Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Because I Would Rather Drink a Congealed Gravy Boat That Had Been Left Out Over-Night Than Set Foot in a Store Today
On the off-chance that you might not be as excited to open a gift of tighty-whities, I have discovered something so magical, so perfect, so gimme gimme disgusting and pre-Lehman Brothers No Good Very Bad Economic Meltdown that I simply must share it with you: The Universal Wish List Button. Basically it's a link that you save to your favorites and when you see something you want online you click it and it automatically-quite-possibly-with-the-help-of-the-Devil-himself puts that item onto your Amazon wishlist. Apparently, you can put anything on there because I tried: a tropical island in Belize, a house, a car, tight tummy--natch. Gimme gimme at its finest. Here is mine should you feel so inclined, though truth be told I also need me some new skivvies.
Happy Black Friday.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
I don't like the pecans in pecan pie. (Why can't it just be a pie with carmelized brown gooey stuff?)
Green beans and peas--two thumbs down.
Gravy is gross.
I wish someone would make stuffing without any mushrooms.
I merely tolerate mashed potatoes; I fill up on dinner rolls.
And yet this year I am thankful for it all, for my family big and small, my friends. For my job and autumn leaves, giraffe socks, words like chickpea and saucy, lassitude, inky, thistle and frock. I am thankful for nutella and The Real Housewives of Everywhere, the smell of privet, tangerines, naked ladies (the flowering bulb), the sounds of tennis, Blackbird, for humor, for you. Thank you Great Big World of the Absurd and Beyond, how I do love you. (I am also exceedingly thankful the following has not yet happened to me:
Happy Happy Everyone.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I mean, seriously. There I go all we need to take some time apart, let's slow things down, it's not you it's me, but then I see videos like this and all I can do is think of you. After all, what fun are silicone breasts on a man techno dancing while chanting something in German/Russian/possibly Portuguese if we cannot share it together? So sit. Hold my hand. Let's sip this same soda from two straws. Tell me: what language is he speaking and the bigger quesion of WTF?
Monday, November 23, 2009
I will not be posting every day anymore. More like 3 days a week, I think. No less. Certainly no less. I mean, you won't think less of me will you? You'll still visit, read? Comment? After all, if Tom Waits is right, then maybe my posts will be better this way. And let's be honest--when has Tom Waits ever been wrong? Never, I tell you, never, which is good because there are odd raisins in my car stuck like pebbles across the floorboards.
Image & image.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Which is why I love Zoey's school picture--her first. Good old dorky school pictures, soft focus frizz, just check out those hands! Clasped, all with an envelope and an order form for mom. This girl could sell me juice boxes, insurance, Ranger Rick magazines, for some reason a membership to AARP. This girl makes me feel happy, even if it is a cliche. Happy Friday.
S & Z
Thursday, November 19, 2009
I guess I forgot what brought me here. Should I post a funny photo? A story? Something slow and dense and yeah, like this? Are we out of milk? Should I post at all? Yesterday I got a traffic ticket for $380, last night Bryan and I were mean to each other. My skin is dry and I wonder if it wouldn't be better to be like our old cat Wanda who peed on the carpet.
But that's not it really. Close, but not quite.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Because Inside of Me Lives a 12 Yr. Old Boy, His Ambition to Become Dungeon Master Vying with His Desire to Spend More Alone Time in the Bathroom.
(I mean, this is verging on racist black face here, right?) The make up/make out must be full-on grinding, or as the kids say, macking. Or maybe the kids only said that ten years ago like on Degrassi High, or something. I don't know. The point is your faces are mashed together, tongues down each other's throat, humdidah humdidah for the 81 minutes it takes you to watch From Justin to Kelly out of the corner of your eye. And the whole time the guy is sporting this jacket:
Or would you rather work as a professional animal masturbator for one year.
It's important to know where you stand on such issues as you never know when someone might present you with option 1 or b.) forcing you to choose AND YOU HAVE TO DO IT JUST BECAUSE, OKAY?
Just because it's Wednesday. Happy Hump Day. (I'm going with 365 hand jobs because one time at the DMV after I failed the eye exam I was given this plastic view-master thing that was smeared thick with stranger sebum and before I had a chance to object the DMV lady pushed it to my face and asked me what I saw but I only heard and it was a noise like ssck and to this day my license reads "Restricted: Corrective Lenses.") You?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
It only took the guy a half hour to get to our high school but he was not in the car but another car: an El Camino. The car's in Petaluma, he said, so we climbed in even though Petaluma was an hour away and let the guy drive us.
