all the news reporters screamed in glee! No one in the stores, they shrieked!
Ha.
Within two minutes I could tell I had made a huge error in judgement. But I was already out of the house, so I forged ahead. I don't know where all these great sales are, but I really didn't see any. And normally gentle souls turned into ravenous dogs in their attempts to push in front of me to make sure they searched a rack before I did. Sometimes my self-defense training really does come in handy.
I did, however, manage to gift myself with a couple of things. What more can I ask for?
During our travels, Craig and I stopped by his brother's house to give gifts to the kids. Everytime I'm around those three monsters I am reminded of why I don't want children. The annoyance level was enough to render me insane within a few seconds. And here is a tip for anyone considering gifting me: don't even think about giving me anything made in your ceramics class, OK? I'm not a cutesy chotckie kind of girl. While I appreciate the effort and the thought behind the gift, save your handiwork for someone who would proudly display such an ugly thing.
Now that I've got that out of my system, I've been thinking about reviewing lately. I mean, my side gig reviewing for The Weblog Review and other review sites. I read a lot of them because I like to see how other people are reviewing, and I even submit go fish to be reviewed because I like to see the difference in reviewing criteria.
When I review a site, my main thing is that I want to be entertained. I don't really care how you do that, what your write about, etc., but I really want to be entertained. There are some reviewers that maintain that a blog should be all about your day-to-day activities. As in, your entries should say "I did [insert activity here] this today." Period. They don't want ruminations on how you feel about what other people did today [you know, like current events] and they don't want to hear how things relate to your past. Do people really want to read blogs like that? Just curious.
Eh. Anyway.
There's something really funky going on over at my new blog so I'm going to hang out here until it's fixed. Merry Christmas to me, right?
Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it really was a Merry Christmas for me. What's a little MT corruption? Heh.
I hope you [for those who celebrate] are having a wonderful Christmas. And for those who don't celebrate, happy Wednesday.
It was really a perfect Christmas for me. Craig and I woke up around 9am and raced downstairs to open presents. He loved everything I bought him, including the kind of funny gifts I bought him, like the paper shredder and the crepe pan. I loved everything he gave me too.
It rained all day, but then turned to snow later on and we haven't left the house all day. That's excellent because I didn't have to spend half of my day with the in-laws and the bratty kids of his brother. Yay!
Here's my haul for Christmas: winter coat, 4 DVDs [The Cook The Thief His Wife and Her Lover, Buffy, Memento, and The Nightmare Before Christmas], the latest Anne Rice book, a book about learning French, a guide to Paris, a French dictionary, a stick blender, a bread board with a dipping bowl, and an excellent set of Nightmare Before Christmas wine opener and stopper. Oh, and a phone card to use in France. Isn't that a great idea?
I know this will come as a huge surprise, but I was not always the domestic goddess you see before you. Yes, yes, it's very shocking.
As a kid, I was deathly afraid of falling into the trap of traditional female roles -- wife, mother, housefrau, maid, pushover. I rejected most things that could lead to that kind of a lifestyle. I wanted to become a strong, powerful woman. I wanted to use sex as a weapon and win [because at the age of 13 I thought that was an excellent ideal]. I wanted to bring grown men to their knees with my stellar personality and wit, and take over the world! [insert maniacal laughter here]
Pinky, are you thinking what I'm thinking?
My mother tried her hardest to lure me into the dark side of housework. Oh yes, she tried! But I resisted. I would rather not get an allowance than clean windows to a glowing shine. The very scent of furniture polish was enough to send me into hiding. Vacuum cleaners still give me the willies. I knew that when I grew up, there would be no housework for me. I'd have a maid! I'd be rich! Housework? Feh.
And then there was the cooking. We were fairly poor when I was growing up, so there wasn't much to cook up. It was a lot of Tuna Helper and Hamburger Helper and potatoes cooked a zillion ways. I refused to learn to make Tuna Helper. The potatoes went untouched by my cold hands. I couldn't even be trusted to make sure stuff didn't burn. I was grounded for two weeks once because my mother asked me to keep an eye on the sausage she was frying while she hung out a load of clothes. Of course, by the time she got back the sausage was nothing more than burnt cinders.
I didn't learn to work a washing machine until I got to college and ran out of money to buy new socks and underwear. I still don't understand what fabric softener is.
In college none of my roommates would let me near the stove because one night it was my turn to cook and I made some horrible casserole using all the leftover and old vegetables in the kitchen combined with only tomato paste. It was gross.
I didn't truly learn to cook and enjoy cooking until I lived by myself. And that's when I found out I'm a really good cook, and an excellent baker. Who knew?
Of course, I still refuse to do housework. Luckily, Craig doesn't mind doing the cleaning, providing I keep him well fed.
I still want to take over the world.
Something you may not know about me is that I am a published poet. I won't bore you with the details of how this came about and I won't post the poetry because poetry is incredibly subjective. What that means is that I generally skip over poetry on blogs because a lot of it sucks. It isn't to say that it's horrible poetry, but I have a very definitive style of what I like.
It's the literature geek in me.
Plus, I hate criticism. Constructive criticism on my writing doesn't exist for me. It all seems like a personal attack, and then I end up getting bent out of shape and stewing about it for years.
I'm totally serious.
When I was a sophomore in college I got brave enough to take a workshop in writing poetry. The whole class consisted of reading your own poetry in front of a class of about 15 students and the instructor, and then having your work picked apart.
It was totally mortifying. One of the poems that was eventually published is something that everyone in my class just fucking hated. My instructor was a joke -- she just lurved poetry that rhymed and had serious structure. She refused to acknowledge poetry that had no formal structure could be good.
I still have a copy of a poem I turned in for criticism that I just adored that has a bunch of nasty comments written on it by assorted people. Every once in a while I pull it out, read it, and get really good and pissed off.
I'm telling you: I cannot handle that kind of criticism. I barely made it through each class without bursting into melodramatic tears and fleeing the room in a huff. And I knew that the class was going to be all about criticism, I knew it! I have no idea why I took a class like that. If you ask for criticism of your writing, or a review of your blog, or ask someone "Does this make me look fat?" you should be prepared to handle the answer in a mature way.
Accept it, agree or disagree, and move on.
But because I can't seem to move on from it, it festers in me. Ten years later I can still remember what every single person in that class looks like, the tone of their voice, and the things that they said.
Last night when Craig Santa brought me my new coat, it occurred to me that there were already a number of gifts underneath the tree with my name on them. Since I happen to know how much the coat cost, I knew that Craig had at least spent double what our gift dollar amount limit called for.
Far be it from me to complain when my husband spends money on me, but I like to keep things even or else I start to feel guilty. Our lives are all about parity. Ahem.
So now, even though I was sure my Christmas shopping had been finished for weeks, I am in the position of having to brave the hordes of last minute shoppers. Today during lunch I will buy Craig more stuff. Luckily it won't be so tough. I saw a couple of things at J. Crew that I think he'll dig.
Craig threatened to return my coat if I buy anything else to bring the gift giving madness to anywhere near equality, but I can't face my guilt at having bought him less. And I know he won't really return my coat. And so he's going to have more stuff to open Christmas morning, like it or not.
Do you set a dollar limit for yourself, or do you and your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/significant other set limits? Do you go over? Do you lie about how much you spend? I'm just curious, and secretly hoping that we're not the only morons who go through this every year!
Life would just be so much simpler if we exchanged livestock.
Despite years of training to correct it, I am a total klutz. And when weather threatens to take my life I tend to get a bit wussy-like about it. Because my klutziness+ice/snow=hospitalization.
It's true.
And so here I am at home [as opposed to being at work] because I refuse to take my chances with the elements. Hey man, I respect nature.
Let's review the stupid things that have happened to me when I have actually left the house in dangerous weather, shall we?
And so, since there's ample precedent, I try not to leave my house if it isn't absolutely necessary during potentially hazardous weather. You know, because I'm a menace to myself.
And who knows? Maybe even to others!
When I was growing up writing a letter to Santa meant that I'd have to brave the Berwick Christmas Boulevard and be forced to eat a bag of Weis potato chips, so I stopped writing letters to Santa. Because no one wants to eat a bag of frozen solid Weis potato chips on a cold and windy night inside of a car with no heat in Berwick, especially me.
But, because I'm such a sucker for what's hip and happening, I decided to write one this year to see how I'd come out on the scale of "I've been good" and "I've been bad." Heh.
Dear Santa,
Hey there Santa, how are you? I hope you and Mrs. Claus are doing well, and keeping warm. I sent you a batch of all-natural biscuits for the reindeer about a week ago -- I hope they arrive before Christmas.
