my own entry

This weekend my mother in law said

"Why don't you get a white one? It'll fit in better."

Please keep in mind this is not a white woman speaking, nor is anyone but me in the family white. If she is all about fitting in, you'd think she'd tell us to get an "Indian one". But the logic of Mother in Law is not to be understood by mere mortals.

PS she followed up with "I can't be excited about it, because it's not your own." Which was at least predictable.

The contest: whose relatives said the most retarded/hilarious thing about adoption
The rules: it doesn't have to be a mother in law but any kind of relative.
The prize: candy! candy! candy! I made candy. If you are diabetic or whatever we'll think of something else.
The entrants: more than just me, I hope. Just send a link to the blog post where you describe the hilarity and then I'll have a vote. The winner gets the prize and The Satisfaction Of Winning. Everyone else gets to feel better about their own Mothers in Law or other insane relatives.

waiting for the locksmith or someone like him

Just in time for thanksgiving, some fucking asshole attempted to burgle our building. The front door lock is all fucked up now. I am waiting for the locksmith instead of driving to syracuse. yay! I think it will probably cost one million dollars to fix. Plus, the cat sitter has the old key. *&%^$^$&%*^%@!#$%

I believe I will go eat a cupcake.

Guest Post by Octuplet Dazzle

Dazzle’s Candy Review

A little bit about me:

I have to admit that have been a bit influenced by Steve Almond’s Candyfreak. Upon reading this book I have been a bit obsessed with candy of the south, west, and Midwest. My obsession was renewed upon tasting an “Idaho Spud” which my mother-in-law obtained at some number cruncher’s conference in Las Vegas. Recently I went a bit nuts and bought all these old time candy from an online candy store with the idea of using them as stocking stuffers. I also did the same with my obsession with LUSH body products, but that is for another guest entry. Upon receiving my box o 35 candy bars, I have tasted several. Here we go:


SPACE FOOD STICKS – for nostalgic purposes only

I have dreamed of tasting Space Food Sticks after listen to my sister go on and on about eating them in Australia and loving them and never ever seeing them again. They come in a blue wrapper and are actually called “The Original Out of This World SPACE FOOD STICKS Delicious protein power snack. 10 Space Stick Bites in Every Pack”. The second I saw “protein power snack” I immediately worried. All this time I had envisioned sticks looking like elongated tootsie rolls, so was puzzled on seeing a package in the shape of a starburst bar. Upon opening the white wax paper packed piece you notice a rectangular brown chew with a fake chocolate scent. With your first bite, you notice the if-chalk-were-soft texture, with eventual consumption you realize you are eating the first Power Bar. Yick. Don’t try it folks.



CupoGold – giant mallomar

My sister also got me into Whipped Cream Pumpkins made by Chocolate House. They have a thin chocolate shell and a delightful melty marshmallow cream center. After tasting those I have bought every other seasonal Chocolate House product and was disappointed to not find them at my local DollarTree as I have in years past. To compensate – I buy every new-to-me item with a chocolate coating and a marshmallow like center. CupoGold satisfies. Its claim to fame is almonds and coconut in the very satisfying thickish chocolate shell. Nothing blow-your-mind here, but satisfying for those who enjoy the occasional mallomar.


Coconut Long Boys

These come in two inch long tootsie roll like wrappers with a red and yellow logo. Aside from feeling like your eating something from seventy five years ago, these were okay. I am not a big fan of the coconut, but these are good for those desiring a little zazz with their tough-to-chew caramel.


Cherry Ball

I’m not sure what these are actually called. They are spheres with a stripe of red, green, blue and yellow on a white candy like a beachball. The cherry is not satisfying like the cherry of a Jolly Rancher. It is Candy Cane Cherry, or Christmas Ribbon Cherry, and only meant to be eaten by Grandmas.


Peanut Thing in an translucent orange wrapper

This was a candy in the shape of a peanut. I was skeptical. The packaging caused me to expect teeth breaking brittle with rancid peanut paste on the inside. This was actually an unexpected delightful item. Forerunner of the butterfinger with out the chocolate. A satifying ratio of peanut flavored shell to tasty peanut butter innards.

for the time capsule

Things I Say I Won't Do as a parent, but probably will not be able to stop the train of destiny:

let the kid watch TV
teach kid to roll eyes
swear in front of kid
give kid candy
dress child in stupid cartoon character clothing
permit toys of an irritating and noisy nature in my home
call my mother in the middle of the night
dismiss mother's advice with scornful tone and feel bad about it later

ONE

Is the loneliest number. Of trickortreaters. THat's how many we got. Whaaat? are we ugly? not ugly enough? Could hear them up and down the street all night but they did not ring our bell. We even had a jack o lantern. Maybe they heard we had bad candy or something. Which is untrue. We don't even have candy. we have superballs. Currently like 143 of them, and what the hell are we going to do with them?

In the words of a famous New Jerseyan

WhooooaOH! We're halfway theeeeere! WHOOOOOOOOAAAAAOH! LIVIN ON A PRAYER!


heh.

Phrases that make your email sound xxxxtra bitchy

Collected from actual office emails (mostly)

"For your information"

"Fine."

"Do you even know how"

"Calm down"

"As I told you before"

"Am I to assume you will be doing this correctly?"

"Your mom is so ugly"


Yes, it's true, everyone I work with has suddenly become a huge asshole. So, I welcome Friday with xxxxtra love this week. Happy Diwali, yo.

World Land-Speed Record

It didn't take long.

We broke the car.

I don't know how, but I feel ridiculous. It's such a stupid thing, but pivotal to the function of the vehicle. Quite simply, we can't put gas in the fucker.

We don't drive much, and since purchasing it (the seller had kindly filled it with gas) we had never needed any. Last night it was finally getting low. So I toodled off to the neighborhood Sunoco. Drove up to the pump. Turned off the car. Yanked the thingy that opens the tiny gas door. And exited the vehicle to find--closed gas thingy. Huh? My usual method of problem solving (try the exact same thing over and over) failed me, and I had to get back in and drive away with no more gas than I had arrived with. The shame!

I tried to yank it open with a butter knife, to no avail. I stopped there (thinking of yesterday's chair cushion bonfire). Now I have to bring it to the fixit place. He said it will take three hours. That's three hours that I wouldn't have to spend, if I didn't have a stooopid car.

Car? You are not being my friend. What gives?

Add it to the list

The Answer:

The cat barfed on it.
So I tried to clean it up.
But could still detect a faint outline of cat puke.
So I washed it with soap and a scrub brush.
Then it was wet.
So I tried to dry it.
With the hair dryer.
Which set it on fire.

The Question:

What the fuck happened to the chair cushion?

The List:

Things I have made worse by "fixing" with very dubious "skills".

