At the risk of sounding saccharine, man, do I love spring. I don’t know what it is about spring, but every year since the beginning of my reproductive years, I am overcome at the beginning of the season with this overwhelming urge to have somewhere in the range of thirteen children. No shit, it’s happened every single year since I was a kid — even during the brief spell in my life when I didn’t want children at all. The first few years, I was frightened and convinced that yes, this is what I want, thirteen kids. Yes, yes, I WANT to spend my entire life wiping bottoms and I won’t stop until they take my uterus away! You can’t make me!
But as I’ve aged and endured season after season of this bizarre fleeting urge to BREED BREED BREED, I at first slimmed down my springtime desires to four, and eventually realized that yes, this will pass by July, and I will become a normal person who is happy with whatever she decides to have and/or gets by the grace of God, even if that turns out to be nothing more than a houseful of pugs.
But isn’t that creepy? I wonder what sort of eerie pheromones are hurtling through the breeze come springtime that makes thirteen kids not only seem possible, but like a GOOD IDEA. Because for one brief season, I know precisely what Michelle Duggar feels like, and dude, critics of hers should know that it’s NOT HER FAULT. That’s some kind of nefarious biological programming there, that much I know.
It could be, however, that spring brings everything in massive abundance, and it seems a waste to create just one of anything. What’s the point of a singleton, when you have lilac trees bursting with blossoms, their branches so heavy with flowers that they bend under their weight and fill the air with their lush fragrance? Why have ONE baby, when our yard looks like a too-yellow ode to dandelions, the cheery flowers in alternating rows with their fluffy-headed descendants? I know dandelions are a pest, but between you and me, I love them.
I’ll tell you something else, and again, this may be spring talking (Quick! Hide the uterus! Oh — wait! It needs to be fixed, nevermind), but after living in small town Vermont, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go back to an urban — or even a too-crowded suburban — area again. In recent trips to Boston, I was a little repelled by my old neighborhood; how close together the houses were, the fact that there was nowhere for kids to, um, commune with nature. (No, I can’t believe I said that, either.) Vermont has been full of lessons, from how not to choose a hairdresser to what kind of life I want, wherever we land next, if there even is a next. This may be it. You never know, I’ve learned.
And here’s something I never thought I’d say: I wouldn’t trade this semi-nomadic life I’ve had for the past several years for anything. My time in Florida was one of the most depressing, lonely and outright hilariously bizarre experiences of my entire life, and yet if I had the chance to do it over again, exactly as it happened, I would. I learned a lot — how to be patient, how to tell a good story, and how to maintain a sense of humor and perspective when it seems that there is no hope, no hope at all.
Life is just plain weird. Gloriously, graciously weird.
Anyway, before I leave you thinking that I’ve gone soft, I feel oddly compelled to add a speck of curmudgeon to this otherwise perfect spring reverie. The whole mommyblogging brouhaha after the Today Show — after any televised segment about personal bloggers, really — grated my cheese, but not for the reason it bothered everyone else. Yes, yes, fine, Kathie Lee is a vapid helium balloon, but what irks me about these segments is that viewers are only presented with the most extreme examples. And Dooce, likable and relevant as she is, is an extreme example that they latch onto like rabid dogs, assuming that we’re all rich! And blogging from home for millions! It’s not her fault; it’s just what they DO.
I mean, the way they chopped it up, anyone watching that segment would be led to believe that blogging is a quick and easy way to make money. Put up a Web site and watch the money roll in! Better than stuffing envelopes even! When obviously, for the overwhelming majority of bloggers, this isn’t a job, nor do we want it to be, not even a little. Even those of us with ads do it because eh, why not? Not because we’re planning to quit our day jobs and blog for fun and profit, although I don’t blame anyone who does. Besides, even if we wanted to, the level of income for most bloggers who DO attempt to monetize their experience isn’t what those segments lead you to believe. There is a difference between earning some money and earning a LIVING. And the kind of fame and notoriety some bloggers have achieved isn’t remotely something many of us ASPIRE to, that much I can tell you.