I'm doing pretty well. It's been a year filled with happiness for me, and I think I've been a fairly good girl.
Now, you may not think so because I've done some things you may not think are very nice. Please give me the opportunity to explain.
I'm well aware that I helped chase out those lovely young kids out of my neighborhood. It weighs conscious on my heart that I made one of those poor boys cry. But my heart was in the right place! Those misguided youths were wreaking havoc in my neighborhood, and I really only wanted to make the neighborhood a nice place to live again. Honest, it wasn't purely a selfish thing. Sure, I like to sleep, but so do other people!
I know that the military is very important to our country. And I know that breaking that nice soldier's finger wasn't particularly polite. But my body is not public property, and isn't meant to be groped by a stranger. I reserve the right to defend my honor as I see fit. And hey, he started it!
Over the last year I have cursed people and given them the evil eye, wished for a horrible accident to befall several members of the U.S. government, and hoped for very bad things to happen to the Deeply Religious. It's true. But it's only because those kinds of people can't be rehabilitated into nice and upstanding citizens.
Like I said, overall, I've been fairly good. I raised lots of money for good causes this year, gave up my seat to older and disabled people on the subway and bus, freely gave directions to tourists, and was generally polite to the majority of people I came in contact with.
Please take this into consideration when deciding on whether or not to leave me a lump of coal in my stocking. And if you decide that I've been good enough to deserve a gift, I'd really like that fabulous camel colored wool coat with the lamb's fur collar and cuffs.
Thanks Santa! Have a great ride on Christmas Eve!
Love and kisses,
Nicole
P.S. If it helps my case, I'll even give you a 'go fish' thong for Christmas!
Last night Craig picked me up from class and, as I sat down to finish knitting my current sweater project, we decided to order burgers from down the street. Craig hands me the menu, and he gets a paper cut as I slide it from his hands.
What happens next is still giving me the giggles this morning.
Craig lets out this sort half-squeak, half-little girl squeal scream, and then he cradles his injured hand against his chest with a freaked out look on his face.
It was so funny and weird that I couldn't help myself: I started laughing. And the more I thought about it, the funnier it got. So within five minutes I was laughing so hard at Craig that no sound was coming out of me, and tears were just streaming down my face. I couldn't even catch my breath. I was just in total hysterics.
Craig thought I was insane, of course. I mean, what normal person laughs really hard at another person's pain, right? Well, apparently I am. But it was just so funny! And I totally needed a good laugh like that -- it's one of those things that I don't do every day. I'm just glad that I wasn't drinking anything at the time, because it would have been spit out through my nose!
And yes, you read correctly -- I finished my sweater! This isn't a great picture, but it gives you some idea of what it looks like, and this is how excited I am that I have finished my biggest Christmas gift project.
It was a banner day! How sad is that?
Hey, I'll be sending out Christmas cards within the next few days. Want one? They aren't handmade or even sacrilegeous [as was my all time favorite Christmas card -- the sweet baby Jeebus with the face of Elvis, the greeting of which proclaimed "The King is Come!"] this year, but I'd be happy to send you one if you'd like be a recipient.
Just email me your mailing address within the next day or two!
Speaking of Christmas, I am now even happier that I was not present for the office Winter Celebration. Um, there was line dancing and karaoke. *shudder*
I'm sure no one noticed this small addition to the go fish plethora of links, but I added the go fish market a few days ago. I certainly wouldn't expect anyone to order a tshirt with the go fish logo on it, but I was so entertained by the idea of putting my logo on stuff that I created a little store of logo items anyway.
What hee-larious is the go fish thong. The photo is too small to read it, but the front of the thong has part of my logo and the words "go fish wants some bush." Heh. I'm so 10 years old.
Even though we all know I think thongs are the most uncomfortable piece of clothing in the world, I may just have to purchase one for myself. And even though I still haven't really gotten serious about the next go fish contest, I'm thinking that the one after that I may just buy a bunch of go fish thongs and give those away. Because what's funnier than people running around with my logo on their crotch?
The boxer shorts just don't really seem as funny. What would really make my life complete is if the store started offering banana hammock undies for boys, or mesh thongs for boys like in the American Male catalog. And then I could make some raunchy logo for them.
Male lingerie is always comedy gold. It is rare to see male lingerie that is actually attractive. Mostly it's just silly, and I spend my time trying not to snicker. Stripper outfits are the worst -- the prosthetics in their little banana hammocks with the shirred butt are the most hysterical thing in the world. Those things just flop around, hitting women in the face. I suppose it's all part of the weirdness, like we're just supposed to suspend belief that the guy built like a brick shithouse prancing around in his skivvies really has a 15 inch penis that's rock hard while he's doing the cabbage patch.
Feh. Hey, maybe I should send a thong to Strom....you know, as a birthday present.
Officially Employer Sanctioned Snow Day, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways:
If I believed in god, I'd be tempted to say, "God bless us, every one!"
There is an art to cussing. I believe that I litter my normal conversation with just enough expletives, without going over the thin line into just plain vulgarity.
I like the word fuck. We've all seen the essays about the myriad of ways in which fuck can be used. I won't repeat it. It's a handy word though. There is one word that doesn't make it into my lexicon. The word is cunt. There's something so mean-spirited about it.
I can call someone a dumbfuck or a fucktard or a fucking idiot and still not say it with total malice. I can even mean it in an endearing way. However, I have never heard anyone call someone a cunt and get a nice fuzzy feeling from it.
Cunt is such an ugly word -- I mean it sounds ugly. And it's usually said in an ugly way. I don't use it and I hate to be called a cunt worse than anything else.
I don't mind being referred to as a vagina. I mean, I do have one and all. Vaginas are nice and well-designed and very helpful to have. They're generally much prettier than penises. I just don't like the word cunt.
Apparently it didn't always have such a negative connotation. It's derived from the Germanic root ku-, which means "hollow place." I know not everyone thinks cunt is such a horrible word. Maybe if my mother had lovingly referred to me as a cunt when I was a child [you know, term of endearment] maybe I'd feel different about it.
Nice. I think I just gave myself the heebie jeebies.
I refuse to believe that West Siders have the capacity to part-ay like us Old Skool East Siders. Do we get to make up gang signs? Can I get a gang name? Do I have to be jumped in?
I may not be partying with those crazy cats in Florida in January, but I'll be kickin' it Philly style [now imagine me saying that in my best white girl voice].
Solidarity, man! Aiiiiigggggghhhhhhht.
So I'm sitting around talking to Christy about Africa and travelling in general this past weekend. Here is how our conversation went:
Christy: I think we're going somewhere, some big resort, I think it starts with an "S". I've never heard of it, but it's supposed to be famous.
me: [incredulously] Are you talking about Sun City?
Christy: [looking at me in amazement] Yeah, that's it! How do you know about Sun City?
me: [trying not to sound condescending] Um, well, do you know about Apartheid?
Christy: Kind of.
me: OK, well, in the mid 1980's there was this big brouhaha involving Sun City. The resort was paying beaucoup bucks to entertainers to come and perform at Sun City. The problem is that the South African government instituted Apartheid laws back around 1950, so by playing Sun City performers were feeding the economy which was oppressing many many people. It was a bad situation -- basically anyone non-white had no rights at all.
Christy: Oh.
me: Plus there was the whole protest video thing on MTV.
Christy: What? What are you talking about?
Craig: [starts singing the "I Ain't Gonna Play Sun City" song]
me: You know, Steve VanZandt, Kurtis Blow, Bono, George Clinton, blah blah blah....mid-80's....?
Christy: I don't think I know the song. Does this have anything to do with Nelson Mandela?
me: [channelling Conan O'Brien] Whaaaaaaaaaa?
Christy: I know Nelson Mandela has something to do with Apartheid, but I don't know what.
me: Uh, Christy, I think you need to get a book or something -- something that will tell you the short and dirty version of South African history. Maybe a travel guide.
Christy: Oh, I did buy a book!
me: Oh good! Which guide did you buy?
Christy: I didn't buy a guide -- I bought a novel.
me: Uh OK. Why did you buy a novel? It's fiction, right?
Christy: Well yeah. I thought it would be a better way to learn about what it's really like in South Africa than reading a travel guide.
me: Uh huh. Do you even have a map?
Christy: No. The touring company hired a tour guide for us. But I hope I don't have to stay with the guide the whole time -- I want to go off by myself.
me: Let me get this straight. You're reading a fiction book to get important facts about South Africa, like where the malaria zones are and what's good and interesting to see and do. You haven't bothered to learn the polite words in the local language, you don't know anything about the monetary system, and you don't have a map. You're refusing to take your malaria prevention medication. And you want to go exploring on your own?