Other items on the List:

Roomba battery (attempted to save money by replacing cells myself; not realizing I don't know how to solder)
Kitchen switch controlling disposal and light (wanted to replace face plate only; could not find matching; thus had to replace entire electric box; now disposal works but not light, and the whole thing is a little crooked too.)
The refrigerator (too embarassing to discuss)

Harvest Loon

Call me a copycat but I have dreams like that all. the. time. So far, they have been almost entirely non-predictive.
Last week I dreamed:
--I was given a two-inch baby, which I stored in my mouth to keep warm.
--A blond woman handed me a baby and went to the "snack bar". I thought she would come back for the baby, but it turned out to be a robot, so she didn't.
--I was surrounded by dozens and dozens of children, none of them were mine.

Psychic score: 0
Weird score: One Million

Many, many moons ago...when our homestudy was being hastily finished, I had a dream that our kid would be born in October.

October's here. Prove me psychic, October! Except no two-inch babies please!

Enough of that

Not that I'm done with whining and feeling insulted! I could do that forever! But it has been determined that only 50% of sisters in law hate my guts. So I'll play half-full for now, and plot revenge for Thanksgiving. Mwa ha ha!

The blue car is a learning experience. We are pretty much learning how to drive all over again. And that is challenging in this town. When I first learned to drive, as a wee lass, the soundtrack went like this:

"Okay, you're a little close on the right side. Okay, now you're a little over the center line. Now turn left. No, LEFT. NO, NOT THERE! THAT'S THE HIGHWAY! STOP THE CAR! I'LL DRIVE HOME!"

But I'm no longer the worst hazard out there. Drivers here deserve all their bad reputations. Now the experience is like this:

"They're not honking at you. Don't worry about that guy. Okay, worry about that guy. Okay, there's a huge SUV trying to cut you off. Just let him. Let him go. No, you watch the road, I'll flip him off for you."

Beyond driving, there's parking, moving the car for street cleaning, and remembering to lock the car without locking the keys in it. Cars! Sheesh!

The extravagant thing we got (more extravagant than a car? what?) is a GPS for the car. We are cursed with very, very poor navigational skills and decided that the only way we could ever do this is with technological assistance. And it is very cool. Very cool indeed. It has a little voice (named dave) that tells you where to go and when to turn and even (this is great for me) which lane to be in. Dave is the best! True that! Double true!

My true calling

Everyone I've talked [complained] to about the recent throw-down drama-fest bitchparty has commiserated about their in-laws. Everyone's in-laws are such cows! What the hell!
Once I remember my mother telling her brother-in-law to put a lifejacket on the baby (we were on a boat.) He told her to fuck off. She is still pissed about it! The baby is in high school!

It's those kind of Classic In-Law Moments that make me think, wow, everyone has these people in their life, and would like to honor that special relationship, but there's very little exploitation of that market.

So, I present to you, Greeting Cards for In-Laws. Look for them in better stores everywhere.

Don't read this

Seriously. I am going to sound like a big baby whiner and a real bitch in about three seconds. So beat it.

I guess I got my comeuppance for posting about my in-laws, the Bickersons. Sister in Law--may I call her Queen of Bossy?--sent an extremely hostile and insulting email (Email: the Choice of Emotional Cowards) all about ME! I can't tell you how flattered and humbled I am to be the star of such a long and windy diatribe, describing my percieved flaws in every detail.
DID YOU KNOW?
I am bossy and controlling (Which is like Stephen Hawking saying, "hey, you're pretty smart!". SUCH AN HONOR.)
I am unpleasant to spend time with. (As unpleasant as listening to someone browbeat a hotel clerk or other service personnel?)
All her friends (SHE HAS FRIENDS?) agree with her on these points. I've never even met them! But I'm famous!
I am probably suffering from bipolar disorder, I am that bitchy. (Doctors, they love to diagnose!)
Our "relationship" is troubled (You know, we really should be bickering more. Eight years of love and devotion is Not Normal.)

And probably some other delightful bits of cheer I am forgetting.

So if you see me stomping southward carrying a sharpened spoon handle, you know where I'm going. And let this be a warning: if you refuse to be bossed by the Queen of Bossy, you will pay the price.

I feel like such a cliche (can't get along with her in-laws), but at least I know I'm in good company.

This weekend we went to cape cod with my sister in law and her husband. They are exhausting. Here are the topics of conversation they enjoy:

1) You made a wrong turn/why didn't you warn me I was making a wrong turn/you're a terrible navigator
2) How many calories/fat calories are in this food item
3) Americans are stupid/fat/lazy/ignorant/diabetic

Nothing puts me off my feed more than hearing how healthy or unhealthy something supposedly is. It saps all the love out of the food for me. The more they talk about sugar and its evils, the more I want to eat ten pounds of frosting off a cupcake shaped like kermit the frog. The more smug they are about watering down their orange juice, the more I want to pour the stuff straight down my gullet.

But then, I am just a stupid, fat, lazy, ignorant American! I don't know any better!

We have nearly almost kind of purchased a car (used! the horror!). I believe it will be in my possession today or tomorrow. Then we can drive our own asses and not have to ride with the Bickersons. And I might eat a cupcake too. So there.

A Valuable Lesson (in song)

Hot Pepper!

Don't put it in your eeeeeyyyyyyeeee!

Hot Pepper!

Don't put it in your EEEEEEEEYYYYYYYEEEE!

Hot Pepper!

Keep it out of your EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!

The End.

How Capitalism is Working For Me

Here's how the car buying has gone so far:


Me: I have some money. Will you take it, and give me a car in exchange?
Car dealer: No. No I will not.
Me: It is American Dollars!
Car dealer: get the fuck out of my face!


It may have something to do with the exact number of American dollars I am offering to exchange for a working vehicle. Which happens to be less that Car Dealer would like to obtain. I can see how this will be a problem for me, probably ending in my spending more than I want to/getting a lamer car than I want to. And damn, it is hard to be a lamer car than the one I want.

heh

"We all took a taxi to St. Peter’s, which we had already been through. At a small side door we were admitted to the Vatican palace. Mother and my sisters had to cover their heads with little black veils that were supplied there. Some men were in full white tie evening dress. There were about 200 people at the audience. We were conducted upstairs to a huge ornate renaissance room with beautiful ceiling paintings and wall frescos. Soon papal attendants lined us up standing in rows to wait. Then the Pope entered in a white gown and white skullcap. We were all told to kneel. He held his two fingers up and gave us all a blessing; then walked slowly along the kneeling lineup presenting his hand with a ring on it, which each person in turn was expected to kiss. The “audience” did not mean that we were able to say anything to him nor he to us, except for his blessing at the beginning and at the end. Many people had brought rosaries and little crosses that they held in their hands when they took the Pope’s hand, so that he would have touched it; and that would have given, I suppose, some special quality to the cross or rosary. When he came to Betty Jane, 2-years-old, who was standing because she was so small, he held his hand out to her just like everybody else. But she didn’t rise to the occasion. He waited a few seconds and Mother whispered “Kiss it, kiss it.” But she answered very audibly, “I don’t want to.”


(Look, I don't know what they were doing there. They were not even Catholic.)

