Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Score one for the Gipper. I have to believe that this is an action figure reenactment of said scene because I don't remember special fx being that bad before CGI. But still. This is what the sheets are like, being birthed from a very large animal, only soft and not so plastic-y. **After further research I have found that The Empire Strikes Back creature was called a TaunTaun and was sold with an "open belly rescue feature." I totally think The Company Store should change the name of those sheets from Microfiber Fleece Sheet Set to the TaunTaun Set with Open Belly Rescue Microfiber Fleece Feature! And then the product description on the packaging could read "because sheet happens." Why the fuck am I still unemployed, people??!!!
Monday, December 29, 2008
At the very least I do get to officially add mad Photoshop skillzzz to my resume. Perhaps I will add the above image to my portfolio. (Hey, it was either this Madonna pic or the one of her hitchhiking naked from her Sex book. I do have some filters. Which I should probably also highlight in my resume. Yes, under Skills: Contrary to popular opinion, does not actually say everything that enters my mind. Vagina, fartlocker, Renee Zellweger. Believe me--what I thought of was eons worse.) Hire me.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
And in honor of zebra striped jeans with zippers up each ankle, I give you Band-Aid:
Mistletoe kisses and figgy pudding dreams,
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Zoey and the wonder of it all, 2007.
Zoey and the wonder of it all, 2008. From my home to yours, may your holidays be filled with warmth, love, family and friends. Peace,
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
First off we have a festive holiday TANGBO card from Wrongcards.com. I love it when a card says everything I've always wanted to say and all I have to do is sign my name.
I've been thinking about making it a tradition to give Zoey a cozy pair of pjs every Christmas eve, hence next up we have traditional pajamas for the kidlets in your life: Armor of God PJs. Makes me feel like a heathen as the jammies I bought my daughter feature pink polka-dots and not, say, satin crosses touting Chastity and Salvation. Oh well Ephesians 6:10-18, there's always next year!
I also seem to have missed the boat on this one, a kids tattoo parlor. Never fear, Child Protective Services. I did manage to get her the sanitized body piercing kit, Prince Albert Special Holiday Edition.
This I just want for my very own. Seriously. Come on, TANGBO, kick it down! A knit dissection frog. Now why didn't I think of that?
Friday, December 19, 2008
2. This sentiment (and knowing that despite it all? It's so very, very true).
3. The Beckoning of Lovely that I saw via Richie Design last week. Broke my heart with its simplicity, a video that pretty much echoes the above sentiment. Must watch if you are in a funk.
4. Real-life glass Cinderella slippers, even if fairy tales are unwearable.
5. This. Knowing that in Bryan and Zoey, I already have my happy ending (and today is just the beginning).
Why, yes! That's me! And yeah, sure, that's my petunia faced girl, Zoey, in the stroller. But before you ask: no, my crotch is not for sale. Nor is Zoey or even the baby there on the bottom left. However, you can buy the diaper pad. You can and you should and you will. Why? Because my über-talented designer friend Ana started Cucuyo based on her own needs as a mother, and because the products rock. And because I said so. Plus, if you enter the code JOY at checkout between now and January 31, 2009 you'll receive 20% off. And because Cucuyo is fun to say. That there is a lot of reasons. Now go, skedaddle. Cucuyo.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Two years ago I went around the world in eight days: Hong Kong, China, Thailand, India, Germany and then home. It was a work trip but I had the pleasure of going with two colleagues that just so happened to be friends. And if we weren't friends to begin with then surely we would have been after those travels.
There is a lot about that trip that I only remember if I really think about it. The sharp sweet of a mangosteen. $18 cocktails in Hong Kong. Haggling over fake bags in China, and how the leather later dripped red dye in the rain. But what I will never forget is India, how the beauty of that country seemed to be so inextricably tangled with the pain.These women were on a pilgrimage to the Ganges to bathe in the river for some sort of holy day. We saw them while driving from Delhi to Moradabad, a trip that should've taken 2.5 hours but instead took almost ten because of the holy festival among other Indian foibles. Our Indian agent, Anuj, called the day auspicious, a word that I have never really heard used here. I wonder why.