Christy: Yep!
me: OK, good luck with that.
Again, I say, Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa?
Dear Spammer Fucktards and Popup/Popunder Ad Halfwits,
While I'm sure that what you do must produce revenue in some way, I'd like to assure that I a) do not care about your sister's stretched anus and b) will never have a need to purchase Popup ad zapping software from a Popup ad.
It has become my policy to delete all emails that don't pertain to me personally without even opening them. I shut popups and popunders before they even have a chance to load. I am not alone. There are an army of us who behave in exactly the same way. You're paying for advertisements that don't reach anyone.
Please take this opportunity to learn from your mistakes. While I'm sure that hoards of 11 year old boys find their way to porn sites every day from emails advertising a three way pig fuck, they do not possess credit cards to pay the entrance fee. Instead of attracting clientele, you are pissing us all off. Please cease and desist.
Perhaps you could take up knitting. It's very calming and good for the soul. And you, my poor, misguided friend, need to repair your karma.
Good luck with that.
Best wishes,
Nicole
I think I might just have the best boss in the entire world. No, really.
A few weeks ago I received an email from Amy [my boss] telling me that today it was required that attend a departmental meeting at the Ritz Hotel -- for a chat with their cocoa sommelier. Today I received a reminder that we're to be there at 2pm and are not to return to work until next Monday. That Amy, always looking to get us out of the office early!
If there's anyone in the world that I aspire to be like, it might be Amy. She's thoughtful and nice, and honest. She is one of the most real people I know. If I become anything remotely like Amy when I grow up I will consider myself lucky. I guess you could say that she is my role model.
Growing up I had some fucked up role models. Deep in my heart of hearts I wanted to be Chrissy Snow, from the television show Three's Company. Mostly it was all about the hair -- I forced my mother to fix my hair every morning just like Chrissy's. But how screwed up is that? I wanted to grow up to be a tall, thin, stupid girl. Wearing short shorts. Laughing in snorts.
I doubt it scarred me for life or anything, but why Chrissy Snow? Why not, I don't know, the Bionic Woman? Or Wonderwoman [ching! ching! ching!]? Stupid.
As an adult, other than Amy, my role models are writers. One day I hope to produce fine work like John Irving, Kurt Vonnegut, and James Morrow. I guess now it's mostly about the sarcasm.
I think if I were a kid now I'd have even worse role models. One one hand you have the option of worshipping sports figures who do crack and beat up whores in their spare time, and on the other hand you have the option of wanting to be just like Brittney Spears. Oh yay.
Maybe I should start a campaign to become the official role model of today's youth. Think anyone would buy into it?
Yeah, me neither.
I couldn't believe it when I finally realized what date it is today -- exactly 4 weeks until Christmas. Wow.
A lot of times I get hung up on what to buy people for Christmas. There are a few people that are just next to impossible to buy for. My grandparents have everything they could ever possibly need, and my dad just defies easy gifting.
So I collect ideas and resources for interesting gifts. My all time favorite gift purchase for difficult gifters is a toothbrush. Everyone needs a toothbrush, even if they wear dentures. When we were in London last year we found toothbrushes shaped like bobbies. I recently discovered the stripping toothbrush, these cool bear toothbrushes, and a delightful penis brush. For a high end gift, try the Sonicare.
I also like quirky gifts, like Name a Star, the Love or Buddha light bulb, and bizarre light up salt and pepper shakers. Other cool [and somewhat strange] gift ideas for the person who has everything:
Yeah, so I'm a hand talker.
It wasn't always this way. I can be a very animated person, but it wasn't until I moved away from home that I started clumsily knocking into things like a big giant oaf. Kathy doesn't realize how lucky she was at dinner Saturday night -- a couple of times I hit my plate so hard with my hand I almost splattered gnocchi and sauce all over her. I was trying to keep it a secret, lest she, Erica Lynn, and Statia think I'm a crazy lady with no bodily control. I guess my secret is out.
I have a tendency to throw my arms wildly around when I'm talking. It really goes beyond gesturing, I think. I have cracked the glass face of every watch I have owned in the last couple of years at least twice. I bust fingernails. I once hit a ring against a doorjamb so hard the stone popped out. I have spilled glasses of water, wine, and soda all over the place because I can't seem to control my wild, flailing hands. My enthusiasm can't be contained in my voice or my bizarre face making -- it seems my hands have to get into the act.
And really, up until I moved away from my hometown I wasn't shy, but I was more reserved. Maybe my hands felt the freedom too. And a lot of my friends are involved with the theater in some way, so big movement and big personalities tend to rub off. As I'm sure Statia, Erica Lynn, and Kathy can tell you, I can sometimes come of as really overbearing because I'm so used to cartoonishly expressive people.
Speaking of cartoonishly expressive, I give to you my new hair. It looks more blonde then red under these fabulous and flattering lights at work, but I can assure you it is slightly redder than the photo shows. I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out. Of course, now I have to work on getting my hair back into some semblence of healthy hair. Because right now, it feels like straw.
It was also a no-baking weekend for me, despite my intentions. Who knew knitting mittens would take up so much fucking time? Now I'm working on a hat for Christy for her birthday, which is in a few days. That seems to be taking forever, which is puzzling to me. At this point in time I have four projects going at once. It's making me crazy.
Woe to all you beauticians and hair stylists today -- I am on an absolute "I hate you all" kick. My dreams of red hair were dashed last night by Lisa, my now former stylist.
If I had said to Lisa, "Just dye it red -- any color you want" I would have been happy with the results. I have done that often enough. But last night I went into the salon with a photograph and talked to Lisa about exactly what I wanted and sent the photo with her when she mixed my color. And she still fucked it up.
Instead of the Rose McGowan sort of strawberry blonde but still red that I wanted, I got dark brown with a little bit of red in it. I've had my hair this color before and liked it, but because it isn't exactly what I wanted I hate it. I mean I really hate it.
And it has put me in the absolute worst mood imaginable. In fact, I just got snarky with the Executive Director of my agency, something I would never do under normal circumstances.
So it is left to me to fix the disaster that is my hair. Today I am going out and purchasing hair stripper, and three boxes of different shades of red hair dye. I have the technology -- I can rebuild it. Now if I fuck up my hair worse than Lisa did, Statia, Erica Lynn, and Kathy will be in for an eyeful tomorrow night when we have dinner at Dante and Luigi's. Hell, maybe I'll be bald.
What have I turned into? I am obsessed with the state of my hair. And I'm obsessed with how horrible I think it looks.
But victory will be mine. Oh yes, victory will be mine.
I'm savoring my last hour as a blonde. OK, really, I'm totally excited about going red again and if I could leave early and get rid of the blondeness immediately, I would.
I even gave notice to the people I work with this time. Most of the time I just show up with a new head of hair. But some of them are old and their hearts just can't take the strain. Because this is pure excitement, you know.
Yep.
In other news, I now have my sights set on my next sweater project -- a lovely boucle cardigan for a co-worker of mine. It will keep me from killing Craig over the Thanksgiving holiday. Hey, that's hours of entertainment right there. Next, maybe I'll knit my shroud.
So right now I have two Christmas gift knitting projects going -- one is a felted hat and scarf for my cousin and the other is a kick ass hat made of bright multi-color chenille for my aunt. The felted hat is done and actually looks like it should, which is a thrilled feat considering the agony of defeat that was my first felting project. For the next five weeks I will be in power knit mode -- I need to knit a sweater, two pairs of mittens, two pairs of socks, and a scarf or two. I'm determined to be victorious!
Christmas always turns me into an absolute freak. I usually get my shopping done early, and this year is no exception. I have all my gifts purchased except for one. But I always put off the stuff I have to make until the last possible minute. Last year I gave out a bunch of journals and photo albums. I finished the last one Christmas Eve.
I'm suddenly craving eggnog.
I am a beauty product whore. The cabinets and shelves in my bathroom are overflowing with the evidence. I own every kind of skin moisturizer, hair conditioner, face mask, and lipstick known to man. Trying new stuff is a major event. Last night was a huge event.
After class I retired to the lab, er, my bathroom with a can of VEET™ depilatory mousse in hand and a week's worth of leg stubble to experiment on. I have tried other depilatories, like Nair, that did nothing but leave a coating of slime on my hairy legs. But I have heard that VEET™ actually works, and so I was willing to give it a try.
With great an-tici-pation and a flutter in my heart, I held the can four inches away from my leg and sprayed as directed. A few more sprays and both legs were covered in what appeared to be fire retardant.