It’s like holding up Maureen Dowd and saying this, THIS is a typical newspaper columnist! Behold! A newspaper columnist’s LIFE! Meanwhile, Bob Enright at the Cape Coral Daily Breeze is thinking right, um, no. I spend my afternoons dreaming up soccer coach controversies for fourteen bucks an hour. And I’m cool with that. No thanks, Maureen.
This isn’t a particularly well thought-out point, but I guess I’m saying that deconstructing this whole thing is getting a little tiring for me (INSERT WHITE HOT IRONY HERE). Sometimes — for most of us, I imagine — a blog is just a blog. It’s a great way to get your shit out there, hone your off-the-cuff writing skills, meet some great people and read some truly hilarious commentary (I’m looking pointedly at all of you.) Sometimes I wish we could just let things be, although I know that’s not realistic. And now I’m going to take my own advice! No more! I won’t talk about it again!
Anyway. To atone for that little ranty rail, let me ask you something: Do you read Elizabeth Berg? Because you really should if you don’t. I was talking to Lawyerish about her earlier today, and I really do believe she’s one of the most underrated authors of our time. She’s incredibly popular and viewed in some circles as mass-market airport-y fiction, but my God, she deserves better than that. Her writing is exquisite. Frankly, I don’t care if any of her books even have a plot — I would gleefully endure pages and pages of her describing wood cabinets. Truly.
Have a great Thursday!
*Duran Duran
May 14th, 2008
So this is awesome: The Terro ant traps you all recommended? Dude, TOTALLY WORKING. I’m finding piles of ant carcasses strewn carelessly around the sunroom, which was their lair. Yes, yes, I have to vacuum daily, but who cares? DEAD BODIES ABOUND. Aaand, sadly, I was reminded by my grim fascination with these little buggers when I downloaded photos off my camera this evening and discovered at least (oh my God) twenty photos I took one night while watching them with a glass of wine. Yes, you thought I made that up. I totally didn’t, and did, in fact, spend an entire Saturday night in front of ants. Behold:
Oh don’t worry. There are more where this came from. From different ANGLES, even. And solo shots of ants! CLOSE-UPS OF INDIVIDUAL ANTS USING THE MACRO SETTING. Yes. My God. I … well. It’s clear I need to get out more, is all I have to say about that.
Also, because two people asked and apparently that’s all it takes, Sunny is still alive and well, and actively begging for ham, as you can see:
She’s only two and yet she’s going grey like an old lady. Very sad. And now I ask you: Does this look like the kind of dog who shoots anal juice all over her parents on a regular basis? And does this LOOK like the face of a dog who went all Holy Shit Alpha on the neighbor’s itty bitty shih-tzu, to the point of snarling, screaming and teeth-baring? Over a BUFFALO BONE? I … I’ve never seen anything like it. In our house, I am her alpha, and she is a pansy — an abject PUSSY, if you will. She isn’t perfect, but she NEVER gets aggressive with me and is quite the opposite, prostrating herself for kibble and affection on a daily basis.
I’ve never seen her get aggressive with another dog — ever. In fact, in most cases, she is Pussy Dog who goes belly up and has never been alpha before — and she’s been around literally hundreds. But with this poor little dog, she was something else, and even growled at ME in the throes of madness (seriously, she looked possessed). And they’re FRIENDS. But, we discovered: no food or bones when they’re together. Nah no. Jesus. She … well, she thinks she’s Ms. Thang over the shih-tzu, and it was scary. I mean, as scary as this face can get.
And finally, I bring you Strawberry Milkshake hair:
The new hairdresser is ah, NOT SO MUCH. I know! It doesn’t look that pink! And I agree, it doesn’t here. It really doesn’t. In fact, it looks red, as the bottle surely intended, except that it FAILED. Because what you cannot see is that it is essentially fuchsia laid on top of platinum blond, which is (ho ho HO!) pale candy pink. And lots of it. Three people (THREE) in various stages of my day today remarked, “Wow, uh … that’s some HAIR!” One person asked if I did it myself with Manic Panic.