But the people--the women were stunning in their pink and saffron saris, the men with their dark eyes, the families piled onto one scooter holding babies and grandparents as if they were simply bundles of cloth. And even when the trucks were driving straight at us with no intent of moving out of our way, we could not help but notice how pretty they were--big industrial toxic-breathed monsters decorated like marzipan princess cakes.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Anyhole... oh, but how I digress. If, like me, you're looking for ways to cut costs this Christmas season may I suggest Face Hole? Officially known as FaceinHole, this site is like those cardboard cutouts you see at tourist spots and boardwalks, except you don't have to pay $20 to look like Don Johnson wearing a white blazer in Miami Vice. Nor do you have to feel like an ass as you pose behind Crocket and Tubbs while onlookers walk by and snicker behind their churros. No, this site lets you be an ass in your own home! (Unfortunately, churros not included.)
I am actually going so far as to not even print these out to send them to friends and family. Because this Holiday season it's email all the way! www.hohoho... I figure not only does it save me some cash, but it also saves a few trees, right? (I'm not cheap, just environmentally friendly.)
So consider this my Christmas card to you. Now go have some fun with your own Face Hole.
The Petunia Faced Family
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Don't worry--I will make sure to sit on a clean towel because Lord knows what lives in the nap of that fur. Do check out the Silver Fox, though. Imagine the stories he can tell! (In all truth Zoey and I are going to the library for storytime. And then home for a nap and cookies. Doesn't mean a girl can't dream.) Image from here: Actor Curt Jurgens (2R) w. wife (2L) and two female companions lathering up in a bathtub he had built in his den. 1972. Otherwise known as the year I was born.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
A job? A pony? Come sit on her lap and tell Santa what you want for Christmas. Ho Ho Ho and a bottle of rum, or something like that.
With Love from Susannah and Zoey
Thursday, December 11, 2008
This past summer Bryan cleared out a thicket of brush from the front of our house to plant some palm trees and agave. I don't think either one of us knew what a big undertaking it would be. Halfway through the project we ran out of money, so now there is a flat bald spot flanking our driveway dotted with a few yellowing Mexican Fan Palms. We soon found out that the brush had been home to a gaggle of neighborhood deer. Or a flock. A den, a family, however deer congregate, the thicket had been their home. In the mornings now we come out to find them clustered together sleeping on our flax bushes, exposed and covered with dew. And every morning Bryan runs at them waving his arms and stomping his feet, hissing SPSSSSSPSS! He hates the deer. They ate our Potato Vine, he says when I argue for their cuteness. The deer rise slowly, turn to look at Bryan as if to say don't be such a dick, and then they clatter down the driveway, I don't know where to.
Second image: Rupert, RIP
Third image: here
Last image: my deck
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
I wrote my first book at the age of six. Titled "There's No Land Like Maryland," it was the tale of two male ghosts who lived together. In hindsight, they might have been lovers, influenced by the brightly colored capers of Bert and Ernie on Sesame Street. But mainly the book was my own way of working out any disbelief I had that there was an actual state called Maryland. I don't know why this fascinated me so. In my memory, the book was an opus, hundreds of pages the result of me swinging my legs from the kitchen table, writing. In reality it was probably no more than five pages, the result of an afternoon waiting for my mother to get off the phone. The original manuscript has never been found.
Later I wanted to be a runner. My dad was a runner which meant he changed into his silky 70's shorts in the afternoon, tucked his hair beneath a red bandana and disappeared for an hour or so. Carefully I drew a picture of my own sneakers, the ones with the rainbow stripes on the side, and I wrote above it "Susannah Clay Jenkins, Runner," and I hung the sign on my bedroom door next to the ceramic plaque that read "Penny," a remnant of my infatuation with "The Rescuers." I had never run anywhere without fair warning but I thought it sounded like an interesting enough job though I never was sure of the pay scale. In high school I witnessed the rise of The Supermodel, though I was far too pragmatic to think I could ever do that. Instead I watched Cindy Crawford on "House of Style" every day after class and sketched bad Nagel knock-offs, girls with pouting lips and piercing cocaine-addled eyes. I was going to move to New York and be a fashion designer. I practiced my signature and mouthed the words to George Michael's "Freedom" while driving my Volkwagen Cabriolet, something I am sure a young Isaac Mizrahi did in whatever corn-fed state he grew up in.
