Monday, December 27, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
I was looking at the December issue of Vogue the other day, and there was a whole page of thoughtful gift ideas for the people I love, and a couple of the items had "price upon request" in parentheses next to them--like the platinum and diamond whatever-you're-going-to drop-it-down-the-bathroom-drain-one-day-and-you'll-be-screwed. And I was like "eeewwwww."
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
My friend Katherine of Doodoo-vania fame has a blog called I'm Super, Thanks for Asking. It's really funny and you should read it.
Anyway, Katherine's a community college teacher, and the above picture is a little something she drew while she was grading exams, so OF COURSE she scanned it and put it on her blog.
And then after that she ended up finding a bag of hooker wigs outside her house (she didn't actually see the hooker[s] in question unloading the wigs, but has cause to believe they exist in a boarded-up trailer at the end of her street). She posted a photo of the wig bag on Facebook with a note "Come and get you one!" Which gave me the giggles.
Anyway, here's a photo of the hooker wigs because I figured you'd be curious:
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
I'm a little dumbfounded.
34,000 feet above the bless'ed ground, and I'm sitting here in seat 26 C futzing around on The Internets. Will wonders never cease?
So, I've just been in Pennsylvania for a meeting. It is a lovely place. Also, one of my friends named Katherine (I have several) calls it Doodoo-vania. At first I wasn't sure why, but then I went there this week and found out that it's because the weather turns to bullshit around the middle of November and doesn't improve until April. I think the same probably goes for Doodoochusetts and Doodoocticut and Doodoompshire. Anything above the the Mason-Doodooxon Line, actually.
Okay--those jokes? They weren't good. I know that.
Anyway, Bryan has opinions about cold like you find in Doodoo-vania. When we lived in Montana, he kept saying I just needed to relax into the cold, accept it for what it was, pretend like the cold was my big, icy best friend who's really awesome but just has super smelly feet or something. But I never got the hang of it. I understand relaxing into the heat; it's just a matter of closing your mind and pushing through it. But there's something about the kind of cold I felt this week that's just wrong. It was like torture. The cold wanted my soul.
Oh, Christ. We're experiencing turbulence. And I can see the suburbs of Atlanta out this here starboard window.
Sweet, sweet Atlanta. You're so ridiculous and messed up, but so warm! I love that about you.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The nicest thing anyone's ever said to me came from my grandmother, Virginia. A few years ago, I went grocery shopping for her, and when I walked in the kitchen door she came over to give me a hug. In the middle of that hug she said, "I don't love you as much as some of the others, but I miss you the most when you're not around."
Wasn't that sweet? Well, you're going to think it's really nice as soon as I give you some context.
When Virginia got wind of this, she congratulated me heartily, and when I didn't seem all that enthusiastic about an exchange in which a very old man I barely knew acknowledged that the sight of me came just shy of making him want to barf, she scolded me.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,
"And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
And think how bad I've been!"
Alas for pious planning - -
It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom went in that room,
The lamp might have been lit!
My little Sorrow would not weep,
My little Sin would go to sleep --
To save my soul I could not keep
My graceless mind on it!
So I got up in anger,
And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my my hair
To please a passing lad,
And, "One thing there's no getting by --
I've been a wicked girl," said I:
"But if I can't be sorry, why,
I might as well be glad!"
Oh, Edna! So Bohemian and yet so sensible!
Also, this is one of my very favorite poems:
We were very tired, we were very merry–
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable–
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry–
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
So, now you know about that dead woman who was good at stuff.For about three weeks now, I have ONLY been listening to Sharon Van Etten, which is some kind of record for me. I just don't get tired of her. She's preternaturally good at writing songs that sound simple and clean, but then you're like, how the hell did she do that? Anyway, I think she might be a witch.