It was then I noticed the depilatory recommends a spot test to make sure you're not mortally allergic. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. It was right about then I noticed the smell. My legs smelled suspiciously like pee.
I checked the label for ingredients and oddly enough the second ingredient is Urea. My heart sank. Urea? As in urine? Ew! I wonder if VEET™ can be used to combat the sting of a jelly fish?
For the remainder of the eight minutes ["timed with a watch"] I sat in utter disgust, wondering whose urine I was marinating my legs in. I started imagining a factory in a third world nation where 7 year old kids are working in a sweat shop type of atmosphere, but they're drinking lots of water and pissing into huge vats. I think I traumatized myself.
After a long eight minutes, the moment of truth was upon me. With great trepidation I turned on the water in my bathtub, grabbed the magical mystery sponge that comes in the cap of VEET™, and started rubbing my legs in a circular motion. The smell of urine so close to my face made me slightly light-headed.
Despite being woozy, I managed to finish removing the foam from my legs. Lo and behold, no hair! Wow! I instantly forgot about the smell of Philadelphia's subway system pee wafting through my bathroom and started inspecting my legs, getting into some more difficult yoga postures to get my shins within centimeters of my face for a thorough assessment.
After falling over and smashing my head against the toilet, I made my final decree: VEET™ works! Woohoo! Of course, I'm more than a little disgusted with the urine smell and the actual urine and I haven't been able to gauge the regrowth rate.
Apparently Urea is also chemically produced, so my visions of third world piss shops is unlikely to be true. Golly, the wonders of science. At least I'm not quite so skeeved out. Quite.
I got a call from my friend Andy last night. Andy went to a post-Halloween party last weekend at a friend's house. "So how was it?" I asked.
"Well," Andy said "it was fun, from what I remember."
That's always an auspicious beginning to any story. I will now recount to you exactly what Andy said to me next because it is so funny.
Statia's musings about Peeps [and some comment entries] has led me to believe that the way I eat Peeps is slightly strange.
Now, true, I do like a good stale Peep. Peeps near perfection after sitting around in a package that has been slit down both sides for about two weeks. But then perfection is achieved with a good stale Peep that has been microwaved for just a second or two -- not long enough to blow the damn thing up, but just enough to make it slightly warm and only the slightest bit gooey.
Fresh Peeps are far inferior prepared with this method. It's like throwing one on the end of a stick and cooking it in a fire -- no different than a regular marshmallow. A stale Peep's texture changes though, so it's a pretty tasty treat.
By the way, just thought I'd share this little tidbit -- you can download a graphic from the Peeps site to make your own Peeps tshirt. All you need is the graphic, a color printer, and iron on transfer paper. Oh, and a tshirt. Christy made one for me for my birthday last year.
How I love Peeps.
I know you will all be thrilled to know that I stayed up late last night/this morning working on my first sweater. I'm four inches from being done with the front. Yes, I'm a total spaz but I'm strangely elated at being able to create something wearable other than jewelry.
Creativity has always been a big thing for me. I like seeing the things that create out in the world. I am completely thrilled when people write in the paper journals I build, or wear the hats and scarves that I knit, or display one of my shrines or altered books. I guess it just feels like I'm being useful to someone other than myself.
At the root of all that I am, being of use to others seems to be my central theme . I don't think it's such a bad thing -- it's not as if my goal in life is to let others use me. That's not the deal at all. I'm just not satisfied with pleasing myself, and I really feel the need to affect the lives of those around me. Maybe that's why I got into fundraising [even though I'm ready to end this career and do something else].
Does that sound stupid? I'm not a true altruist, of course. I'm a very selfish person. And I'm not saying that I want to be Mother Teresa or Gandhi or Martin Luther King. Maybe what it is is that I just don't like feeling useless. I'm not even talking about feeling needed. It's more about feeling like I'm contributing.
This is getting confusing.
Where this is going, by the way, is that I figured out what I'm going to do for my next Go Fish contest! I will post some scans of the journals in question over the weekend, but if you want to win one of my handmade writing journals here is what you have to do:
It's only fair, you know. You have already been privy to my most horrific photograph of preteen gawkiness. Now I want to see yours. Send me a scan of your photo. I will have a special contest page with all photos posted. I'm not sure how a winner should be picked. I hate to have a public poll because inevitably you have some smacked ass voting for himself a thousand times. Maybe I will just make Craig pick the most awkward.
What do you think? Good idea, bad idea? Would you participate? Come on now, think of it -- your very own personall handcrafted writing journal! A one of a kind work of art can be yours!
Don't let a little public humiliation stop you!
I did it! I bought my own domain name! Hopefully soon I will be located at thegofish.com. Now I just have to set up my new home and move in.
I hate moving.
But I feel like such a grown up, what with my own domain and all. Yes, I know any monkey off the street can have his or her or its own domain name. Leave me alone, I'm in my own little fantasy world, OK? OK?
I'm all floopy today....I don't want to do anything and I just wish I could leave here and go back to bed. It's raining and I don't feel like calling any donors or processing any gifts. I don't feel like being nice to stupid people or listening to the polite oldies station in my cubicle.
What I really want to do is go home, put on my flannel pajamas [yes, those of the faux punk freak out fame], and lounge around my house like the lady of leisure I should be. I have always thought I was meant to be one of those chicks who marries a rich guy and never has to a speck of work the rest of her life.
My days would be spent sashaying around the pool, flirting with Raul the cabanaboy, flinging money around in stores, paying people to be indignant for me. Occasionally I might make an appearance at a charity ball in a $1 million gown and $5 million jewels. I'd hobnob with the rich and stuffy. I'd eat bonbons with wild abandon since my weekly trip to the plastic surgeon would be coming up.
Who says money can't buy happiness?
I was watching Conan O'Brien last night and realized that I do something kind of bizarre and slightly creepy: no matter who it is, I always imagine guitarists having sex while they are playing guitar. Seriously.
It could be Willie Nelson, Bonnie Raitt, Flea, or BB King. It doesn't matter what kind of guitar they're playing, what kind of music they're playing, how old they are, what sex they are, or anything. If you play a guitar I am imagining you having sex. Period.
Who knows when I became such a pervert. I have no solid recollection of one day deciding that someone playing a guitar might give me insight into their sex life. There are no smoking gun type of moments when it became clear that this was occuring to me, with the exception of last night. And it came at the weirdest moment -- watching the guitarist from the Max Weinberg 7.
I thought, "Wow, I bet he's great in bed -- look at the faces he makes when he's playing. Look at the way he's holding the guitar. Look at that body language! He's totally hot!" The fact that the man in question has a goatee just made him even sexier. I just sat there getting more and more sexed up until I realized what I was doing. And then I started to laugh.
Now, I can't be the only one who does this. I imagine that this weird thing is the whole driving force behind the concept of groupies. Some of them like lead singers, some of them dig guitarists or drummers...but I would imagine the urge to hop into bed with a strange musician stems from the fact that large numbers of people find what you do sexy. I just happen to feel a little weird about my own personal observations.
Yes, I have dated several musicians in my sordid past. The strange thing is that only one of them was a guitarist and I never saw him play live. I've dated a couple of drummers, a flautist, a clarinetist, and some singers. But only one lone guitarist. And, truth be told, when it comes to absolute adoration of musicians, only one of them plays the guitar [John Rzeznick from the Goo Goo Dolls]...Henry Rollins doesn't play guitar.
So I'm not sure what all this means in the greater scheme of things, other than that I'm an equal opportunity guitarist pervert. Maybe it's something that will kick in later in life -- like I'll be walking past a music school when I'm 50 and start offering candy to the guitarists that come in for classes.
Ewwwwww.
Hey man, Go Fish is famous -- well, sort of. My little blog copped a mention at MSN Weblog Central Blogspotting. Don't worry, I'll still say hello to you after I get too big for my britches...or something like that.
In other news: who knew Fedex delivered on Veterans Day? I guess it's a good thing I stayed home -- our tickets to Paris arrived today. I was so excited just holding them in my sweaty little hands! Now that I have them I just want it to be February already. I will turn 31 while in Paris...is that the way to spend a birthday or what?
Speaking of staying at home today, daytime television really sucks. It seems to cater to the lowest social rung of people -- you know, an 800 lb. trailer park-living haus frau with a billion kids by ten different daddies, who is on welfare and living with her tranny crack whore lover.
I'm particularly struck by how many court shows there are. If there are so many people clamoring for court shows, why is there always such a shortage of people for the jury pool? You'd think people would be beating down the doors to serve on jury duty. The last time I was at jury duty it seemed like I was on TV and I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there.