Manic Panic. Yes. That should give you an idea.
Adam said he truly hopes that my punk band makes it some day. He’s pulling for us. I, on the other hand, have apparently taken to sucking on lemons.
Happy Tuesday!
*Nick Drake
May 12th, 2008
I’ve never been so disappointed that I’m caught up on my laundry in my whole life, because my grocery store had the ENTIRE DOWNY FAMILY half off in some sort of fabric softener fire sale, and I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but … well two things. First, I love laundry. So much. I love doing laundry, smelling laundry, folding laundry, putting away laundry. I am the sole laundry-doer in my house and won’t let Adam NEAR the laundry. I would, in all seriousness, be a professional laundress with absolutely no complaints whatsoever. I know all the tricks. I am a master folder/hanger. I can get out any stain under the sun. And yes, I will absolutely do your laundry if you want me to, provided you let me bring my own supplies.
This brings me to my second point, which is that the only thing I love more than laundry is laundry PRODUCTS. I love and use it all: detergent, fabric softener AND dryer sheets, except on products that would be more absorbent in their absence (dish towels and dish cloths, basically. Bath towels totally get the softener, I don’t care). Tide and Downy Clean Breeze are my favorites, although I use mostly eco-friendly stuff now (I don’t know why except it makes me feel virtuous. It probably does nothing), except in case of SALE SALE SALE, like now. Half off! Half off everything! Expensive fancy Downy softener! Dryer sheets! Lavender and vanilla! Cashmere something! Pear and gardenia! I bought out the store!
Bottom line: I have an entirely new arsenal of products and no laundry to do. It’s like TORTURE.
Also, fun tip: You know that Downy Wrinkle Releaser that they sell for a bahollion dollars? Well, maybe not a bahollion, but more than it’s worth, anyway. First of all, it works to de-wrinkle stuff, yes, but what it REALLY works for is relaxing fabrics like, say, if you’ve accidentally shrunk something (who me?), or if that one seam isn’t quite laying right and an iron would just make it confusing (I’m thinking of smocked shirts and ruching, really. Things that are a bitch to iron). It’s brilliant stuff and will de-shrink almost anything except for wool sweaters and it freshens clothes too! But you shouldn’t buy it. Ever. What you SHOULD do is buy a cheap spray bottle and even cheaper fabric softer (I have a container of Nice N’ Fluffy for this purpose) and mix one part softener to five parts water. Voila! Downy Wrinkle Releaser! For pennies. You’re welcome.
Anyway, to answer a few very kind questions, no, I didn’t get the tubal flushing/Oompa Loompa treatment on Friday — that’s coming later, with some kind of crazy tube lube (um, ew?) but I DID adore my new gynecologist. ADORE. She spent an UNGODLY amount of time with me, and there was no leaning or inappropriate fondling and she didn’t talk down to me about charting. I did, however, get some other slightly unpleasant things in addition to an ultrasound, and Allison is totally right. My uterus was SO TINY. I let out an awed, “ooooh!” at what I thought was my uterus until the doctor said, “I know! Your bladder is really full! It’s HUGE!”
Ha HA. Yes, perhaps I should brush up on my anatomy before I go all Florence Nightingale on the world. But when I finally saw it, it was so tiny, like a baby T-bone steak! And the tubes are wee little shoelaces!
The only things that remotely matched my expectations were my ovaries, which resembled lychee nuts almost exactly. And though she got all excited and pointed to a follicle, I couldn’t see it and was craning my neck all, “Where’s the follicle? WHERE IS THE FOLLICLE?” like I was trying to see my unborn child in there, or perhaps the visage of the Virgin Mary, when it was just a FOLLICLE. Hence, my strange desire to become a part of the medical community. I’m still pissed I couldn’t find the follicle and would be even if it weren’t my own. Ultrasounds are way cool. Feel free to invite me to your next one so I can ogle your follicles.