Now, here's an alive woman who is good at stuff:
She was on NPR's Tiny Desk Concert this week, and I was so pumped about it until I discovered that she brought [REDACTED*] with her to the studio who did nothing but [REDACTED] behind her for 15 minutes. Yeah, that was way harsh, Jesslyn. But you know what? YOU watch it and tell me I don't have a point:
Anyway, I hereby proclaim this Women Who Are/Were Good At Stuff, Even if They're Dead Day!
Do you have anyone you'd like to nominate?
Monday, November 15, 2010
This morning, Bryan and I were driving Odessa to school, listening to a story on the radio about Mark Twain's autobiography. It turns out, Twain dictated the whole thing to an amanuensis from his bed, dressed in an ornate bathrobe, "supported by a bank of snowy pillows." The finished product evidently needed very little editing.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Well, this is a first.
Monday, October 25, 2010
You guys, I have at last discovered the Number One reason to keep writing this blog, which is presents.
Friends, I have received a gift from an anonymous benefactor. You'll remember that in my last post, I mentioned that my hair was looking all bedraggled due to the fact that I ran out of the virgin unicorn spit that I use to make my hair so supernaturally soft and voluminous. And virgin unicorn spit is expensive on account of it being so difficult to harvest. Veeery difficult. (The process is pictured above. They basically have to wring it out of that girl's Pashmina once the unicorn is finished slobbering on her bosom.)
Anyway, imagine my surprise when Bryan called today to let me know I got a package in the mail. And ya'll. Somebody has sent me 3.5 ounces virgin unicorn spit. Anonymously!!
Whoever you are, thank you from the follicles to the tips of my soon-to-be-lustrous mane.
To the rest of you lowlifes: if you appreciate this service, you too can begin compensating me for my time with beauty products.
I expect presents from now on. I am so serious.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Friends, I take up my little white laptop to raise a delicate subject, never before addressed in these hallowed interweb pages. That is the topic of my husband's height.
That's right! Shit just got real.
Here's the deal: I am married to possibly the handsomest man I know. Bryan is gorgeous like what would happen if Johnny Depp and Keanu Reeves from 1995 had a baby. He is also 5'6 and weighs 130 lbs in a soaking wet track suit.
So, yeah. My man is petite, which I don't generally notice except when it makes me feel like a Clydesdale. I am 5'8 before I put socks on in the morning, and my ancestors were Scottish peasants who evidently had Stegosaurus bones. When he was my age, my dad looked like Zeus. He threw lightning bolts at us when we were bad. I'm lucky I made it out of that gene pool as femininely petite as I did.
ANYway, Bryan is short. He very rarely talks about his height, and seems genuinely unconcerned with it. However, when you are a smallish man, it is tough to find clothes that fit, and that is why he wears cutoff jean shorts. Every. Single. Day. And they all basically look like this:
So, when we got married, I was all "You are NOT getting married in cutoffs." And Bryan was all "But whyyyyyyyyyy?" And then I put the hammer down and made him go look for a suit with his sister Abby.
Now, to be fair, I had no idea how difficult this would be. I know Bryan hates to shop for anything, including groceries. But I thought he would have more fun with Abby than he would with me, plus I was like "How hard could it be to find a suit? There are like 800 stores in Atlanta--at least one of them has a stylish and flattering suit for my husband to get married in." Well, it turns out I'm wrong sometimes.
I sent them on their way at around 10 AM on a Sunday morning and got a call from Abby around 4 telling me to come over to the Jos. A Banks near Phipp's Plaza because Bryan was about to buy something. So, I went over there. I walked in the door. I looked around and couldn't find Bryan. It turned out it was because he had been swallowed by pile of charcoal herringbone wool.
I will not emasculate my husband with a description of what he looked like in this suit, but I'll just say it was too big for him. Abby was understandably frazzled and Bryan looked like he might have the capability to shoot weapons-grade lasers from his pupils. They had not had a good time. Bryan literally had his credit card out and was handing it to the man at the counter when I stayed his hand. This was a delicate moment in my relationship with Bryan's family because they were all there, were all encouraging him by telling him how dashing he looked. Plus Abby had spent the whole day engaged in a futile search with her grumpy brother. And I was like "Ya'll, he looks like a 9-year-old Bible salesman. We can find something better."