Done! (Bathroom Edition)

Take a good look, because it will never be this clean EVER AGAIN!

I am going to scream

Never try to improve your home, I say.

The tiling guy totally flaked on Saturday (which was his suggested time! not mine!). He did show up on Tuesday, about an hour late, but he did come. He and his helper worked a while and argued some and then left at the end of the day, promising to return to finish the job on Thursday morning. "I will be here at 9," I said. "Not before 9, because I have to drive my wife to work. I will be back at 9."

Is that clear to you? Because guess what.

While I was out driving Miss Lady to work, he left a message on the machine. "I want to come in before 9, because 9 will be too late," he says, "I have to be somewhere else at 9."

When I returned at 8:30 and heard this message, I was pissed off, and I called him up. "I'm at another job already," he whines. I don't know if he really whined. It's for the story. Just go with it. "I can come in tonight, though," he says. Dude. DUDE. NO. "I took off work today, and that's kind of a big deal for me," I said (assertively, I hope). (No laughing. It was a big deal. Though I do next to nothing at work, they are really weird about having people there anyway. Go figure.) "Grumble, grumble," he said or something like that. "I'll see what I can do." Oh THANK you. Thank you so much for going out of your way to SHOW UP WHEN YOU SAID YOU WOULD YOU BIG DORK.

9:30, he rolls in. I point out where he has installed a fucked-up piece. "That is going to drive me crazy," I explain. He tried to blame it on me but what the fuck? I sure as hell didn't install it that way. YOU DID.

Now he has gone out to "get stuff" while I sit here, not at work, and I CAN'T EVEN USE THE BATHROOM.

I have already paid this guy for Tuesday's work, so I'm in this for good. Just have to tough it out (and go to whole foods to pee.)

No stories about your fabulous experience hiring home repairs, okay? Misery loves COMPANY, people, not tales of terrific handymen.

update: he is here, but he is not speaking to me or something. Yes, I hired a thirteen year old. What is UP with people?

Done!

Because I never know when to end a joke

more hilarious faces from the hilarious internet

Me, as a Monkeyman:


Me, as different evil gnome baby:


my wife, as the world's fattest baby:


and me, as "drunk" (how is that a face?):

wanna see something scary?

This site here has provided me with my face, transformed into a "baby"

Introducing..... evil gnome baby from 1000 miles below the surface of the earth!

Hold the phone! A car could be blue!

Okay.
Here's what we've learned from our car research:
we can maybe afford this vehicle.

We might also want to look at something in a bicycle. Maybe even a tricycle!

Right now I am wondering whether we should try to buy a car off, you know, some guy, or go to a dealership. If I'm buying from some guy, my own ignorance dooms me. If I go to a dealership, my paranoia and suspicion combine with my ignorance to create a Perfect Storm of Mishap.

Am I overworrying? Is car buying actually fun and puppies? Someone lie to me, quick.

PS High five to anyone who IDs the post title!

Sharks will EAT YOU, is all I'm saying

This weekend we drove through miserable, awful traffic to Maine for a cousin's wedding. Spending time among these particular cousins always makes me feel very, very lame. They are excellent people in all respects: kind and thoughtful and good with names, easy conversationalists, accomplished musicians and lobsterwomen, and they have a herd of adorable blond children who never, ever, ever cry. I know my dad wishes one of his daughters was seaworthy (we suffer from motion sickness, and in my case, a crippling phobia of ocean-dwelling creatures that keeps me land-based whenever possible). These girls know how to tie knots and talk about boats just like my dad likes. How'd he end up with a pair of lubber kids, I'm sure he's wondering. Meanwhile I feel a little embarassed all the time I'm there, while they ask oh-so-kindly about the adoption and I have no information to give them. No, I don't know where my kid is. I don't even know if/when he/she will be born. I felt a little envy watching everyone tickle the babies, and then hated myself when my cousin, who nearly died having her child after years of IVF, sympathetically said, "It must be so hard not knowing when this will end." Well, I would have complained of exactly that a minute ago, but now I feel like a jerk. Adopting will not physically try to kill me nor land my kid in the NICU for five weeks.

Why is everyone so nice?

Due to circumstances beyond our control, we may finally cross over to the dark side and become car owners. There is no describing how many different ways this terrifies me. Here's a start:
1. I hate driving
2. I am a very bad driver
3. And a worse navigator
4. I have never owned a car
5. How much do I know about cars? They have four wheels. Generally. I think.
6. I will never ever be able to fool a salesman or mechanic into thinking I know more than that. I might as well have a shirt made that says "Pigeon" to wear when car-shopping.
6. I hate spending big money. Especially on things I won't enjoy.

I am happy to have advice about car buying, car driving, car care, and how to not hate cars. Bring it on (she said to the empty auditorium).

Greetings from Boredomville

I have been kind of grumpy lately, and though I know that suffering is the wellspring of comedy, I'm not actually miserable exactly so there's no funny.
For one thing, I am trying to get the bathroom floor tiled, and "The Guy" won't call me back. Why must he be such a cliche, I ask? For another thing, I am trying to eat less candy*, which is ridiculous and I don't even see why I'm doing it except I realized that I probably eat enough candy in a year to fill a dumpster, and that grosses even me out. Then, one of the agencies where our profile is was like, we are missing one of your forms, which isn't a big deal except it makes me think that they are only NOW looking at our file, three months after sending it in, and what the hell is up with that? Then of course, there is the lung-crushing soul-sucking brain-frying HEAT we've been putting up with for the last few days. I like to eat my lunch outside, I have never set foot in the cafeteria (five years now), I always go to the park and sit by the fountain like all the other blue-shirted office drones. (In the winter I go to the library or someplace.) But the heat has caused some kind of bacterial bloom in the fountain water and it smells like hobo feet.
And of course we've had no indication of any kind that we will ever, ever, see the other side of this adoption thing. Which is more discouraging than you might think only three months would be. The thing is, it took us a dog's age to get to the waiting stage so I feel like I've been waiting more than a year. I am getting older! The world is getting crappier! Hurry up!


*and ice cream, cookies, brownies, cake, frosting straight from the tub, popsicles, candy that comes free in sample copy shipments, and old candy I found in my purse.

what'd I say

Still the King of Jackasses

Dear Cat-sweatshirt people

(tm Mimi Smartypants)

Besides being absolutely gross, what does finding a dead ladybug in my purse mean?

Ew.

Ass of the Day!

Today's champion is:

MITT "RHYMES WITH SOMETHING" ROMNEY!