He took the backroads. I sat in the middle of the bench seat and for some reason the guy was talking about Hitler. Lampshades made of skin. Trucks and Nazis, engines, or maybe it was ingenuity. I dug the fingernails of my right hand into Bryan's thigh as we sped around curves and hills and into valleys. Nobody knows where we are, I thought, or I think I thought. Surely I must have thought that? In the car of a man whose phone number was only on a slip of paper in Bryan's pocket? Mostly I thought about how I hated what I was wearing and how gross the man was in the way that all adult men are gross to teenage girls.
Monday, November 16, 2009
I had some good ideas this weekend, courtesy of a fever. Like this one: I want to create a font. Well, I suppose it's not a font so much as it is a type of software or something. I don't know, I plan on hiring some IT people, okay? Anyhoo, this thing would translate your written words into sick speak. So if you were sick and needed to email your boss you could write I don't think I'm coming to work today as I don't feel well and with the push of a button it would be translated into I don' thingk I'm cominkg to work today as I don' peel well. With this font/software/thingie your boss would fully grasp the gravity of your sickuation, thus feeling more sorry for you, which, as everyone knows, is paramount when one is sick. Imagine the possibilities!
But then I got paranoid about posting my idea--what if somebody steals it, I thought. Is it enough to have a time/date stamp on the post? Would that hold up in court? I mean, I don't think it would because you can always pre-date a posting. So then I took another Tylenol Cold and Flu and slept for fourteen hours wherein I dreamed the geniosity of inventing sliced bread. That's right--I invented sliced bread this weekend! All I needed to do was write a post about the idea and date it July 6th, 1928, the day before sliced bread was actually invented. And so I did. Then I invented the Cotton Gin on March 13, 1794, and on September 17, 1919 I invented pasties. For strippers, not the Cornish.
So yes, I had the flu this weekend. Still do, in fact. Can you tell? (A hoot, I tell you, an absolute hoot is what it is.) And you--what did you do this weekend?
Friday, November 13, 2009
But I don't smoke, of course. Or sit on ledges; I rarely wear a bathing suit outside of a swimming pool. In short, I am careful.
When I pick her up from preschool she is playing on the slide with the Pre-K boys. That's what she calls them, like the Lost Boys or the Boys of Summer, boys in a pack and all the more cool for it. The tallest one slides down head-first and says something that I don't understand and they laugh, crazed, the Pre-K boys and my Zoey. Later when I ask her what he said, what was so funny, she says she doesn't know, didn't know, or maybe she just forgot. The way she pulls at her string cheese like a harpist, she is the prettiest thing in the world and I want to jump, really I do. Instead I pull her back and eat my string cheese in bites.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
But that is all in the past, some of those realities since cancelled, the rest waiting in our queue like costumes. Now we are watching Season One of In Treatment and at night Bryan turns to me and asks wanna' go to therapy? I nod my head yes, yes, of course, we need this, Laura who only breathes out of her mouth, Alex, thin Sophie, god how we hate Jake and Amy. Why are they even together? Our hands meet in the bowl of popcorn; together we rumble GAIIIIINA when Dianne Wiest comes onscreen.
In the day I wonder why we do that. What does it mean? Pronouncing Gina Gaina, ceci n'est pas une pipe, all the world never just a cigar from a couch with its own waiting room. When Bryan calls to tell me he's running late he follows with and how does that make you feel? This man who I usually think of as my silent Indian.
When I consult our family physician, Dr. Www, I am assured that it's common, exaggerated blinking in toddlers. A transient tic (or a brain tumor, good thing Six Feet Under is four years gone). Not to worry. When I tell my mother she reminds me that I stuttered as a child. I remind her that I grew up to be a woman with severe anxiety.And so we try not to notice. (And how does that make you feel?) Today at the park my friend told me that her husband thinks I am creating a mini-me. Does that mean he thinks I wear leopard ears in public and only pink? I asked, and we laughed. But the thing is I already created it, her. It's a wrap, and I am left to study her until my eyes go dry thinking of articles I have read in waiting rooms.
Images found here.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
And then this, which makes me want to throw myself down on the sidewalk there to get in on that cuddle.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
(As Bryan was walking by just now I showed him this pic and told him my plan. Tcch, yeah, right, he said, and kept on walking, so now I totally have to write a book, get it published, feather my hair and find gold boots just to show him up. Oh, also because I want to write a book.)