Abby and Bryan refused to ride in the same car with me on the way home. Bryan forgave me that day, but I think it took Abby a couple of weeks.
So, I did a bit of light Googling that evening and found out that while there are over 100,000 Big and Tall men's clothing stores in America, only a handful of stores in the country are dedicated to dressing short men. I found the number for one of them in Beverly Hills, and called it.
A woman who didn't speak super duper good English answered the phone "Jimmy Au's." I just launched into my story like I was calling a suicide hotline. I told the woman about the whole day, that I was frustrated, that my fiancee was short and needed a suit for our wedding, and I couldn't accept the fact that he had to look ridiculous in order to look nice.
"I think you need to talk to Jimmy," the woman said. For a couple of minutes, all I heard was a muffled conversation in Chinese, and the next voice I heard was an older Chinese gentleman who sounded like a chorus of angels.
"Thank God you find me," he said.
Thank God indeed. All he needed to know what Bryan's height and weight.
"Okay Okay, I send you suit." he said.
"Um, are you sure? Do you want me to measure him or anything?"
Jimmy Au laughed. "No, no. I just send you suit and shirt. Tom Cruise come here and buy suit for Oscar. I send you nice Tom Cruise suit."
And you guys, a few days later we got the most exquisite, stylish wool suit in the mail. It fit Bryan perfectly.
In conclusion, today my friend Ben who works in my office came in with a magazine clipping for me. Ben loves Jimmy Au and the and very nearly peed himself with glee when he found THIS ARTICLE in the Fashion Week issue of The New Yorker.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
So, I almost die laughing every October when I reread this here mini essay from McSweeny's. I don't know who the guy is who wrote it or why it tickles me so, but it does. I wanted to share it with those of you who are man enough to take it (oh yes--and even you may want to have your smelling salts at hand). Because it's fall outside, you guys, and it makes me want to decorate some shit with gourds!
IT'S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFUCKERS.
BY COLIN NISSAN
I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.
I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I'm going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, "Aren't those gourds straining your neck?" And I'm just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, "It's fall, fuckfaces. You're either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you're not."
Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff'rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn't it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they're both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that's upsetting, but I'm not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.
Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well then you're going to fucking love my house. Just look where you're walking or you'll get KO'd by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you're going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.
For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.
Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
- Adirondack Chairs
- ambient music (I don't care if it IS Brian Eno)
- liver (I can still taste it)
- short stories in The New Yorker
- this advertisement**:
- when people call their car or truck their "vehicle," as in "I left my mobile phone out in my vehicle."
- flimsy handshakes
- men with Australian accents
- this book Odessa has called Guess How Much I Love You
- horror movies
- the fact that my calves are too big for tall boots
- the nap you take after Thanksgiving dinner that results in groggy-bubbly gut.
- folding and putting away clothes/doing dishes/vacuuming/"tidying"
- those chocolate oranges you get in your Christmas stocking
- when you're minding your own business and all of a sudden you're informed that it will be necessary to roll play.
- Thunder Pants, which are those little bloomers that come with every single baby dress you buy, but which just end up piled in the corner of the drawer and never worn.
- things that are monogrammed in general, but particularly in this font:
- being woken up, particularly in the morning
- most white foods that are also gelatinous (ie. mayonnaise, sour cream, tapioca pudding, etc.)
- Peter Frampton
Monday, October 4, 2010
But anyway, I wanted to thank you guys for reading my wordy words this past year. You are delightful like a cute little baby that I birthed myself. If I have enough chutzpah to keep it up another year, how sweet the victory will be!
Yours in flagrant exhibitionism,
Friday, September 24, 2010
Hold the phones!
You know what I just realized, you guys? This is the 100th time I've ever written an Open Letter to The Internet via this blog. Yes'siree--my 100th post. And it only took me an entire year to do it!
My accomplishments, they are blinding in their celestial radiance!