Come collect your lovely prize! A kick in the nuts, from me to you!

his winning entry

my ebay advice to the world

If you're anything like me, you never read an ebay seller's feedback until a month has gone by since you paid for your ridiculous item with no sign of a package on your doorstep. Then, when you realize you may have bought something from the ebay equivalent of the guy who sells stolen library books down in the Common, you go and read all the feedbacks they've every gotten.
My advice to the world is to read what has been written, and then multiply it times "fuckin' A".
Everyone on ebay is a big ol wuss and is afraid to put down anything accurately negative. Or else someone will say something nasty back. Feedback deterrent. So when you read:
Was a bit testy in emails
you should think:
Writes in all caps, calls mother a whore

When you read:
Slow shipping
you should think:
Start your christmas shopping in May

When you read:
Some miscommunication
You should think:
Seller is dead, corpse does not answer emails

When you read:
Item arrived slightly damaged
you should think:
Seller employs a grizzly bear as packer/shipper.

When you read:
Item not as described
you should think:
Item was actually anthrax

My other advice to the world is, stay away from ebay. It is a delicious drug, but still a drug.

progress

As you can see, I have done 7 characters. Or one week of waiting.

idle hands

We're settling in for a long eighteen month wait. (I figure, it's better to have low expectations. Then, a pleasant surprise is possible) So, I have invented a project to occupy me.

This project will keep me busy for over one month and also decorate the walls of the second bedroom at the same time. How efficient!

Every day I'm making one of these:





And every day I'm hanging one up on the wall:



You can't see the elaborate system for aligning these properly. It involves thread and tape. Very sophisticated.

The problem is that nice as these look, I am still shaky on what they sound like. But the idea is that the kid will see them every day and become A GENIUS. My wife has a belief that bright colors make you smarter. I have a belief that other languages make you smarter. Obviously, our child will be an UNSTOPPABLE SUPER GENIUS. But in a good way.

Anyway, there are 36 letters I'm doing. So this will take 36 days. And then, there will be only about 452 days left to wait. No sweat, right?

to take the sting off NY and GA rulings

"Conscientious and nurturing adults, whether they are men or women, heterosexual or homosexual, can be excellent parents. The rights, benefits, and protections of civil marriage can further strengthen these families."

http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/cgi/content/full/118/1/349

thanks, opa.

Surly Bird

You know what store I hate? Pearl. Aren't those retail workers lazy and arrogant? Or maybe they all just hate me in particular. Either way I always forget how much I hate them until I'm already in the store, climbing over half-unpacked boxes of stock to get to the dusty, shelfworn item I want, and then standing in line behind someone returning 75 tubes of paint while the cashiers one-up each other with ohmygodiwassodrunklastnight tales. I always swear I won't go back but I do. Cause I'm dumb like that.

Do you know what is fun? Fireworks! Plus, they make your mom grumble disapprovingly like Marge Simpson! Which is funny! Then you can tease her by hiding your fingers like they got blown off!

In related news, if anyone needs a gross of sparklers, call me. I may have gotten carried away at the Fireworks, Candy, and Puppydog Store. EVERYTHING WAS 2 FOR 1.

in the supply cabinet

dear pilot vball grip extra fine (black)

i love you.


dear leaky pilot V5 precise rolling ball extra fine (green)

you may now go to hell.


dear scotch tape

I am sorry. it's an addiction.


dear china markers

what are you even for? marking....china?


dear self-inking stamp refill bottles (red)

what do you say we splash you all around and then shout "murder!"?
no?
you used to be cool, man. What happened?

baby smeagol

anyone out there expecting a child...you must sometimes, secretly, worry that your baby will not be cute. What? No? Just me? And I'm a shallow bitch? It's true, I probably am.
I encountered such a baby last night. Instead of delicate baby ears, he had jug handles. Instead of a wee flower of a mouth, he had a mick jaggeresque maw. It didn't help that he was wailing, either.
My mother tells me that A) I will think the baby is cute even if it is not and B) no one will dare to tell me that it is not cute, so I will never know. What this says about my own baby-looks, I do not guess. Her B) sounds suspect though, knowing my own father to have greeted brand-new infants and their parents with "Gee, I bet you can't wait for the kid to get cute!". Which was funny at the time but now makes me worry.

I am Grampa Simpson

Yes, yes, thirty is the new twenty, but what of those of us who were fifty when they were twenty? How old are we now? Not too old to ROCK OUT, are we?
The truth is I was always lame, and have never really rocked out. We went to the radiohead concert on Monday and everyone there was about 16 years old, which makes no sense. You people were little bitty babies when Creep came out!
I kind of wanted to have a nap before the concert but Monday nights are the nights where I imprudently play flying baby and horsey rides and dinosaur is chasing you. So I was a wee bit worn out beforehand and secretly wished all those people would sit down so I could sit down and not look like Granny At the Show. I also got some earplugs. I know! I've always been lame! We also had binoculars, since I can't see. And we needed to see as well as hear, for the crazy little dances that Thom does are not to be missed. We came home smelling of weed and extreme youth, but it was awesome, they sounded awesome, and it'll be a good long time before I feel like I need to prove my vigor again.

I was tired on tuesday though.

the intern that everybody loves

What's the deal with that guy? he's not so great.

Ask the Grandparents!

Everyone's favorite game, where we ask our grandparents how to wisely handle situations of everyday life!

You are viewing a community sporting event. Someone blocks your view. How do you ask them to move?
A) Excuse me, I can't get a good look. Would you mind stepping back?
B) Down in front!
C) MOVE YOUR FAT ASS!

When the person above objects to your verbal abuse, what do you say?
A) Sorry, sorry, I got carried away
B) Hey, we're cool, right?
C) FUCK OFF!

When your children and grandchildren object to your behavior, what do you say?
A) Aw, you know I don't mean it
B) I said What?
C) You'll miss it when I'm dead!

The devices used by those who cannot run in a marathon are called:
A) Hand cycles
B) Wheelchairs
C) Cripple Carts

I don't really need to give you the answers, do I?

ring ring

Somewhere, deep in Amazonia, on the humid, mosquito-swarmed banks of a muddy, broad river, where strange birds call out and sharp-toothed fish lurk beneath the surface of the water, there is a dude who makes his living by tapping a stand of rubber trees, collecting the resin, and smoking it into a ball that he can sell to traveling rubber merchants. That fellow lives in a small tent with a plank floor, cooks his meals along with his rubber ball over an open fire, and works fourteen hours every day.
That guy, unlike me, has a cell phone.

I've always thought a cell phone, for me, is a big waste. I work all day at a desk where I have a phone, and then I go home to my house where I have a phone. In between, I'm on the train, and there's no signal anyway. I am not a fan of the whole "we'll call you when we pick a restaurant!" thing where cell phones render humans incapable of making a plan and sticking to it. And I don't see a need to be constantly reachable. Plus I'm bad about losing things, and breaking things, and forgetting things. Most importantly, I am a cheap bastard. So no phone for me.

Last night I was out with my buds, and they managed to hit me right where it hurts cell-phone-wise. They said that it would be nice for my friends if I had one. Those sneaky bastards have to know that the way to manipulate me is to tell me I'm doing it for my dear friends.