Incidentally, I was wrong about the boob saga: it seems it rages on. My doctor got the report and wants to follow up with a boob specialist to be 100 percent sure, which even she admits is superfluous. I kind of love her for that, as she’s being overly cautious and that makes me feel very safe, but what I love even more is that her office makes the appointments like they’re my own personal secretary — this is true of any referral they make. I sit back and accept or reject appointment times based on my ever-changing whims while relaxing on a tuffet and eating Ben & Jerry’s. This is beyond awesome.
Anyway, the week ahead promises many, um, treasures, including a new freelance project, a new hairdresser (Tomorrow! Hold me) and Tuesday, I’m planting the first tier of my garden, which will include carrots, radishes, lettuce and beets. (Avid gardeners may think I’m late for this, but ha HA! We’re zone one. Which also includes Canada. It’s, um, COLD HERE.) Other tiers will include herbs, tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers. I’m genuinely frightened, for I have false hopes of lush, fruitful gardens of rich vegetables that will nourish our family for months to come and I have fantasies of … well, of canning. I know. This whole fantasy is ridiculous and bound for nothing but disappointment.
Also, random heads up that we’re moving servers this week, so there will be some downtime at some point, I don’t know when. Not that you’re waiting with bated breath or anything, but I know that I usually panic and think I’ve broken the Internet when I get an error, but if it’s here, I assure you, your Internets are fine. We’re just moving servers, that’s all. (Bluehost here we come! So, ah, if you hate them, speak now or forever hold your peace!)
Have a great Monday!
*Bruce Springsteen. I don’t normally like him, but I have a few albums. It’s sort of required, isn’t it, if you’re a music person? Along with Bob Dylan and The Beatles, among others. I don’t love them, either, but I appreciate them. It’s much the same with good ole Bruce.
May 11th, 2008
Harvey Weinstein might win the award of Most Disgusting Human Being 2008. Oh don’t mind him! He’s just trying to BULLY Nancy Pelosi into doing what he wants. He is, after all, very rich, didn’t you know? He can buy and sell the Democrats! If he pulls his money WE WILL ALL VOTE FOR JOHN MCCAIIIIINNNNN. (There are worse things, Harvey. Like your nose. There, I said it.) My point, however, is this: where are the cries for Hillary to denounce Harvey Weinstein because he’s a flaccid douchebag?
I’m going to start that battle cry. Because it would be FUN to scream “FLACCID DOUCHEBAG” in the streets, wouldn’t it? Douchebag is remarkably satisfying as a standalone curse word anyway. Terribly offensive and horribly disgusting — honestly, visualize it for a moment, if you will — but one of my favorites nonetheless.
This reminds me of a conversation I had with my sister over the weekend, wherein we discussed our secret lifelong desires to be nurses and she told me that while she’s considering nursing school, she doesn’t want to do anything gross, ever. Like vaginal ultrasounds. Or drawing blood. Or changing bedpans. At which point we agreed that perhaps a secret yearning to wear scrubs is not the best reason to be a nurse? (I am not grossed out by anything, ever. Which is why I do think someday I will be an excellent nurse, among other reasons.)
Well! Shall we take the debate on to safer topics? Because I have a confession: I don’t like homemade whipped cream. I like it from a can, as in Reddi-Wip. Or even … well, I like Cool Whip, transfats be damned. Yesterday I dropped by the local co-op — natural food store, to you and me — and was completely taken with a pint of organic heavy cream. It called to me, truly it did. It was that luscious, creamy yellow — the color of butter, not cream — that screams “For the love of Jesus, put me on ice cream!” I’ve never seen cream like it before. Rich, creamy smears of butterfat lined the curves of the jar, and it was so thick that it hung for a moment when shaken. Just gazing at it was transcendent. I simply had to have it, despite the fact that my ass has had plenty, thank you, and cream isn’t something I ever buy.
In its raw form, it is everything I thought it would be and more. Rich and creamy and simply divine. I poured a dollop into my coffee this morning and moaned in ecstasy. So good.
