Friday, February 26, 2010
When I stepped out, into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman,and a ride home.
Happy weekend. Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold.
Monday, February 22, 2010
If that is the case I might as well throw away another 9 years and die at 78, which is not going to happen because Zoey will only be 45 then and will clearly still need me, right?
Yeah. Verging on Carl Sagan/Lao Tzu here, I know.
So Monday, here we are. Upon discovering the following video I immediately felt that I had found my spirit animal in this sexy beast Russian yodel-model man. Something about his hair, the swagger of his head, his nostrils... the way he smiles through both the high notes and the low. I am so totally channeling this guy today and every Monday from here on out.
9.75 years going hahahahaha! and pointing my finger; I vow to walk through the hallways of wherever I work singing this song without waiting for anything to be over.
Happy Monday, people. Watch the video and just you try and tell me differently.
Friday, February 19, 2010
I should think the hair balls (not to be confused with, well, hairballs) would go nicely with this frock from my fantasies, n'est ce pas?
We made it. Happy Friday. Now work it.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Of course I have no way of knowing if this is true, if the combined chemicals in my body are worth $8 or $8 grand, though Kaiser does prescribe generic drugs so there can't be any inflated value there. Anyhoo, I found this fact on the internet SO IT IS TRUE. THE INTERNET TOLD ME IT WOULD NEVER LIE TO ME, SO THERE. QED, IPSO FACTO, $8.48, THE END.
Oh, and I also really dig Marilyn's stripe-y top.
We're almost at the weekend, people, not to mention spring.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I asked the woman next to me if I could borrow her phone. Which, on a commuter bus going home in which nobody talks and the hour has been deemed unhappy is kinda' like asking the person next to you if maybe you could borrow her undies. Just for a second? But she let me, and I cupped my hand around the phone as I whispered a message to Bryan real quiet. Then we crawled along around the curve to the toll. Still, we could not see anything.
We got a jumper, she said, matter of fact, which must be a pre-requisite for bus drivers, the part about being matter of fact. How do you know? I asked, because I am more matter of what than anything else, but she just shrugged. That's what they do sometimes, you know? Drive to the middle of the bridge and then just get out and jump. Empty car--jumper. Pshhh, and then she shook her head, it being the height of the commute and all. In front of us they had closed the right lane, and there it was: an older yellow Ferrari without anyone inside. Three police cars behind it, one in front.
I expected more, I think. A crowd peering over the railing, maybe, I don't know. I admit to having looked for years, periods in which I crossed the bridge twice each day. It's habit, to scan for someone walking alone. Does he look depressed? What's in his backpack? Who is she calling? The friend of a friend, a guy her husband grew up with, the photo of the girl on the desk of the woman I temped for years ago. The bridge a symbol of San Francisco and Something Else.
One day years ago a man bought a yellow Ferrari and felt happy. I am assuming it was a man because men buy Ferraris, and I am assuming that he was happy. That maybe he felt he had made it with the purchase of that car. And then something must have happened, right? And then something else. Something again, again, more until the man no longer felt happy or anything at all, and one day he drove across the bridge and stopped his yellow Ferrari mid-span and jumped. And then what?
I think about these things too often, what happens first and why and next. Not so much because searching for a reason matters, but because searching makes it whole.
Real. Maybe you think me macabre, and sometimes I do worry this is the case. How I drive over the bridge and look at the people walking alone. What is it? Who are they? The fog whipping through the gates like that. How is life so fucking unbelievably beautiful and so gut-wrenchingly empty at the exact same time? The moment it takes to slam a yellow Ferrari into park, and how I want to swallow it all to understand.
If you are anything like me you need to see this movie. Fair warning: it is intense and disturbing. Happy Wednesday. Seriously. :)
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Whatever. It's Sunday, Valentine's Day, the turning of a corner into spring. My daughter has professed her love for Filip, Keaton and Zack, all pre-K boys which thankfully means she cannot push her square of carpet next to theirs at naptime. Today we are going to cook broken crayons inside of heart-shaped silicone cupcake pans and then color and see what we find. Orange, green, blue bittersweet, a color called inch worm.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Please give yourself a hug from yours truly.
Friday, February 12, 2010
If you have never seen a Russ Meyer flick, may I suggest you do so this weekend? Low-budget sexploitation camp in which big-breasted women overpower the men... perfect for a Valentine's Day weekend no matter your relationship status.
While we're on the subject--in Googling "Russ Meyer Girls" I stumbled across this painting which is pretty much sex on canvas and I need it/want it for the big day of the V:
This would look smashing above our bed, but since that's not going to happen then I implore my husband to draw me his own version on a piece of printer paper, mixed media of Bic and Sharpie. That's all this girl wants for Valentine's Day, some hand drawn soft-core porn and for my husband to forever see me as a girl with boobs as big as her head.
BTW, what's the best compliment you've ever received? (Let's go into this weekend with the positive...)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Not 24 hours go by, sick from the boy at the playground, I am sure. He wore no shoes and a thin tee-shirt, sneezing all over the fiberglass turtle as he climbed. Every day, the light of the universe shifted.
Monday, February 8, 2010
I know, right? The one dinosaur I could actually name. Apparently now it's called Apatosaurus which is like people calling me Susan which might as well be Pauline, it is that wrong. I am Susannah, the herbivore with the long necked small smile is the brontosaurus, and mercuryvenusearthmarsjupitersaturnuranusneptuneandpluto. Astronauts drink Tang, long division and the order of the solar system as they radiate from the sun: this is what I learned in the 4th grade and seeing as how I've completely forgotten how to bring down the one and the meaning of remainder they simply cannot take away Pluto or else I'll be left with just the Tang, i.e. fuck.