So maybe I'll get a cell phone. dammit. But a cheap one.

high school nightmares

I do love my parents, but they do some stuff I can't bear. One of which involves being friends with the parents of kids I hated in high school. They're always talking about "the Smiths* were over for dinner last night, and they said Jonathan is living in LA," or some such nonsense. Thing is, Jonathan was a grade-A asshole when he was ages 6 through 18, so I don't want to hear it. Hearing it puts me back in a frame of mind I don't want to go. This is my problem, I realize. But it makes me do stupid stuff. I just spent twenty minutes sitting here thinking of what to wear on Friday when we go up there for the weekend, because The Smiths and the Jameses will both be over for dinner that night, and somehow, in my addled mind, I have to dress up, and wear makeup, and look nice, so that they will not all go home and email Jonathan and Sally about how that Shirky, you rememeber, from school? The ugly one, with the glasses, and the little head? She looks a fright!! She must be eating twelve cupcakes a day, poor thing.

Ahem. No fair pointing out I'm insecure. I know that already. I just can't make it stop.

My parents are even going on a vacation this summer with the Jameses, to a tropical locale (SO not like them, I have no idea what's gotten into them) where they will no doubt sit around and discuss boring grownup stuff, but I will worry that the Jameses will think poorly of my parents because I am not successful. And that would be terrible because it is not my parents' fault I don't really like working for a living/haven't found my calling/am a lazy ass bastard. And oh, just thinking of these people makes me think of their horrible children, who probably aren't even that bad, but one time, Jonathan Smith told me I was stupid and annoying when I asked what the fuck was going on during some weird ass japanese movie he made everyone watch, and another time I heard him making a twenty-dollar bet with some other douchebag over who could seduce a freshman first, and that is just nasty, and he is nasty, and I hated him, so there.

So yay! Three-day weekend! Rock out!

*not their real names. None of these names are real.

to persistent voicemailer

1. Sudeepta does not in fact work here
2. Voicemail is not capable of responding to questions. It is a robot.

scraping the bottom of the blogging barrel

--attention: the following is boring--
It's another rainy day here. Unfuckingbelievable. I have been sitting around trying to come up with projects and plans to distract myself for the next 18 months (give or take.) I got nothin'. Except eating. Look for me in your local bakery, licking cupcakes clean of all the bomb frostings.


Work is so slow lately, it's nearly approaching the boredom level of the Old Job. The Job That Broke My Brain! I really hope it doesn't go that far. For one, I hate looking for new jobs and two, I begin to sense that the problem may not be the jobs, but me, as a person who cannot occupy herself for more than five minutes without employing cupcakes.

Ideally I would find a hobby that could be engaged in from my desk at work without anyone noticing (breeding fancy chickens is probably out, and hog-calling is a definite no) that costs nothing and makes me smarter, not dumber. Perhaps I should run a side business of some sort from my cube. Is there a market for home-based cupcake testers?

ooh! blogging about work!

The woman in the cube across the aisle is being Angela. You know, the religious nut on the The Office. She's on the phone with someone, complaining a lot about the Da Vinci Code. She and I probably don't agree on much. But we can agree that that book is lametastic.

I hear lots of phone conversations because we have just cubes. One woman seems to be running a financial consultancy out of her cube. She is always giving advice on investments and IRAs and so on. I wonder how good her advice is, though, since she still works here and is not living it up Trump-style.

This is why I always find an empty conference room, even just to make a dentist appointment. Super secret ninja style personal calls!

Seriously, she is still going on about the Da Vinci code.

a new fad that's sweeping the nation -- wasting food!

We went to New York this weekend. Rather than bring a traditional hostess gift such as flowers, we brought hijinks!

After a nice brunch, we went over to a nearby park to be a bad influence on the local children.

We stopped on the way to purchase 2 liters of diet pepsi and a pack of mentos. Both of which I consider inedible, which is good, because wasting food is not easy for me.

Here, you see the pepsi, awaiting its fate:
And the mentos:

And Lauren:



Aaaaaand, the mischief:


Kids: definitely try this at home.

damp

Seattle,

Some of your things are still at my place. I put them in a box for you so if you could just come and pick them up that would be good. There's drizzle, mist, clouds, and some dave matthews CDs. Anyway, if you could come get them pretty soon, that would be great, I don't have a lot of room.

--Boston

cat in doghouse

At about four AM every day, the elderly feline resident of our home begins her "Wake UP, you guys" routine. She howls in the hallway, she saunters back and forth across our heads, and worst of all she climbs up on our dressers and begins pushing little objects off one by one.
I keep a squirt bottle of water by the bed to discourage her. I know she remembers what the bottle does because I only have to hold it up and she runs off. But thirty seconds later she is back, making sure that the force of gravity is still acting upon all the items on our dresser. She's robbing me of hours of sleep! I was so tired, I tried to turn off the alarm clock by squirting it with the water bottle.
This morning she raised the stakes by throwing down a glass of water that was up there. It was just pulverized. We'll be finding glass crumbs for months, I'm sure. Good morning! Step on glass! feed me, bitches! Or the next one falls on your head!

gone

Twenty-two painstakingly assembled copies of our profile are now in the mail.
they had better arrive safe and sound, after all those trips to staples and oh my god the pages are upside down moments.

I feel like we'll never be finished though: there is often one more form to complete, one more thing to sign, one more document to get witnessed (every agency has their own requirements, their own forms, and so on).

It has taken a sick long time to get this far, what with the homestudy social worker dragging her feet and then up and quitting (so she got laid off. It's not her fault! still! It was an inconvenience!) I'm not too worried about time--going into this we knew it would take a while and we were in no rush. The longer it takes, the more dough we have saved, the more chances we've had to pick up and go to NYC on a whim, and all that stuff. I'm trying to really savor all that instead of letting my brain swirl itself into an anxiety smoothie.

brain smoothie is a nasty drink, by the way. Very salty.

douchebag rundown!

Today's list of worthless tools who tick me off!


David Blaine
James Frey
Samuel Beckett
Steven Pinker
Mary Cheney

Congratulations, you all suck!

edited to add:
how could I have forgotten Mel Gibson? The King of All Jackasses.

owie

I have been attending a series of lectures at BU Med School. I like science; I like to hear about research; I thought it would be fun. They had important doctors lecture on their area of research. Some were better than others. You know--some actually talk, and others read right off the powerpoint. The stuff they presented was a little boring--I was ready to hear about some amazing new discoveries, and they were all like "Smoking leads to heart disease." But it was OK.
There were two things that I hated though: one, the building the lectures were in has a constant smell of week-old garbage. Two, there were several other attendees who delighted in asking the most obnoxious followup questions.
Now, some of the mainly-elderly audience was asking kind of strange questions, but clearly they needed to know the answers, and I can't have a problem with that.
But then there was Pre-Med Asshole. Every time he raised his hand, I rudely rolled my eyes. He would invariably ask a "question" that was really just a list of vocabulary words he'd recently memorized, with no real point. The speaker would listen politely, blink, and try to form a question out of those words that he or she could answer, and end with "Does...that answer your question?" Pre-Med Asshole was a fucking showoff, but not even really smart. The worst kind!
Then there was My People Are Superior in Every Way Guy. Oh god. This guy did not ask questions. He would raise his hand and say "I have an observation," and I would shrink down in my seat because I was actually embarassed for him. For example, when the topic was Depression, he offered that His People do not suffer from depression, due to their "fighting spirits." The speaker respectfully repeated the main topic of her presentation: depression is caused by chemistry in the brain and central nervous system. She guessed that cultural coping mechanisms could mask or exacerbate depression. But MPASEWG wasn't having it. "We had a man in my country named Gandhi," he continued, "who had this fighting spirit! I have a fighting spirit!" The speaker allowed as how Gandhi and MPASEWG might have the somewhat-protective allele of a particular gene that has been recently discovered. But MPASEWG insisted on the more scientific conclusion of "fighting spirit". I wanted to ask his spirit to step outside to settle it mano a spirito.