And then I had to go and whip it. To its credit, it whipped to soft, creamy peaks in approximately 11 seconds. It whipped so fast, in fact, that I was about three whisk turns from sugared butter, which isn’t something I intended and is not necessarily something one wants to eat atop ice cream. But still: it looked delicious.
It wasn’t. I don’t like it. I wanted Reddi-Wip. I’m making butter with the rest of it tomorrow night. The Ben & Jerry’s Cheesecake Brownie ice cream, however, was heavenly, though I don’t recommend it to anyone who isn’t in the throes of some sort of hormonal twist, because it lists cream cheese as the fourth ingredient. CREAM CHEESE. IN ICE CREAM.
(YUM)
This reminds me, too, that there’s something irreparably broken in our society that Extra — Extra GUM, that is — is suddenly being billed as a “five-calorie snack that lasts.”
Gum as a SNACK. A SNACK. It’s NOT A SNACK. That kind of talk just smacks of unhealthy eating and binging, and I’m sorry: shame on you, Extra. A healthy snack is a BANANA. Not a PIECE OF GUM. And to talk about it in the context of DIETING makes me so angry I can hardly see straight. “Go from nice gut to nice butt!”
WITH GUM. Oh, and try not to eat more than twelve grapes a day, fatso. Chew gum instead, say the Extra gum people. And stick your head in the oven while you’re at it!
Tomorrow, by the way, is Gynecologist Day. I’m a little excited. What I am not excited about, however, is that the nurse I spoke with said there might be … tubal flushing? With dye? That, according to my friend Erica’s friends, involves … UTERINE CLAMPING. I don’t know why, I just imagine a giant vise wrapped around my exposed uterus while some dude wearing a woodworking apron cranks it into place. “You’re all set!” he’ll say. “Send in the dye!” And then the Oompa Loompas will show up with tubes of orange dye ready to be pumped into my fallopian tubes.
Then again, this might not happen. Either way, I’m uh, ready? I guess?
Oh, the weekend is here! Almost! Happy happy!
*Keane
May 8th, 2008
So there are a few things going on, but can we just start for a moment with the fact that I got an e-mail from Suzanne Finnamore thanking me for loving her books and for writing about them? And then she said some very nice things which were totally only to be polite, but I do not care, because I was still all googly because dude, SUZANNE FINNAMORE, and then I died. The end. And then I sent a lot of ALL CAPS E-MAILS to Swistle, who loves her as I do, and who responded appropriately and in ALL CAPS as well.
Totally beats the pants off of the time I wrote about Ben Folds in a less-than-complimentary way and one of my longtime readers announced that her husband was his bassist. Yes, this is much better.
In other, SIGNIFICANTLY less exciting news, my dish towels have all disappeared and I imagine they’re having a party somewhere together, celebrating their freedom from a life of dishpan fibers that no amount of fabric softener can cure. I’ve devoted an inordinate amount of time to thinking about their disappearance, and wondering why the left me. Was I that bad? Did I mistreat them? Are their feelings hurt? WHERE ART THOU, DISHTOWELS?
Still feeling faint, by the way, which means that all I can do is write about DRIVEL.
In pop culture land, I have, once again, picked up the People’s “Most Beautiful” issue — it is like crack to me — and have, once again, become increasingly irritated by the whole thing as the pages wear on. For example, I nearly shot myself in the face when I saw Raquel Welch held up as some sort of paragon for older women, and can I just tell you how frustrating this is? Because don’t TELL me that Raquel Welch hasn’t been scalpeled and Restylane’d within an INCH of her (very long) life and it’s just … well. It’s also interesting to me that Jennifer Lopez said that a young woman has the face she was born with, while an older woman gets the face she deserves, and can I be honest in that my first thought after reading that was that she deserved a face that had been hit by a SHOVEL after the whole “I just knew I could” thing re: her “totally natural” pregnancy that Julie articulates better than me? Honestly, that infuriated me. Infuriated.