Anyway, I've been thinking about the idea of celestial radiance lately because mine is obviously so distracting; and so I've been listening to Neutral Milk Hotel because to me, nothing is so awesome as In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. And I mean "awesome" in the Biblical sense. It's like you can hear God's voice in their tubas. And then God singing harmony with Himself in their musical saw.
Now, I understand NMH is not everyone's Thing. It's probably exactly the opposite of 62% of my readership's Thing. But that aside, I'd like to say that my goal is to create just one thing in my lifetime that's as purely inspired and good-at-what-it-does as In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. If I were going to paint a painting, I'd want it to be that good. If I were going to write a novel, I would want it to be that good. If I were going to sing a song, I'd want it to be that good. It may happen, and it may not. I'll keep you posted.
So, speaking from this great height--having stuck with writing this silly blog for a whole year--I can see that perhaps my collected works are not quite as good as Aeroplane. Therefore, I will keep practicing.
But it makes me wonder: what do other people think is celestially radiant and biblically awesome? If you were ever going to do something that's so good that it couldn't be changed even one tiny hair's breadth without being sullied, what would it be as good as?
I won't be offended if it's not this:
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
When I was a little kid, I was infatuated with cavemen. I really wanted to understand what made them tick.
Unfortunately, my mom was a flagrant perpetuator of misinformation concerning the caveman lifestyle. Here's an example of a conversation I would have with my mom regarding cavemen and their habits:
Me: Mama, in caveman days, what did they use for toothbrushes?
Mom: They used sticks.
Me: Huh. Well, what did the cavemen use for a colander when they needed to strain their spaghetti?
Mom: Well, I'm pretty sure they would make one out of sticks.
Me: Oh. Well, what did cavemen use for dollies?
Mom: Well, they probably wrapped a stick in a piece of sabre-toothed tiger fur, and used that as a dolly.
You get the point.
So today I have about 60 gajillion chigger bites with a little poison ivy thrown in for good measure that I got bushwhacking through the woods this weekend like a jackass. At one point I found an entire TREE of poison ivy which I briefly mistook for a box elder until I realized it was covered in evil poison fur. Anyway, my malady has again made me think about being a caveman because they probably spent most of their time scratching the chigger bites under their sabre-tooth tiger loincloths. And what did cavemen do for Hydrocortisone cream?
They used sticks.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Anyway, around the same time, I was in the locker room changing for gym, and these two girls wearing button fly Levis and embroidered vests were talking about a new TV show that was the greatest thing evaaaaaar. And so began the reign of Beverly Hills, 90210. May it ever serve as a reminder that the gold standard for beauty and fashion is constantly shifting, so getting that tattoo/boob job is a definitely bad idea. Also, never lose your virginity at prom or leave your boyfriend alone with your best friend while you spend the summer in Minnesota. Take it from Brenda. (Update: I've been corrected. Brenda went to France for the summer).
Happy September 2, 2010, ya'll.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Life has been tough for my little Poodle Pop the past couple of weeks:
1. I went away and left her breast-milk-less for a week, and have been very withholding since I got back. She is pissed and doesn't understand why her private property, to which she has a God-given right to protect with force (if necessary), is being confiscated and used for what? Nothing! My boobs are basically just like the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. If she grows up Libertarian, I have no one but myself to blame.
2. She is growing some monster chompers.
3. She has super runny and stinky poops. I blame the monster chompers for that one.
4. While I was gone, there was a house guest situation which I suspect was the origin of a pandemic so destructive that it resulted in every single person I know nearly dying, as Virginia says (Bryan had to go to Urgent Care, and he never gets sick). Now Odessa not only has some new monster chompers and runny poops, but also the wheezy sniffles.
5. She started school yesterday. I know, I know--she's only 17 months old, so how could she be old enough for school? Well, Bryan is literally... okay, scratch that. Bryan is figuratively never going to graduate from college if he keeps taking care of Odessa instead of working on his school crap. SO, Odessa is going to a little Montessori school down the street from our house. And even though she went to daycare this spring (that was all day, every day), and this is only half a day, three days a week, I kind of cried a little in my kerchief after I dropped her off.