Last night the topic was BOOBS! Or breast cancer, specifically. And oh my god, am I the only person on earth who still doesn't understand how mammograms are possible?? The boobie...in the machine...and squashing....holy crap, that has got to hurt. Also I still can't look at my own chestal area and imagine how mine would get in the machine. They're ATTACHED, for pete's sake. And there is not much there! They don't stick out very far! And I just imagine this horrible pinching machine scrabbling at my chest trying to squash something that isn't there. And it misses like 30 percent of tumors? Why is it still used? That's insane!

That was before I learned to swear

heh.

When I was in high school, my worst subject was English. Also math. But English I hated on a personal level--all the literature we were forced to read pissed me off extraordinarily for some reason. I also hated my teachers. I found them smug and hateful.
In 12th grade I took one semester of a class where we had to read "Man and his Symbols", which still triggers boiling rage. This is how much patience I have for bullshit pseudoscience: . We also read, and were supposed to perform, "Waiting for Godot", which I find profoundly irritating. I know! Smart people like these things! But I am not that smart, so I don't.
The play only has two parts. (Spoiler: Neither of them is Godot.) So two students would act for a while, then the two more would tag in. Somehow I was either absent or stubborn on that day. Since I remember it, obviously, stubborn. And I didn't take my turn. So, to make up for it, I had to come after school to perform "The Lesson" with another kid who had been legitimately absent.
Are you familiar with this play? There are again only two real parts. A tutor and a pupil, and the tutor hates the pupil by the end. By the end (Spoiler: the tutor kills the pupil in a scene of barely-disguised sexual violence!) the guy is shouting and yelling at her.
I took the role of teacher, and Pete took the role of student. In retrospect I should have read it through before choosing, because the tutor has this line (while stabbing):
"That'll teach you, bitch!"
When the time came for me to speak this line, I gagged on it, and skipped the word. I was young! My teacher was there! I couldn't do it!
Afterward, Pete was mad, as he thought maybe our grade would be lowered because I failed to swear.

And so I am not much for absurdist plays. And now I can say that Beckett, Ionesco, and that fucking Godot are all bitches.

Comin' back from Cali

Dude. Do not come back to Logan at 5 AM. There are no taxis. There is no train. It is cold. It is raining. It sucks ass.

California, on the other hand, is mild and sunny and beachtastic. Too bad I was born with new england tattooed on my butt.

I managed to sneak around Santa Cruz without running into my former co-worker. I told my sister "She's a vegan, and she drives a car that runs on vegetable oil," and she was like "yeah, her and everyone else in town." Yes yes. I know what the town is like. If it weren't for the ocean breeze mixing with the patchouli and feet, it would smell like my own home town. Also, we were there on the twentieth of April, so, you know, there was that smell as well.

We have these friends who are moving to Asheville, NC, which means when we visit our family and friends, we will be hitting the neo-hippie trifecta. Like medieval pilgrims visiting Rome, Jerusalem, and Santiago. Maybe we get some kind of holy dispensation from Phish for it, I don't know. I feel like I should get something, though, for eating vegan cookies. Do you know, vegan cookies have no butter in them? Not even a little butter. They play a dirty game, those vegans.

whoa!

did you know you can get podcasts with tivo?

Of course you did. You are not an idiot like me.

But I am delighted! Podcasts all the time! On the Tivo!

guh?

So at CVS they have a new display of these fancy expensive hair products. There are two varieties to choose from. One for "fine" hair and one for "thick" hair. They're both meant for curly hair. The line is called "curl conscious". Here's what the boxes have on them.

In case I have bollocksed up the pictures again, the 'fine' hair trio says:
Nordic Angel
English Rose
Wispy Waif
Botticelli Muse
Baby Doll
Belle du Jour

The 'thick' hair boxes say:
Latina
Hot Mama
Vixen
Temptress
Amazon
Kinky Chick
Wild Child
Warrior
Brunette
Mamacita

I...don't even know what to think. My mind...she is blown.

Tuesday impersonates Monday

This morning I woke up late from a dream in which I was running to escape a vengeful ghost (wtf?). I realized that both of my pairs of pants were dirty (it is hard for me to buy pants that fit, ok?). I thought I would wear a skirt. I knew it was cold and rainy, so in order to wear a skirt I needed a pair of tights. I found only navy blue (no go) and grey, which, with a black skirt just made me look like I got dressed in the dark. I ended up wearing the dirty pants from yesterday (my volunteer night--they have baby boogers and fingerpaint on them. yes!) I showed up late for work, and without my pass, so I had to sign in and knock on the door, and now I'm trapped here for the day, unless I want to get stuck out there again.
Woo! Go Tuesday!

I should really do laundry more often, and possibly buy more pants. Yesterday I went into the one store that has pants my size but everything there is like sixty bucks and I am a super cheap bastard. Whenever I express pants-buying frustration to my friends, they always exclaim, "The Gap has 'long' pants!" or something like that. Here is Gap's idiot-ass idea of 'long' on me:




Damn you, pants!

Operation BookHoard

The mission to collect all DCF winners is going well. My first stop was of course half.com, which worked out well, and Goodwill, good ol' goodwill, has also been helpful.

As I get them, I'm also reading them. I read them while I blowdry my hair in the morning. Even so, they are pretty quick reads, not nearly as substantial as I remember them. Which makes sense, since I last read many of these twenty years ago or more.

There are only a few genres represented so far. I like to think this is because there are certain things that really, really appeal to the kids who are voting on this award, but maybe authors are just damn copycats. Here's what we're looking at:

Alone in the Woods
Magic Stuff Happens to Regular Kids
Confrontation With a Bully

Classic themes, all.

I can't keep my grownup brain from analyzing them as I read, though. I pick out stereotypes and gender role enforcement and ecologically unsound camping practices (some of these are from the fifties, okay?), and none of the books is free of all that stuff. In fact, there's one book--well, I'll post a photo later. Still, I like them all okay and I still think they are young reader gold.