What happened to this country to make reality television so compelling? I'm not sure why people find Jerry Springer, Judge Judy, and The Bachelor must see TV. Was it a natural progression from talk shows like Phil Donohue? Is Phil Donohue at the root of all of this craptacular television? Who was the first talk show host? Who first thought up the idea of a talk show? This person should be crucified...drawn, quartered, and crucified on a cross of televisions.
I admit to a jones for one reality show -- The Amazing Race. I think it's less about the contestants and more about seeing where they get to go and what they have to do and wishing that I had a good travel partner so I could submit an application. Craig would make a terrible travel partner. I love him more than life, but he's not very adventurous and his irritable bowel issues would make it impossible to travel more than five minutes away from a modern toilet. We'd be divorced by the end of the show.
I'm being really hard on Craig today. First, I rag on him about the jelly and then I bitch about his lack of adventure. I really do sound like a harpy bitch...the truth is he has more to bitch about than I do. I'm hell to live with. I can't even imagine what he must say about me when I'm not looking.
It doesn't matter -- I still love him. But I won't go on Ricki Lake to prove it!
I'm about to reveal what a lame ass I am: I called out of work today because it's raining and I left my umbrella and raincoat at work. Yes, I'm a total wuss.
But I do get a whole day off, all to myself, without Craig running around the house getting jelly on everything he touches. No, I'm not kidding. Having Craig around is almost like having a three year old -- last night he made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, put his sandwich down directly on our coffee table, left a splotch of jelly on it, and then didn't clean it up. This morning I found out about it when I was getting ready for work [obviously before I decided not to go] when I put my hand in it. Oh, and then he denied that a) it was him, and that b) it wasn't jelly. Argh!
Must...breathe...before...I...consider...divorce.
On a nicer and yet related note, I and my wedding dress have made into the semifinalist list at The Dress Contest! I'm contestant number 11. So go and check out all the contestants -- there are some really gorgeous dresses. But if you love me and want to make my bridal fantasies come true [well, aside from me actually getting married], you can vote for me. Personally, I'm impressed that Robyn had time to coordinate all this, what with all the boobie-driven madness trying to send Statia to Florida!
Hey, did everyone notice that Robyn's campaign to send Statia to Florida raised just over $1600? That's over $1200 going to breast cancer research via The Susan G. Komen Foundation, one of the best breast cancer research advocacy agencies in business today. Congratulations to Robyn and everyone who supported the cause.
If Robyn can raise over $1200 [really $1600] in one week for a great cause, imagine what would happen if we all had little campaigns going to raise money for charity. The mind boggles. Seriously. I'm sensing the future of charitable giving...
Robyn is a genius.
Usually a few times every month I am madly searching for a $20 bill that I know should be in my wallet, but isn't. It's completely irksome to me. Today was an absolutely banner morning because I found $10 in my purse. $10! That's unheard of! One dollar, sure, maybe. But ten whole dollars? That's....well, that's the way I wish all my Fridays would start.
I'm an absent-minded person. It's a struggle every morning as I search for my keys, subway pass, wallet, and everything else that isn't attached permenantly to my body. Yesterday I lost a book of stamps. I lost a case of my favorite CDs six months ago and I still haven't been able to locate them, even though I know for a fact that they are definitely in my house. If I lived in a mansion or some sprawling castle I could understand losing things constantly. But I don't -- I live in a trinity rowhome. My house isn't that big. There are only a limited number of places I could lose something.
There may be a huge black hole in my house that just sucks stuff into it. I have lost items of clothing never to be seen again. Last month I lost about ten pairs of trouser socks. If I had only lost one sock out of the pair, I could chalk it up to the damn dryer eating my socks, but ten entire pairs of socks going missing is a true mystery.
Where are Scooby Doo and Shaggy when you need them?
For a while I was missing underwear and bras. I started to think that some strange neighborhood perv was breaking into the house while I was at work and pilfering my panties. I had this whole big visual in my head of this short, stocky guy with a lot of stubble dressed in a black stocking cap, black pants, and a black shiny jacket and turtleneck sneaking into our back patio, shimmying up the water pipe, breaking in through the bathroom and rummaging through my dresser drawers, only to get a creepy look of delight when he found my undies...and then he sniffed them and wore them around on his head underneath his little cap. Yes, I spent hours imagining that this was all going on.
Maybe I just need to get more sleep.
Many of you may know I do reviews for The Weblog Review. I try to be fair in my reviews -- even if I'm not remotely interested in what a blogger has to say or if the blog is hideously ugly, I always try to come up with something nice to say in addition to whatever else I might say. I just don't believe in being rude and offensive just because I can.
I recently did a review of a site. I genuinely liked the writing, thought the design was nothing overly special but it was functional, but it was obvious that the writer just loves controversy and really enjoys it when people go ballistic over what she writes. I wrote a very fair review, but pointed out that occasionally it seems like she intentionally tries to get a reaction.
Reviewers always get shit for what they say, no matter how diplomatically things are put. I was unprepared, however, to be ridiculed for not being mean enough! Sometimes you just can't win.
Wedding ceremonies are generally a major point of contention with me. They're old-fashioned and tend to trivialize women. With ours, we wanted to avoid all reference to anything religious which ended up being an easy fix since the captain of our ship married us. But the biggest problem I have is at the end when the clergyperson/justice of the peace/whoever announces that you're now "man and wife" and then presents you as "Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Doe."
Just because I'm getting married doesn't mean I become someone's property. I don't lose my identity. My first name doesn't become a moot point. So we made sure we were announced as "husband and wife" and presented as "Nicole and Craig Doe." I get totally irate when someone refers to me as "Mrs. Craig Doe." If I receive a solicitation that addresses me in this way I won't even open it -- it gets shredded and trashed.
I did, however, take my husband's name when we married. I thought long and hard about it -- I considered a myriad of alternatives. Since both our last names are fairly long, hyphenation was definitely out. There were no new combinations of our last names that were pleasing. I really wasn't completely opposed to losing my maiden name -- until a certain virus software came along, no one knew how to pronounce or spell my last name. And Craig's last name is so much cooler than mine. So I changed it.
People who know me really well are flabbergasted that I took Craig's name when we married. Honestly, they're all amazed we got married in the first place. But the name change thing still has people weirded out.
There was also one other traditional custom that I refused to take part in -- the ritual "giving away" of the daughter by the father. What kind of ridiculous bullshit is that? As if I am my father's property to raffle off to the highest bidder or something! Now, if I had a wonderful and loving relationship with my father maybe I would have felt differently about this tradition -- but I don't have many tender feelings for my dad so I refused. And my half-sister recently told me that he was really pissed off about the whole thing, which I find endlessly amusing. Here's a man who basically abandoned my family when it suited him...a guy who is a huge source of embarrassment to me...and he wants to act like he's my dear old dad? No thanks. Yeah, so we skipped that part. I walked myself down the aisle.
I hate going to weddings, particularly Catholic weddings. The whole Genuflecting to the Mary bit always fills me with rage. It smacks of male superiority and submission of the female spirit. I know that most churches have their own way of doing the Genuflecting to the Mary thing, but at my friend Ann's wedding she had to kneel on the dirty floor of the church in her pristine white wedding gown and, well, genuflect, while her groom stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder. I swear, I half expected her to turn around and service him during the ceremony as proof that she'd be a good and dutiful wife. Ewwwwww and yuck.
I'm beginning to think that jumping the broom or handfasting is the way to go -- no muss, no fuss, no crazy weird attempts to make women into subserviant Stepford Wives.
Share the pants, people -- SHARE THE PANTS!
Here at work we have a nap room. Actually, we have two nap rooms -- one for the boys and one for the girls. The nap rooms are termed "Quiet Rooms" and have half a dozen couches, some chairs, and a table.
I'm not sure the nap room qualifies as a "Quiet Room." That place is a cacaphony of sound. Today I took a nap and woke up only to realize that I was snoring like a buzzsaw. Let's not even talk about the fact that I was drooling and I had a seam from the couch indented across my cheek.
Sleeping is really not a quiet activity. I've worked here for over two years and I frequent the nap room. Sometimes I do take naps, but most of the time I sit around and study, or read, or knit [quit rolling your eyes]. There has never been a day in the nap room where someone wasn't farting in their sleep, or talking in their sleep, or snoring really loudly.
There's a woman who works down the hall named Jackie. She keeps a blanket and pillow at her desk, and takes a nap every day. She is also chronically sick with the flu. Not only does she suck snot, snore, and whine during her nap, she has a really loud alarm clock that interrupts everyone else.