Zoey and I ate Lucky Charms for dinner last night. I know, I know, I'm a terrible mother but they truly are magically delicious and guess what? Maybe we didn't really eat Lucky Charms at all. Maybe I am not a terrible mother or a mother at all or a Susannah or a brontosaurus or a leperchaun looking for green clovers and purple horseshoes. Of course we have already established that I am not a Pauline. Because here's what they are saying now: the entire world might be nothing more than a hologram. Yep, our everyday experience might itself be a holographic projection of physical processes that take place on a distant, 2D surface. Huh? Yeah. You there, YOU. Reading this blog. You may be sitting there sipping your coffee because of something happening on the boundary of the universe. WTF, right? But at the same time, don't you feel just a smidegeon of oh my god, I just knew it!?
It's Monday but maybe it's not. Maybe you're at work or maybe you're just a projection divided by the speed of light. Maybe you're happy, maybe you're hungry, maybe you're wondering if Tamra and Simon are going through with the divorce after all, I don't know. Turns out I don't know much, what with Pluto and the brontosaurus no longer what they once were. The ubiquitous they and what they say microscopically random, like a hot gas. Speaking of which, the good times start 0:55 seconds in; enjoy.
Mad props to anyone who can explain just what the hell is going on with the universe and entropy, holograms. Or if you can just explain the black hole thermodynamics of Mondays, that would be cool, too.
Friday, February 5, 2010
If I practiced polygamy I would also marry this. A poster the recipient completes by revealing spot-varnished type with hands made dirty by handling the poster, the back of which is coated with powdered pigment. This is the first of a series of posters. Via Love It A Lot.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
It's Tuesday and I'm sick of myself. Sick of wet cars and no cars, bills, buses, birthday parties, my kitchen lined with ants. God, remember Adam Ant? My friend's older sister had his posters all over her room; my parents went to Hawaii for a week when I was in the 7th grade and left me there. My friend and I spent seven nights making prank calls, her mom had a mirror on her bedside table criss-crossed in white powder and her sister had Adam Ant on her walls. It all felt slightly sad and cooler than I would ever be. When my mom got back she gave me a bottle of pikake, the smell of which still makes me want to strip and cover up all at the very same time.
That's what Tuesday is, full of nothing really. But this. And that. Here: apparently American Apparel is having an open casting for Ass Models to be the new "face" of their brand. Honestly the only thing holding me back from entering the competition is good lighting and the fact that my ass is flat and a touch wide. White, yes, it's white, too, plus I think I have a subcutaneous cyst from sitting at a computer all day long. Still, it's fun to peruse the entries that aren't getting any votes and make supportive comments. Like this guy, under his photo I wrote: red is totally your color!
I don't know. Happy Tuesday.
Monday, February 1, 2010
I suck at eulogies.
Don't die, mmmkay?
On Friday I went to work. Took the bus, had some meetings, wrote a little of this, ate a pb&j, wrote a little of that, took the bus back to my car--we've gone over this before, right? The minutiae? But this time I unlocked my car at the end of the day only to find the floorboards 2" deep in water. Which was very confusing, as you can imagine, not being able to see the brake pedal through the silt. I checked my windows, not sure why--my roof--it was still there. Suddenly a man rapped on my windshield with a microphone and asked if I wanted to go on air for KRON 4 News to talk about the freak 7ft tides flooding all the cars and how none of them would ever work again seeing as how sitting in salt water will kill an engine not to mention fry a computer. And so I did what any drama queen would do in such a situation at 5:30 on a Friday night with a microphone pushed into her face--I cried.
If you are my Facebook friend no doubt you have read my weekend emo updates lamenting the loss of transportation, the financial suckerpunch, the very moon itself, that bitch who pulled the tide up and over my car. But you guys--I lost my car because I went to work. Nay, because I was being fiscally responsible slash environmentally aware by leaving my car at the commuter parking lot to take public transportation TO WORK. There are simply not enough upper cased italics to get me through the absurd woe-is-I-ness of that sentence.
On Saturday Bryan took me back to the scene of the crime to have my car towed to its more than likely *FRP. It was 8am and already there were 4 tow trucks dealing with the fiberglass cadavers: a Porsche, an Audi, Mercedeseseses (how does one pluralize Mercedes?). In total, roughly a dozen cars were killed that day. It's funny how insurance companies find religion at times like this, the tide an uncoverable act of God when everybody knows there is no God to be found in a commuter parking lot.
We estimate her time of death at 11:08am. High tide, while somewhere in an office building in San Francisco I was probably doing something like looking up a word in the thesaurus. Had I known, I would've looked up fuck:
Synonyms: be intimate, breed, copulate, fool around, fornicate, go all the way, have sexual intercourse, lay, make out, mate, procreate, sleep together, leave your car to go to work and find upon your return that it was been flooded, fried, you're screwed, fucked.
*FRP: Final Resting Place. My southern grandparents bandied about this term in casual conversation which I always found to be the height of sophistication, that and Cheerwine; of course this probably explains some of my more macabre leanings.
**Anyone have any recommendations re: how to find a super cute family car with low mileage for roughly $25? CA$H!!