I am not sure why it is that by this time in my life David Letterman has not had me on his show. At least for stupid pet tricks. You'd think that I'd have been able to get Nacho to fetch me my slippers by now, but no. My feet are still cold. I have never lived in a foreign country. I speak French poorly and only when drunk. The strangest thing I have ever eaten were turkey nuts, though they were so deep fried that for all I know I was eating deep fried lint from behind the ice machine in the restaurant kitchen. My life, as of now, is ordinary. Some say that there is no such thing as success or failure, there is just living your life. I am not so sure. I would argue that success is finding the glamour in your life regardless of what you're doing: watching Zoey ring her lips 1001 times over with my cherry flavored Chapstick, tossing my head back and laughing when she does, running because I have rainbows on my feet. I have never told anyone this last story because I was afraid I would get in trouble, but when I was around eight years old Jason Doolen told me I could not fit a hard boiled egg in my mouth and so I went home intent on proving him wrong. We were out of eggs so I placed a Weeble Wobble in my mouth and swallowed. I gagged. For a full minute I could not breathe and I sank to my knees saddened by the knowledge that my mother would find me dead by Weeble Wobble. But somehow it finally worked its way down my throat and I felt vindicated. See! See Jason Doolen! I can swallow an egg whole! And to this day I still have that Weeble Wobble in my stomach because I don't remember it coming out, surely I would have noticed. I think of this sometimes, the Weeble Wobble and where it went, what it's doing in there, trying to remember which character I swallowed. Was it the postman? The cowboy? A baby? And is it true that it never ever, not even once, falls down?
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
I feel your pain.
The bullet traveled down my thigh, severed the femoral artery and lodged behind my knee. There was no pain that I can remember and bleeding to death was really quite peaceful …. until they saved my life at the hospital. …. Hours later, they took out the .45 caliber bullet …. So, what’s the problem? …. No big deal …. No pain and PLENTY of morphine …. until plenty was NOT ENOUGH as a red dragon of pain moved in.
The bullet had created a channel from my upper thigh to the back of my knee. The surgeon, a sweetly sinister Peter Lorrie, did not want the wound to scab over creating the opportunity for infection and rot from the inside. He wanted the wound to heal from the inside out. Therein lies a metaphor, I suppose.
Every other day, Peter Lorrie would open the wound on my thigh. Attaching a cotton swabbed with ointment on the end of a long steel rod, Peter Lorrie would run the steel rod and swab down the channel inside my thigh to the back of my knee. …. For a fact, this caught my complete and undivided attention. An electric searing, white-out explosion of pain collapsing The Universe and imploding The Self into NOTHING BUT PAIN. In my personal pantheon of hellacious physical hurt, I give it a 9, easy.
Okay, I know or so I hear from mothers, “You want pain, Bubba? Try having a baby.” No question about it. I can’t know, although I think we might agree that your pain is your pain, your very own that no-one can measure or feel for you.
So, what else you got. Share the pain. One of your top 10 physical hurts. Emotional pain? Oye- yoi-yoi, way too large and deep. I’m afraid to go near. Not now. Sometime later maybe.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Music heard in the background provided by Enzo Garcia, Zoey's very own Davey Jones of a crush and the best kid's music we have found. It doesn't hurt that we see him live every week.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
6 years ago: Another job, another company, this time with good friends. Every day we would eat lunch together and talk fast and dirty. I laughed a lot. Bryan and I moved to the city.
2 years ago: I was eight months into the tightrope balancing Zoey and Bryan, friends, free time, work and bills. Everything had shifted but I had not yet realized that it is best to tiptoe barefoot lest you fall and drop your basket.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
I got off the phone and stared into my closet. I am such an asshole. Seriously. What nitwit lies about her skills and then is handed a test? Me, that's who. I had not made my bed but still I would have to lie in it. Or is it lay? I can never quite remember, but the point is: I was fucked. And here is where the details get even fuzzier. I tried to teach the programs to myself. I cried. Bryan tried to teach me. He cried. Then it was Thanksgiving and across these great United States turkeys everywhere cried. On Friday I finally called the first listing I found on Craigslist for a computer tutor. I told him that I had to learn Photoshop and Illustrator in two days for a test for a job for which I am apparently unqualified. And then he cried. It might have been for me, maybe, I don't know, but he cried. I had my interview and test today. I went into it with the simple hope that I wouldn't make a complete fool of myself. That the recruiter wouldn't kick me out, hucking a red Sharpie at my back as I scampered away sniveling. But here's the thing: I did okay. Better than okay even. I scored a 66 out of 70. When the recruiter showed me my test results I started laughing. In hindsight perhaps this was not the preferred reaction, but there you go. I did it. Will I get this job? I'd be surprised if I do, but then again--life seems to be full of surprises. As for now, well, I'm taking off my clothes now and getting back in bed to nap while visions of vectors dance in my head.
Monday, December 1, 2008
With love on a Monday morning,