Because boys are always worse with the bodily functions than chicks, I shudder to think of what goes on in the men's nap room. I'm thinking a lot of horrendous flatulence and overt and enthusiastic ball-scratching. Oh, and nose picking.
Can't leave out the nose picking.
Me [whiny]: Nobody loves me!
You [happy and cheerful]: But Nicole, we love you!
Me [extra whiny]: But nobody good loves me!
Kidding! I joke! I kid! It looks like Go Fish did not win any first place finishes in the October Bloggys. I can't complain though -- Go Fish did win second place for Best Design and third place for Blog of the Month. Congratulations to Big Pink Cookie for a first place finish for Most Posts, Serenity Quest for a first place finish for Most Humorous and second place for Blog of the Month, Time for Your Meds for the third place finish in Most Humorous, which is shared with Statia from Pizza Dreams! You know, I only read the best.
Some people take these awards things way too seriously. I checked my statistics log this morning and saw that this guy sent at least a dozen people to Go Fish. With the help of a handy dandy Dutch to English translator, it seems that he thinks it's a travesty that he didn't win a Bloggy for Best Design. You know how Babelfish is, but the general gist is that he thinks Go Fish is not well-designed at all and it's a sin that any of the top three won. He's kind of a sore loser, eh?
In other news, I have a medley of They Might Be Giants songs running through my head. Last night on Jeopardy Constantinople was one of the answers and ever since then, well....
Help me.
I am a knitting fool. Maybe I should buy a rocking chair.
But hey, I'm in vogue right now. Knitting is the new rock climbing....or whatever. Dude, Julia Roberts knits. I'm at least as cool as Julia Roberts. Russell Crowe knits...OK, bad example.
And I knitted my very first pair of socks this weekend -- I feel like a total dork. But they're cool and Ronald McDonald-colored. I'm working up to my first sweater. Sure, make fun of me all you want but you'll be begging me to make you a sweater one of these days! You'll rue the day!
Speaking of knitted goods, I know that Statia and Wolfie received their hats from the Go Fish Half Year Blogaversary contest, but how about the rest of you? I'm beginning to think that next time I go to the post office everyone is going to be sporting Nicole-knitted millinery finery.
Oh, and speaking of contests -- because I'm such a giver goddess I've decided to have a contest for the upcoming holiday season [Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Bah Humbug/whatever you celebrate]. Instead of knitted hats, I'm going to give away some journals that I made. I'm at a loss for what kind of contest to have though -- pulling names out of a hat seems so boring. So I need some good ideas...if you've got 'em, drink 'em...uh, wrong thing. You get the idea. Would should I make people do to earn a handmade journal?
I have just returned from lunch at Las Cazuelas with Statia. And it has been confirmed that I should really maybe get a clue before I start giving out driving directions. Now true, most of this was not my fault, but poor Statia ended up in fucking New Jersey.
That's right: New Jersey...the garden state. Home of the jug handle.
Luckily Statia is a stunt driver, not afraid to run over little old blue-haired ladies in their Oldsmobiles, and was able to finally make it to Girard Avenue without getting carjacked.
All the while I was sitting in the restaurant with a Mexican coffee, feeling worse and worse that she was in the sixth level of hell on her way to meet me for lunch. Guilt is a terrible thing to waste. I was terribly relieved when she walked in the door!
And she is so funny and nice! I will be amazed if she makes it home without breaking into a caffeine and sugar induced coma -- two cups of Mexican coffee with extra sugar and cream will do that to a person. Of course, she is now in possession of one of my knitted hats -- I'm sure the power of the knitted masterpiece will protect her.
Sure.
Since this was my first meeting of a fellow blogger, I was slightly nervous. What if Statia turned out to be an axe-murderer? What if she slipped roophies into my coffee, robbed me, and left me for the cooks at the mexican restaurant to have their evil way with me? What if she really secretly liked Martha Stewart? Statia turned out to be really cool though, so I'm looking forward to the next blogger-related outing.
Oh yeah, and I look forward to running up my cell phone bill for the cause of Porn for Kids, Inc.
I have just returned from the photo finishing place, laden with lots of photos! Woohoo!
Christy and Eric
The Shrub as pure evil
Christy and Justin
The Donnie Darko rabbit
Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl...
The S&M Chaingang
Just another queen with a monsterous headpeice
Doctor and patient
The host with the most - Henri David
Our Ladies of Latex, hallowed be thy name
A group of Louis XIV kids: Photo 1 | Photo 2 | Photo 3
Mirror Mirror on the Wall and the Evil Queen
Pumpkinhead
Moulin Rouge
Operation!
Queen of the Damned
Queen of the Something or other
Aquarium Girl [with real fish!]
Behold the splendor of my hideous pink shoes
The vibrating blow up doll
That should give you some idea of what was going on last night! Wow!
By the way, can I just say that we bought six bags of candy and didn't get one trick or treater? Not one! Ungrateful bastards!
I'm so glad I'm not at work today -- my eyes are gummed shut because the fake eyelash glue refuses to come off, I've got glitter stuck in every crevice, and I'm so fucking tired. Such is the price to pay for a fun Halloween!
And it was fun! Pennsylvania's former mayor and next governor [I hope] makes an appearance every year, and I press the flesh with Mr. Rendell every damn time. The ballroom at the Wyndham was packed with some pretty good costumes, and the male revue was full of prosthetic goodness!
This was my fifth or sixth year attending the Henri David Halloween Ball. It began as a gay event about 15 or 20 years ago, but now is getting to be more and more of a straight crowd as it gets more mainstream. The problem is that the costumes aren't as elaborate or creative anymore, but, like I said, it's still a ton of fun!
I'm trying to find an hour photo processing place for my four rolls of film so I can post some photos later. I know you must be on the edge of your seat with wild anticipation! Heh.
You can't see me [because I forgot my Pencam at home today] but imagine me right now, dressed in black and wearing a halo. Now imagine that I'm jumping up and down with absolute excitement. That's me right now: the time is drawing neigh for me to leave my work life behind for the day and get ready to part-ay! Woohoo!
I have officially found the most perfect shoes in the world for my costume. They are the most hideous pink shoes I've ever seen, but they are so ugly I'm actually starting to like them. Maybe I will wear them to lunch with Statia on Saturday afternoon.
And I'm prepared, dammit -- four rolls of film and two bottles of wine. My wand and headpeice are finished. My wig is arranged and ready to be worn. My glittery cosmetics and fake eyelashes await me. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!
Yikes, I need to dial it back a bit. By the time it actually becomes time to leave I'll be all excited out.
All I've got to say is prepare yourself for some excellent pictures.
This is just an aside because I'm so excited: I just booked my trip to Paris! Bwah! Heeehehheeee! I'm going to Paris! I'm going to Paris! I'm going to gain 25 pounds while I'm there! I'm going to Paris!
...We now return you to your regularly scheduled entry...
Happy Hell Night Day everyone! Are you prepared to defend your home from the roving bands of hooligans armed with toilet paper and rotten eggs? Craig often speaks of sitting on the front steps with an air rifle, but I doubt he'd actually go that far.
To be honest, our neighborhood is pretty quiet on Hell Night. The police are out in force and, while kids may try to leave a flaming bag of shit on someone's doorstep, they rarely get a chance. Plus, about a month before Halloween the stores refuse to sell eggs to anyone under the age of 18.
I have only been a victim of Hell Night shenanigans twice as an adult. I was once egged from a passing car, which was absolutely gross -- I think those kids must have had the eggs buried behind the house for a whole year. I've also had my windows soaped. Not really a big deal.
As a kid I never really participated in Hell Night. My mother's house is out in the middle of nowhere. It kind of takes all the fun out of it when you have to walk two miles in half a foot of snow to the nearest house to egg it. Of course, I didn't really see the point of it anyway.
Craig, on the other hand, was one of those kids that everyone feared and hated on Hell Night. He and his band of thug friends prepared for Hell Night months in advance, stockpiling soap and toilet paper pilfered from anywhere they could get it. Eggs were acquired and left to rot. Shaving cream and large rocks were in large supply. They once were detained by police for throwing boulders off a bridge into oncoming traffic.
Now that Craig is an adult, I think it's hilariously funny that he is so bothered by kids roaming the neighborhoods being devious and bad. You'd think he'd understand and at least think it's kind of comical, and then get all nostalgic.
Sometimes karma is a funny thing.
First, it was the half year blogaversary for Go Fish, and today it's my two year wedding anniversary! Craig bought me a dozen leonidas roses -- the flowers that were in my wedding bouquet. Marital bliss is such a nice thing.