Any publishers out there? This is golden people. Seriously, *I will do it--let's make this happen.
*Unless, of course, the publisher doesn't want me to. I mean, this isn't a deal-breaker. I can gaze at the camera in academic earnest, too.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Of course because of this awesome photo I am thisclose to comparing myself to the biblical Job, something about my faith being tested maybe, but let's be real. I had to Wikipedia "The Book of Job" because I have never actually read the Bible even though I was an English major and everything right down to Dr. Suess can be analyzed as a Jesus myth. (One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish anyone?) No, in that respect I am illiterate, and when Wikipedia started referencing Ezekial my mind closed up as if all that smiting was a vitamin it could not swallow even lengthwise.
Anyhoo. Yes. A job. And I am happy. I bought a sweater the other day, these jeans. Two baby shower presents. The duvet on our bed has a hole in it and every night I find myself chasing tiny white goose-down feathers into the corners of our hardwood floor, (like thoughts, they float away); I really want to buy a new duvet. Still. There are some things that once seen cannot ever be unseen: dead bodies, tub girl, this. And I would very much like to never un-see this last year when my world seemed narrowed down to what was real: food, shelter. Family. I hope I never forget what is important, even though Starbucks has brought out those happy seasonal red cups yet again. Job! I knew it: God is testing me with eggnog chai.
So here's the thing: my new job. It's writing. And it's perfect. They know about my blog but have asked that I never mention work. So this is it. You have all followed me through this Year of Living Employmentlessly so I wanted to let you know that I am now okay. Better than, but that is all I can say which makes it sound as if I am writing for the CIA so let's just go with that--I wear oversized dark glasses, a trench coat and I write. I am happy.
I guess I just want to thank you all for being there for me this past year, you in your swivel chair slouching. Reading, lurking, anonymous, and not--you have all helped me more than you can ever know, mostly without even really knowing me. Of course I will still be here blogging, but I can't help but feel this is a tipping point, that I am moving from one equilibrium to the next, a tomorrow qualitatively dissimilar from yesterday (but hopefully more stable). And yes, I totally Wikipedia'ed "Tipping Point (physics)" for that. So thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
'Til tomorrow then.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
All this to say that I am not posting today, which, yeah. It's like when someone asks if they can ask you a question? And you kinda' want to bitch slap them while wearing a large purple costume jewelry cocktail ring? Like that.
The good news is I am fairly certain I can make a bomb with the contents of my fridge.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
This is how I blog. In fact, c'est moi.
I mean, if I had the money? And a hole where my sink should be? I would totally install this bitchin' ammonite number, maybe commission a toilet to match, though let's not get started on what toothpaste would do to the finish, much less something other. And things like this? Make me giggle. Was that intentional, you think? Or simply a joke told by the setting sun? He's a funny one, that fiery orb.
These guys. Truth be told I cannot name one Motorhead song. I despise rugby shirts and suspect the guy on the left would pronounce my name SusAHHnah no matter how many times I corrected him. Still, they look like a fun bunch, don't they? I would totally hang out with them. But this? This blurb from News of the Weird?
A male Swedish college student, Ragnar Bengtsson, 26, has begun pumping his breasts at three-hour intervals in a 90-day experiment to see if he can produce milk. If he succeeds, he said, it could prove “very important for men’s ability to get much closer to their children at an early stage.”
A professor of endocrinology told the daily Aftonbladet that male lactation without hormone treatment might produce “a drop or two,” but suggested that men instead consider offering their breasts to babies as a matter of comfort and warmth, rather than as food.
Bengtsson, who will report regularly on his progress via Stockholm’s TV8 channel and the station’s Web site, acknowledged that his timetable would sometimes require that he pump during classes.
Happy Hump Day, people.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
No White Shoes After Labor Day, No Horizontal Stripes. If You Lived Through a Fad the First Time Around, Pass Up Any and All Resurrections.
Monday, November 2, 2009
My first memory of Halloween is standing outside my house while my dad took my photo. I was dressed as a ballerina and only noticed years later that my shoes were on the wrong feet. I wish I could find that picture now but in all honesty I don't really need it. I have this photo: not a ballerina but a leopard boasting the same glee and self-satisfaction years before it's deemed unbecoming to feel such things.