You’d think that honestly, after getting a few e-mails from people I’ve written about (why, TODAY, in fact!) after something I wrote here, that I would LEARN, because I now know that it’s totally possible for Raquel Welch to send me a nastygram denying all Botox and insisting she is just naturally wrinkle-free, despite having one foot in the grave. And yet I press on! Because look! I am about to talk about …
Scarlett Johansson. Have you, um, heard the single? Because is she serious? Is she actually seriously SINGING, or is that … well. I don’t even know what else to say, but I just don’t know what sycophant told her yes, YES, Scarlett! CUT AN ALBUM. YOU ROCK, sister. (She doesn’t. At all. What IS that?)
All of this is put into remarkable context after talking with an acquaintance of ours who used to do celebrity publicity. She affirmed that yes, celebrities ARE that insane and self-absorbed and …well, everything awful you read about them is true. Stars, it seems, are not like us. Unless we are the type to throw hissy fits because we don’t have the alternating orange and white candle scheme we SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED. (True! Contract riders! ALL TRUE and DEMANDED by the celebrities! I KNOW!)
I meant to write more. I did. And then I got tired and also goofily authory starstruck.
Happy Wednesday! Is it me, or is this week flying?
*Kate Nash
May 6th, 2008
Honest to Pete, I don’t MEAN to be a negative nelly about everything I read, and I don’t want to turn this into a book blog or anything, it’s just that I am on a horribly bad streak lately. I’m desperate for the new Jen Lancaster (coming out tomorrow or, you know, today, if you’re reading this Tuesday, like most people will be) if only so I can read a FAMILIAR voice of someone I know I’ll like. “Split” was divine, but I followed it with a comfortable, if disappointing, Marian Keyes and then … and then Chris Bohjalian’s “The Double Bind” which was SO HILARIOUSLY BAD that I am actually ANGRY about it. Who edited this? Who thought that “dowager” should be used OVER AND OVER again, like it’s a word people use in everyday conversation? Who allowed “epoxied” to be used in place of “glued” three times on three consecutive pages?
Save yourselves. Run. Run away.
My boob is fine, thank you all for your concern. I wasn’t too stressed about it, I just didn’t want to have a NEEDLE in it and hey ho! I didn’t have to. Two doctors, thirty minutes of ultrasound and three people hovering over my boob and everyone declared and agreed that there was nothing to aspirate, and that it was merely an “island of [boob] tissue” and not a cyst. Just lots o’ boob in one place. Which explains, PS, why my left boob is uh, significantly larger than the right. And you know, I’m not a particularly modest person, but there’s something very disconcerting about having three people hovering over your boob, and three — THREE — sets of hands digging around in there at once. That’s six hands and three faces dangling perilously close to my sisters. Someone could have lost an eyeball.
Incidentally, I’m currently working on a proposal for a new freelance client and the process has gotten a little … well, a little ridiculous. I feel like I’m one request away from being asked to submit my design ideas for how greeting cards can be improved with the resurgence of Kajagoogoo and the creative use of faux fur. And it reminds me of the time I was sent by a headhunter friend of mine on a ruse interview to discover precisely why no one wanted to work at one of the companies in his roster. Within minutes, it was painfully obvious, after the director of marketing lamented that my portfolio — like every other writer’s he’d received — was sadly devoid of creative pieces to SELL the person. Like self-portraits festooned with glitter and puffy paint and videos of them kayaking or something. (”When I was interviewing, I put together an entire PowerPoint presentation about myself, including my favorite books, pictures and extra-curricular activities! I even put together a movie with my favorite marketing vehicles and how I would market MYSELF with a direct mail piece! I haven’t gotten ANYTHING like that!”) Yeah, that’s why uh, no one wanted to work there. Dude’s NUTS.
Honestly, this week seems pretty pointless, as I finally have an appointment with a new gynecologist on Friday and it’s possible — just maybe — that I have my hopes up just a little too high, like I’m going to walk out of there nine months’ pregnant. I have a host of feelings on the topic of the situation — good thoughts, bad thoughts, confusing thoughts and at times, destructive thoughts that lead me to do things like Google Things That Should Not Be Googled (Hello, have I not TOLD EVERYONE I KNOW to stay off of Google at times like these? And yet no no, there I am in full-throttle foolish Googling and getting myself worked up that not only are things really broken down there, but I may also be hosting a tumor the size of San Francisco in my abdominal cavity, along with a small herd of sheep. And dying. Did I mention the dying?).