	Naughty words	Children alone in woods	Child confronts bully	Magical happenings	My complaints	Other
Two in the Wilderness		Yes			Sister sweeps; brother hunts
Bones on Black Spruce Mountain	Piss AND shit!	Yes			Kids in the woods cut down trees, build fires, very naughty	Adoption figures in this story
A Bundle of Sticks	"faggot"		Yes
The 18th Emergency			Yes
Time for Andrew			Yes	Yes
Jennifer Murdley's Toad			Toad confronts bully	Yes
Castle in the Attic		Briefly		Yes
Summer of Fear				Yes	Girls is bitches
The Boggart				Yes	Gang of "friends" really just a collection of stereotypes
Small Steps: The Year I Got Polio						One of these things is not like the others...

naughty kitten

I think we'll have six more weeks of winter, because I have lost my mittens--an annual occurence. Stupid mittens.

In my brain I keep coming up with little projects to fill my blog. Not so hot on the followthrough though. Like, every time I walk through the neighborhood, I think of taking photos of all the churches. There are SO MANY. They're all different, too. Some are two churches in one (two congregations share the building). I'm so unschooled in churchery that these places might as well be secret underwater cities. I have a vague idea from TV and movies that a church contains benches, a talky fellow at the front, and maybe some hats. I generally picture the Simpsons' church and Reverend Lovejoy. Beyond that I probably couldn't distinguish a Catholic church from Satan's Holy Roller Church of the Sacred Beagle. What? You don't believe me but this is a seriously church-dense neighborhood.



They're all very mysterious to me. I hardly ever (never) see people going in or out of them. This is related to my weekend laziness, most likely.

Hapless

How to make a weekend trip to the mountains into a study in dumbassery:

Be very careful to pack necessities:
1. milky way miniatures
2. travel scrabble
3. sled

Who cares about these luxuries:
1. toothbrush/toothpaste/soap/shampoo/contact lens case/deodorant/sunblock...all that kind of stuff.
2. boots
3. socks

For that extra something, when sledding with the all-important sled, be sure to go right over a pile of dog shit! (Bravo, irresponsible dog owner!)

I am exhausted today from waking at 5 to drive sister in law to the airport. Not an early riser. I feel like barfing! yeah!

anyway, lessons learned, I guess.

I'm Bored. Let's Buy things!

I adore good quality kids' books. In my old job, the Job That Broke My Brain, I scored a ton of good ones, and discovered a bunch of quality authors I'd never heard of when I was a kid myself. I have a little stash now--I am pretty greedy about them and never seem to give them away as I intend.

I have already begun collecting books that are a little "special" for our imaginary kid. I got my mother's favorite (I searched hard for the same edition she has, didn't find it, but got close.), my grandmother's favorite, and a few picture books in Tamil.

I hate bad kid books as much as I love good ones. My unfavorite* are "books" that are really printed advertisements: Licensed Character's Trip to McDonald's! Barbie Goes Shopping For Branded Items!** I also hate are preachy, "lesson" books (Little Engine that Could, I'm looking at you). I dislike cheap thrown-together looking stuff with no author, too. Yes, you heard me, Dorling Kindersley, all those shiny photos can't hide your EMPTY SOUL.

Now I'm trying to collect a whole set of really good books in the laziest way---using a list of award winners. It's the Dorothy Canfield Fisher award, which no one has ever heard of, but it was really a big deal to me growing up. The annual winner is chosen by actual kids, so you know the books will appeal to real life readers. I voted every year I was eligible and man, those were some awesome books! There are 48 winners to date and I've given myself the mission to track them all down. Yes! A project! My favorite!

If you're interested, here's the list:

Winners of the DCF Award from 1957 to Current Award Winner


1957 Pace, Mildred Mastin. OLD BONES, THE WONDER HORSE


1958 Cleary, Beverly. FIFTEEN


1959 Leighton, Margaret. COMMANCHE OF THE SEVENTH


1960 Erickson, Phoebe. DOUBLE OR NOTHING


1961 Bell, Thelma Harrington. CAPTAIN GHOST


1962 Lampman, Evelyn Sibley. CITY UNDER THE BACK STEPS


1963 Burnford, Sheila. INCREDIBLE JOURNEY


1964 Ball, Zachary. BRISTLE FACE


1965 North, Sterling. RASCAL


1966 Cleary, Beverly. RIBSY


1967 Viereck, Phillip. THE SUMMER I WAS LOST


1968 Jackson, Jacqueline. THE TASTE OF SPRUCE GUM


1969 Thompson, Mary Wolfe. TWO IN THE WILDERNESS


1970 Morey, Walt. KAVIK THE WOLF DOG


1971 Erwin, Betty K. GO TO THE ROOM OF THE EYES


1972 Ellis, Melvin. FLIGHT OF THE WHITE WOLF


1973 Caufield, Don and Joan. NEVER STEAL A MAGIC CAT


1974 Woods, George A. CATCH A KILLER


1975 Byars, Betsy. EIGHTEENTH EMERGENCY


1976 Merrill, Jean. THE TOOTHPASTE MILLIONAIRE


1977 Pevsner, Stella. A SMART KID LIKE YOU


1978 Duncan, Lois. SUMMER OF FEAR


1979 Pfeffer, Susan Beth. KID POWER


1980 Budbill, David. BONES ON BLACK SPRUCE MOUNTAIN


1981 Howe, Deborah & James. BUNNICULA


1982 Pascal, Francine. THE HAND-ME-DOWN KID***


1983 Blume, Judy. TIGER EYES


1984 Mauser, Pat Rhoads. A BUNDLE OF STICKS


1985 Cleary, Beverly. DEAR MR. HENSHAW


1986 Smith, Robert Kimmel. THE WAR WITH GRANDPA


1987 Winthrop, Elizabeth. THE CASTLE IN THE ATTIC****


1988 Hahn, Mary Downing. WAIT TILL HELEN COMES


1989 Paulsen, Gary. HATCHET*****


1990 Ehrlich, Amy. WHERE IT STOPS, NOBODY KNOWS


1991 Lowry, Lois. NUMBER THE STARS


1992 Spinelli, Jerry. MANIAC MAGEE


1993 Naylor, Phyllis Reynolds. SHILOH


1994 Coville, Bruce. JENNIFER MURDLEY'S TOAD


1995 Cooper, Susan. THE BOGGART


1996 Hahn, Mary Downing. TIME FOR ANDREW


1997 Park, Barbara. MICK HARTE WAS HERE


1998 Kehret, Peg. SMALL STEPS: The Year I Got Polio


1999 Levine, Gail Carson . ELLA ENCHANTED


2000 Sachar, Louis. HOLES


2001 Curtis, Christopher Paul. BUD, NOT BUDDY


2002 Di Camillo, Kate. BECAUSE OF WINN DIXIE


2003 Creech, Sharon. LOVE THAT DOG


2004 Jerry Spinelli. LOSER


2005 Kate DiCamillo. THE TALE OF DESPEREAUX

*like that? slipped in a word to fill the lexical gap

**And don't get me started on branded toys. I tried to find toy food one time and everyone was selling sets of "food" that were just plastic replicas of happy meals! fuck that! And they sell miniature dirt devil brand vacuum cleaners! what the hell! If my kid likes vacuuming that much, he can learn to use the real one while mommy chills out on the couch, ok?
Now that I've said this, my kid will probably refuse to wear/eat anything that does not feature a mutant ninja something or a talking british locomotive.