Because I'm just too thrilled that it's my wedding anniversary, I'm posting more wedding photos. So here they are [albeit kind of blurry because my scanner sucks]:
I never used to believe in love at first sight or soulmates or crap like that. As a professional dater, I was convinced that there was no "right" one...that there were just people you could get used to. I'm glad I was wrong. Craig and I met in June about 9 years ago. I was swimming in Christy's pool and Craig was hanging out with Christy's brother. As soon as we saw each other we both demanded an introduction, and went out for the first time later that night.
Marriage is overrated -- of course, being married, I have the luxury of saying that. I'm sure single chicks looking for love would tell me that it's a desirable state to be in. To be honest, being married is really no different than not being married. It just means that I'm legally bound not to run away with the good china. I'd be just as happy to be living with Craig unmarried, as I am to be living with Craig married. Our commitment was not enhanced or changed by getting married, and I don't love him any more than I did before. Around tax time I fervently wish we never got married -- as a married couple who doesn't plan to have children, we get hosed on taxes.
It's sort of coming off like this anniversary is not that big a deal to me -- it is. Just not because it's the two year anniversary...it's really more like a 9 year anniversary. And I'm just extra glad today that I found someone who loves me that I can love back, and that can stand to have me around for nine years! Heh.
Thanks to everyone who entered into the contest to win the silly hat I knitted in honor of my six month blogaversary! Everyone has been so supportive of Go Fish and it's really nice to know that someone is interested in what I have to say. And because I felt kind of bad about just giving away one hat, I knitted up a bunch more. So instead of raffling off one hat, I raffled off five!
So, without further ado, here are the winners:
Camo hat - Denise
Yellow hat - Susan at Orphie the Wonder Dog
Green hat - JadedJu
Pink hat- Wolfie from Wolfpeach
Red hat - Statia from Pizza Dreams
All decisions are final [that means no color substitutions, kids], and names were randomly selected from an Aveda paper bag. Congratulations to the winners! All winners will receive an email from me tomorrow with instructions on how to actually claim your hat!
As much as I hate to admit this, I take a certain sick, sadistic pleasure in making Christy look bad. I don't mean that I spread rumors about her or anything or trip her in public. What I mean is that she occasionally asks for my assistance with her hair and makeup, and when she has recently done something to upset my gentle nature I get this malicious streak.
Last night she went to a costume party, and asked me for my help. I stayed in last night, so I agreed and she told me that she'd be to my house by 8:30 pm. Because Christy is notoriously late, she didn't show up to my house until nearly 10pm. Now, I didn't have anything else to do but it's the principle of the thing.
She had a spangled and bedazzled gown with a big stiff collar from her dance studio to wear, so she wanted me to give her wild hair and makeup to match. What she really meant is that she wanted wild hair and makeup, but not too wild because she wanted to look pretty. But she didn't say that. So I teased her hair pretty much straight up so she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein and gave her a very wild but not overly complimentery makeup job. The overall look was perfect for a Halloween party, but not the gorgeous look she was going for. And I was secretly laughing my ass off.
I don't really think I'm a vindictive person, but I do fully admit to working behind the scenes in nasty ways if pushed. I guess you could say I'm a passive aggressive type when it comes to getting even with my friends.
Of course, now that I have outed myself as a scheming and conniving quasi-wench, has anyone else in Philly been thinking about this international Blogger Meetup day on November 20? I'd love to do this!
Reminder: You have until 6:00 pm EST today to put your name in the running to win my silly six month blogaversary hat. To win, simply leave a message at this entry.
This whole daylight savings thing has me all fucked up today. I don't know if it's really 7:38 am or if it's 8:38 am. Either way, it's too damn early to be up and blogging on a Sunday morning.
Will it make me look like less of a he-woman if I admit that I'm slightly nervous about my plans for this evening? As many of you know, tomorrow is my wedding anniversary so this weekend has been all about the big love. Craig has purchased tickets to the annual ghost tour at Eastern State Penitentiary. Considering what happened last time, I am feeling somewhat cautious. I'll keep you posted!
I finally got my pictures back from that weekend when I assaulted a sailor. That's me on the left, Christy in the middle, and Sharon on the right. I look pretty innocent...it's those other two....
Happy anniversary to Go Fish!
OK, so it's only a mini-anniversary -- six whole months since the very first real entry at Go Fish. But it's an exciting day for me, nonetheless. I was recently notified that Go Fish is up for a Diarist award [although I'm not sure for which category yet], and I'm currently up for awards at The Bloggys for Best Design [for which I had nothing to do with] and Blog of the Month. I'm strangely excited and touched that someone likes my ridiculous life enough to nominate my journal/blog for an award.
I'd like to use this momentous occasion to publicly thank everyone who reads Go Fish and leaves me comments and signs my guestbook and guestmap, and just generally commiserates with me.
Oh, and I knitted a special Go Fish anniversary hat last night. It's the booby prize "thank you, I love you, keep reading" hat -- it's up for grabs to some lucky reader.
Here's how to win this fabulous hat: leave a comment in the commenting section beneath this entry. On Sunday I will put all of your names in a hat [maybe this one] and pick out a name. I'll notify you by email and also post your name here. And then I'll send you the hat. Yes, that's right kids -- you can be the lucky recipient of this fabulous hat, handknitted by me -- all lemon yellow yarn with robins egg blue fuzzy stripe and two kicky tassles. Makes a wonderful Christmas gift if you hate hats!
Note to self: you have too much free time.
I have a second cousin who claims to have been abducted by aliens.
The people in my family are mostly former farmers and their children. We have our share of insane people [like my mentally deficient third cousin and his wife, neither of whom are allowed by law to have a drivers license, but bought a car "for the radio"] rattling the branches of our family tree, but my cousin Rachael is one of the fairly normal ones. She is a medical biller who is married and has a couple of kids.
It's silly [and arrogant] to assume that Earth is the only planet populated by intelligent life. There's all sorts of evidence [whether or not it's believable or not is a different story] to suggest that UFOs have been spotted in our skies. I'm definitely not opposed to the idea that alien abductions could happen, but I have a really hard time believing Rachael's story [or anyone's story]. Until I see with my own eyes that she is being abducted or I am abducted myself, I will never truly and concretely believe in the whole idea of alien abduction.
Mike over at Nasty Bastard has been schookered into is letting me and a few others guestpost for him over the next couple of days. I'll be posting links here to any entries I make. So here is my first entry.
I'm finally back at work after being on my death bed for the last few days. Something I've been meaning to share is the fact that I have changed my hair color and makeup. Now this is not really a blog-worthy event, but I've been sick and haven't had anything to really write about. My point? I'm going to blog about it anyway.
As you know, the photo on the right is me last week the day after I threw down with my neighbor. The photo on the left is the new Jan Brady new me.
I'm at my limit for number of different hair colors in one year as of right now. Since January I have been several different shades of red, two different shades of blonde, and now light brown. People at work think I'm crazy.
To be perfectly honest, I change my hair because I like change for the sake of change. Change is good. I know a lot of people like things to basically stay the same, and many are afraid of change. I could be like that, and by making changes I like to think that I am training myself to embrace change.
Someone was recently blogging about a book called Who Moved My Cheese? I read the book a few years ago, and it's the same rah-rah personal improvement garbage that everyone else has been peddling. But at it's heart the book is about not being afraid of change.
I used to be desperately afraid of putting down roots. I moved every year to a new apartment. I broke up with boyfriends after a month and acquired new ones. I changed jobs every year or two. Being on the move constantly sort of gets old though -- you start to accumulate too much stuff to keep moving.
Now that I'm married I can't just pick up and move when I want to so I'm left with changing my hair. It's only a symbolic gesture, but it makes me feel better to do it.
Who knew -- symbolic hair.
Have I mentioned what a bad sick person I make? Well, it's true: I'm the worst patient on the planet. I whine and sniffle and demand juice and M&Ms. I bitch that my feet are too cold so pointedly that Craig feels inexplicably compelled to fetch me an additional pair of socks.
I am not looking forward to going into work with a cold tomorrow. Something about that building makes my nose run like a free-flowing river. Maybe it's just knowing that my nice warm bed beckons me. On top of that, I have a small quiz tomorrow night in Spanish class. I will just have to request that if I pass out, someone just pick me up and prop me back up at my desk.
I have not always been this bad of a sick person. For the most part I never wanted to disturb anyone with me being sick. I knew my mom worked practically round the clock in order not to lose the house and I figured she wouldn't appreciate me waking her up in the middle of the night because I felt like shit. My grandparents often slept like the dead and there was no waking them up even if I was bleeding from my eyeballs. So I basically took care of myself or ignored the problem.