Because, ya'll, she's the littlest kid in her whole class and all the other kids were running and talking in complete sentences and basically spazzing out (I heard the 90's were back), and she just stood there in the middle of the room with this look on her face that bespoke, "Holy Shit." And that girl has admittedly had a tough couple of weeks, and it's incredible that she's still so sweet and trusting, and that she can still laugh at my elephant impersonation after all this weening and teething and pooping and force-feeding, not to mention the abandonment. Oh! The abandonment!
But like my dad says, "Life ain't no ride on no pink duck." And if it were, that would be kind of weird.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Have you noticed what an attentive girlfriend I was to you in the month of July? I basically massaged your shoulders and cooked you romantic candlelit dinners that involved more than 3 ingredients. I asked you to explain the difference between a rebound and an assist, and as you spoke, I gazed earnestly into your eyes, nodding and murmuring with dawning comprehension as you discussed LeBron James' offensive strategy.
And then August came, and I went off to Louisville with my girlfriends and ended up kind of making out with a bartender named Bruce which didn't really count because I was drunk, etc, but I understand why you're mad because of the principle of the thing.
Anyway, sweet reader, we will work this out--we will again experience a Renaissance of Our Love. But in the meantime, work with me. Let me catch you up.
So, in August, here's what's been going down:
1. I went to Door County, Wisconsin to the wedding of my friends Kiki and Matt. Seriously, that place is unnaturally beautiful, plus I got to spend a lot of time with a bunch of friends I don't ever get to see. I drove up there (17 HOURS, ya'll!) with my friends Alex and Generameeks Queeks, and that was pretty much the best because we sang along with Bob Dylan albums and made up top 3 lists of crap we didn't know anything about (example: Top 3 Badasses of All Time: 1. Nikola Tesla 2. Marie Curie 3. The Honey Badger).
2. I weened Odessa off the boob while I was in Wisconsin. I know I said I was trying to do this 3 months ago, but I just got around to it. And woo-boy, is she pissed.
3. So, Bryan is in Mississippi doing stuff to defenseless little birds and I am working all day, so my dad and Janice are looking after Odessa. Only, here's the thing: Odessa is insane with teething rage. She's been refusing all sustenance and basically acting like a Honey Badger on PCP. And Dad and Janice are taking it with complete equanimity. Janice is a total Baby Wrangler--she's like Mary Poppins, and I'm not talking about the Disney Mary Poppins, but the one in the books who doesn't stand for any nonsense. I got a text message from her this morning that said something like "I have cornered and subdued the Barbarian. It is currently gnawing the flesh off the femur of her fallen adversary."
4. So, last night I had a whole bunch of free time on my hands since Bryan was gone and Odessa was acting like a total Balrog on someone else's watch. And so I went OUT TO DINNER WITH SOME FRIENDS AND THEN WENT TO A BAR! WHERE PEOPLE DRINK ALCOHOL! And because I'm a wet blanket prohibitionist teetotaler, I just drank bubble water, but listen to this: I talked to people and laughed at stuff. Oh, it was sweet.
And then, if that wasn't enough, I came home, went to bed at midnight and this morning, woke up at EIGHT FREAKIN' O'CLOCK and just lay there staring at the ceiling until about 8:50, when I got up and went to work. It was miraculous. But you know what? I still missed my family, even though one of them is a savage beast.
PS. I know my mom is going to worry that I actually made out with a bartender named Bruce in Louisville. I did not.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
About twice a year, I get this extraordinarily glossy magazine full of attractive teenagers cavorting around desk sets, and I take it out of the mail box and am all "Oh! The new Pottery Barn Teen has arrived!" But then I take a closer look and discover, no. It's the alumni magazine from my old school. And that's when I think to myself, "Why the crap are they sending me this?"