***I remember this was a big hit because it had the word BOOBS! in it! Yes!

****This was AWESOME.

*****Ditto above, but here's what should have won that year.

Snackfood rundown

Overload S'mores

These are cookies with marshmallow on top, then covered with various candy bits, like M&Ms or butterfinger crumbs.
I am a fan of marshmallows, the goofy way they are bouncy and soft. So I like the marshmallow part. The cookie was really dry though. Maybe because they'd been around for a while--they were on clearance at the target. The candy bits fell off when I tried to bite the thing, which was a serious construction flaw.
I give them a C+. And I don't think they'll be around for long.

Jerky Crisps

Meat Chips! I did not eat these. I just saw them and was grossed out.

A bargain at twice the price!

Just a dollar!

Dude, I would have paid a dollar to get out of gym class. I would have paid THREE.

I'm not alone here. Everyone hates gym. It's a peculiarly scarring experience that we all must share. (Those who enjoyed gym class, the exit is behind you. Take your dodge ball and begone!)

Let me count the reasons I detested gym class:

1. When I was an 8th grader, we had mixed gym with the 7th graders. We had to line up in alphabetical order for attendance, and I had the misfortune to be named something that sat me next to two blonde 7th graders who smelled my social incompetence. I recall feeling outraged, not so much by their snide insults, but by the fact that I was being PICKED ON by SEVENTH GRADERS, when as an 8th grader, I should have been exempt from their scorn! Hadn't I earned that, at least? Goddamn seventh grade bitches.
2. Playing racquetball, or badminton, or something with racquets, I swung hard at a ball (birdie?) and the racquet slipped from my weak grasp, and nearly brained the "coach". I got in so much trouble, which, had I deliberately thrown it at him, I would have deserved. I was pissed that I hadn't done it on purpose, as long as I was paying the price.
3. Indirect gym trauma, for which I was not present: Once two friends of mine were in they locker room changing after class, when a mean bully girl grabbed one of them and smashed her into the lockers (her infraction? giving bully girl a "look" during class! yes! classic!) and proceeded to pummel the poor thing. My second friend raced from the locker room to find the "coach", a male gym teacher. "Coach! Billie Jo* is beating up Sally in the locker room!" Coach's response? "I can't go in there, it's the girls' locker room!" Wow! Don't you feel safe now??
4. Foursquare! For when "Coach" is feeling lazy! It's a game based on ganging up three-to-one to get someone 'out'! How can that be a problem??

Are gym classes just unsupervised? The torment and anguish I'm recalling suggests that the teachers were mildly stoned at all times, or that they hated me as much as Billie Jo did. How much weed can you get with one dollar per kid per day?

*Real name, no joke.

Winter's BACK, bitch!

At least the cold gives me elevator talk.

I am a very naughty person but I am delighted today that the annoyance I described here has been banned from that blog. Not because of our stupid argument, but because he's a bee in everyone's coke. Apparently.

*shiver*

Reading Shakespeare's Sister I found this link to pictures of scary, horrible creatures of the deep, all apparently found washed up after the big tsunami. I have this bizarre and unfounded phobia (are phobias ever rational? really?) of creepy sea creatures. Oh, also those scary-ass cave creatures with NO EYES. Also centipedes. Eurgh! I remember when I was a kid I was screaming at some nasty crawly thing and my dad was like, "Why do you do that? Why live up to such a stereotype of women and girls?" I think of that every single time I run screaming from the house, begging my dear and patient lady to "deal with that thing oh god that horrible THING". (She always does. She is really top quality.) I don't WANT to be a stereotype, but the centipede MAKES me do it!

Self, you are not helpful

My calendar today has a question mark on it. That's all. Just a question mark. A little note to myself that says, "You are a jackass. Think before you make notations."
It really sets the tone for the day, that little querying mark. All day I will be wondering.
?
?
?
what? did? I? mean?

gah.

heh

Dear Shirky,

Jeepers, I completely forgot about your stint on the tramp steamer---- you should pardon the expression. I might imagine it was your tatoos that first attracted MJ to you at the dockside bar. As your uncle, however, I don't care to think about that.

And I can fix those demon eyes for you in Photoshop. But no amount of retouching can hide the evil in your soul.

----X, D

Borrowed Musuem

Tangential to AmericanFamily's post on clothing, I was thinking on all the arty and not so arty stuff we've accumulated over the years. Lots of it comes from other places or just other cultures.
I love having pretty stuff in the house. I really don't like the look of a bare wall very much. I just don't like the stark euro look, I guess. Plus, when we go places, I love coming back with a big pile o' junk. It extends the trip in a way. Every piece has a story about where it came from and how it came to be here, plus the stories about why it was created in the first place. The longer I stare at the objects, the more detail I notice about them, and the deeper their dimensions become. I also love the common motifs or elements in pieces from totally different cultures. The blue of the Virgin Mary's cloak and the blue of Krishna's skin: maybe they were first represented as blue because the lapis pigment was so dear. I love that artists in such distant corners of the world showed their love for their subject with the same technique--the brother- and sisterhood of artists, connected across time and distance. Or something.
Some pieces I love just for their beauty: our contemporary (but traditional style) bronze Parvati--with luscious curves and saucy gesture.
Some I love for symbolism--the set of tiny pairs of lovers. Some I love for its purpose--I can't play a lick of music, but someone else can, on the cute little charango. Some I love because it's just so funny--the Ecuadorian dog mask that freaks the hell out of our cat. She hates it.

I love the jewelry from Africa because making it gave me awesome fingertips of steel, until I could touch hot coals with my bare hands! Check it, suckas! (I can't do it anymore. ah well.)
So probably I'm an apologist. These pieces, to me, are merely beautiful, useful, or artistic; they may very well have other meanings that I'm ignorant of, and, well, that's the very definition of cultural appropriation, isn't it? I suppose that our tiny collection is representative of American removal of art forms and objects from their proper cultural context.
I think I'm going to have to live with it, though. I really can't bear to not collect things.

Canada in the hood

This morning there was a huge truck parked up on the sidewalk in front of the door. Really, like I had to squeeze by the truck to get off the front porch. It was marked "Gouvernement du Canada/Patrimoine Canadien". I peeked in the back--it was open--and it looked like just an ordinary moving truck, mostly empty.
What could this mean?
--Someone has stolen a Canadian government truck to move house
--Ambassador from Canada is moving into the alley behind my house
--CIA is pretending to be Canada while setting up secret surveillance location in the alley behind my house