Of course, I have not really been a very sick person. I've only been in the hospital for an overnight stay once and that was to have my tonsils removed. I have had the flu exactly twice, and I had brochitis once. My colds are annoying but generally not too bad. I whine and bitch about it, but it's just because I'm inconvenienced by not being able to breathe.
Hey, that cuts into my valuable kissing time.
Now Craig is starting to feel sick. I have no one to blame for it but myself. But hey, if you get married you have to expect to share germs. But if I am a bad sick person, Craig is the King Whiner of Sick People. Men make the worst sick people of all.
Oh, and someone must really like me alot. I've been nominated for two awards at The Bloggys: Best Design and Blog of the Month. I didn't design this, but I'd love to honor the designer -- so go vote for Go Fish [often].
In addition to Go Fish being nominated, some journals I read are up for awards -- Wolfpeach and Flightless Farrago are up for Best New Blog, and Pizza Dreams is up for Most Humorous Blog, just to name a few! Good luck everyone!
Since I am at home being all sick today, have nothing else to talk about, and I am somewhat delirious, I've decided to embarrass myself even further.
When I was very young, I had a special relationship with my potty chair. I'm told that I would sit on the thing for hours, fall asleep there [yes, that's me in the photo asleep on the training crapper], and never want to be far away from it. If you're a parent, I'm sure you think that it's probably a good thing since I was potty trained early on. And that's true. But if you're a non-parent [like me], you just think that's plain weird, and I have to have some sort of potty-related trauma from the whole experience. I don't think that part is true -- I have a healthy attitude toward the whole issue of voiding bodily waste.
I've read a lot in journals/blogs over the last few months about the trauma that other people have with going to the bathroom. My own husband has colitis and irritable bowel syndrome, so I understand the phobia associated with taking a shit. After all, on our trip to London last year Craig spent the better part of our visit to the Tower of London getting very well-acquainted with the lavatorial facilities throughout the Tower.
I was, however, surprised when Christy told me [during our trip last weekend] that she herself is afflicted with some sort of strange defecation-homesickness thing. Christy claims that she never availed herself of the dorm facilities in order to relieve herself during our entire freshman year of college. Now, granted, Christy's parents live about 30-40 minutes away, but I find it hard to believe that Christy never once took a shit in the dorms. She said that she only felt comfortable in her own bathroom.
Is this common? Do people hold it in until they reach their own bathrooms? I once read that you can have an aneurism from straining during the whole event, and I suppose it would be better to be found in your own bathroom than discovered by a co-worker with your pants around your ankles.
Last night when I got home from school I received a call. It was a woman with a very thick accent, and I could barely understand a word she said. I knew it was a sales call, in part because I don't know anyone with an accent like that, and also because she totally mangled my last name.
Me: Is this a sales call?
Salesgirl: No, this is a courtesy call. I'm calling because you're a preferred customer of Providian Bank. Now you can get a credit increase of $200 just for trying a new service we're offering. You can save up to 50% on your bill at restaurants around the country! All you have to do....
Me: OK, you just lied to me. This is a sales call. If you or anyone else from your company calls and lies to me again I will no longer be a customer at Providian Bank.
Now I know there's a better way to deal with these assholes. That way: the Anti-Telemarketing EGBG Counterscript [via Christine]. Since I usually get a sales call at least once every night [despite putting my name on Pennsylvania's Do Not Call list...don't get me started] I believe I'm going to be able to try this out this evening!
Screaming into the phone is getting a little old.
I was so bent out of shape about last night's events that I forgot to mention a strange dream I had. Normally I won't blog about dreams, because who the hell cares, right? However, this was my first dream that involved a fellow journaller.
In the 45 minutes of sleep I actually got last night I dreamt that Meegan and I were in high school detention together. She turned to me and said: "If we can collect all the bottles we'll make it."
Then she got up from her desk and threw a bottle at my head.
And that concludes my first blog/journal-related dream. You may now go on about your business.
I love Autumn. The Fall is my favorite season -- it's a little cool outside, the leaves on the trees start to turn colors, and it means Halloween and my wedding anniversary.
My Halloween costume is now almost complete, and Craig and I put up the decorations up around our house [little skeletons in the window]. We used to carve pumpkins. That tradition died a few years ago when something so horrifying and traumatic happened that it put me off carving pumpkins forever.
I had to carve 40 pumpkins in the space of 2 days.
Now, I exaggerate slightly here -- I didn't carve all of those 40 pumpkins. But the fact of the matter is that 40 pumpkins had to be carved. I'm sure you're asking yourself right now, "Self, why would Nicole need to carve 40 pumpkins? Why would anyone need 40 carved pumpkins?"
The answer is simple: a good wedding plan gone horribly awry.
I'm sure that every bride-to-be does this. You and your fiance brainstorm about different ideas for your big day. You come up with some outlandish things and some cool things and some dumb things. Finally, the plan comes together and you keep at least one or two of the outlandish things. And then those things become the bane of your existence.
The bane of my existence were those stupid pumpkins. Since we got married a few days before Halloween and had a Halloween themed wedding, we thought it would be a great idea to have real carved pumpkins for centerpieces! Woooooo!
The first hurdle was finding out that, since we were being married on a ship that would be sailing during the reception, Coast Guard regulations forbid open flames on board. So no lit candles in the jack-o-lanterns. After a few days of sulking, we came up with an alternative: glow sticks. No problem.
Reality set in two weeks before the wedding. How the hell were we supposed to carve all those pumpkins? Wedding party to the rescue -- since we didn't really need a real rehearsal, we threw a fake rehearsal dinner where we conned the wedding party and our parents into carving pumpkins. We had two bridesmaids, two groomsmen, 3 sets of parents, and assorted other wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, and relatives. Even so, I had to carve 20 of those stupid pumpkins myself.
I now hate everything about pumpkins. I hate the smell of them, the color orange, the slimy guts, the oozing seeds. I'm grossed out by the idea of pumpkin pie. I get the shakes when I come within 2 feet of carving tools.
The upside to all this is that the pumpkins came out great and they looked really cool. But I really hate pumpkins.
Maybe I need therapy.
Today is National Poetry Day in the U.K.! So because I'm a huge literature nerd, I'm going to post my one of my favorite short poems by Pablo Neruda. It may be a little boring to those of you who aren't fans of poetry, but I know you'll indulge me just this once.
Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,
smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:
you have moon-lines, apple-pathways:
naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.
Naked, you are blue as the night in Cuba;
you have vines and stars in your hair;
naked, you are spacious and yellow
as summer in a golden church.
Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails--
curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
and you withdraw to the underground world,
as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
your clear light dims, gets dressed--drops its leaves--
and becomes a naked hand again.
I think I've had just about enough of people trying to fundraise for themselves through their blogs and other personal sites. It's tacky and it's no better than perfectly able-bodied people panhandling for spare change on the street corner. It's just a little higher tech.
I recently wrote a review for The Weblog Review. The person's writing was good and funny, and I really enjoyed reading what the writer had to say. The thing that totally turned me off was the writer full on asks for tips before you even get to the entries. The ask is immediate and prominently displayed in several locations. There is even an entire entry about it...as if anyone reading his blog wouldn't get the idea -- the writer is trying to use his blog to drum up some cold hard cash. In one place he claims it's just to keep the site running, but it's a Blogspot site -- not much overhead keeping a free site running.
It's creepy and gross. It's no better than that pathetic girl trying to raise money on a website to help her wipe out her credit card debt.
Now, Moxie also asks for donations on her blog. I don't know why but I don't find it so distasteful when she does it. Maybe it's not as prominent. Maybe it's just less needy and more casual. She too says it's to keep things running, but she actually pays for webhosting [I think], so she at least has more of a leg to stand on with that reasoning. I guess I just appreciate that the ask is not such a hard and needy sell.
As a professional fundraiser I appreciate being finessed before being presented with the ask. And as any good fundraiser will tell you [I'm sure Delirious Cool would back me up on this], it is vital that you are willing to put your money where your mouth is -- in other words, you have to be willing to support your own cause before you should start asking for gifts. A sob story that is too over the top will generally not win you any sympathy, but the facts of need presented in a positive way will usually result in a gift.
The sob story and hard ask is what turned me off of the one blog, and the absolute lack of supporting your own cause is what pisses me off about the credit card chick. I still haven't determined why I think Moxie's ask is better or more valid than the others.
Everyone has at least one dumb friend. I'm not just talking mildly idiotic -- I mean full on wildly stupid. But yet this stupid person is just so well-meaning and sweet, you can't help but be friends with them.
I've had two really moronic frie
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