In the meantime, I’m really okay — truly, I’m just ANNOYED with myself, like WHAT THE HELL, BODY. HOP TO. What is not okay, however, is the fact that I just got my, er, special lady time (Surprise! For me? How LOVELY!) and have just devoured a four-pack of chocolate peanut butter Twix and am seriously considering what else might be in the house that I can shove into my gaping maw. I have some pickled asparagus down there (Edited: I MEAN DOWNSTAIRS, NOT DOWN IN THE SPECIAL LADY AREA OMG SADIE), and some oil-cured olives. AND I AM SO GOING TO GET THEM RIGHT NOW.
Happy Tuesday!
*Glen Hansard
May 5th, 2008
Woodstock is one of the most beautiful towns in the entire state of Vermont. It’s quaint, it’s perfect for antiquing and it’s … well, it’s idyllic. It is. You should go there.
But OMG, YOU GUYS. It is also home to a Mobil gas station where I witnessed an employee named Tanya exit the restroom after a lengthy stay (I was waiting desperately. Thanks, Tanya!) with an US Weekly in her hand, all wrinkly and pored over and dog eared. And then … and then she PUT IT BACK ON THE SHELF. Leah warned us of this behavior in bookstores a while back, where it’s bad enough, but at a GAS STATION ON ROUTE 4. NO. NO, TANYA. EW.
Also, why is Tanya wanting to take that much time in the gas station bathroom? I know she works there, but OMG, TANYA. SO GROSS. POOP AND RUN, TANYA.
Anyway, High School Musical was as advertised: Confusing, hilarious, a little bad and all around wonderful. I’m pulling an auntie and swearing that my nephews were the best actors in the whole bunch (THEY TOTALLY WERE) (AM NOT BIASED). Granted, it was a bit uncomfortable even for the brief hour we sat there, because we were crammed into seats designed for elementary schoolers. I guess I should be grateful that I didn’t have my dad’s seat, however, for apparently he was stuck next to a kindergartener with a flatulence problem.
“Her legs were up on the seat for maximum dispersion,” he shook his head sadly. “It got worse every time she sang along and I think the guy in front of us thought it was me.”
Nothing is worse than being accused of a fart you didn’t commit, I agree.
My dad also, by the way, in a futile effort to prove that he is still hip, defended against our assaults and announced Sunday morning that he knows PRECISELY who Angelina Jolie is, he just “can’t think of any of her songs right now, but I’ve heard her on the radio!”
For a few brief hours Saturday, my ATM card was AWOL, and I had absolutely no idea where I’d left it. Despite retracing my steps, I could NOT figure out where it could be (Trader Joe’s? The play?), and every second that I paused to think about it to say, tear apart my purse and/or car, my mother stood in the background piping up, “Ka-CHING! That’s someone using your card for illegal porn! CANCEL IT NOW! KA-CHING!” which resulted in my sister and me whining “Mo-OM! Sto-OP!” in tandem for the first time since we all lived under the same roof.
(”Ka-CHING!”)
(ARGH! Mo-OM!)
Incidentally, I’d left it at the Taco Bell drive-thru, a trip for post-baseball tacos for the kids that I’d forgotten I’d even MADE. Also, the manager almost didn’t give me the card back when I insisted that my name was Jonna R-, and he had a card for JOANNA R-, which of course he didn’t, he was simply reading it wrong. And what are the chances, Mr. Taco Bell Manager, that TWO Jonna/Joannas with the same not-totally-common last name left their Citizen’s Gold Mastercard CheckCard at the Taco Bell Drive-Thru that day? SERIOUSLY.
And with that, I’m exhausted and it’s almost time for bed. I like road-tripping by myself, if only so that I can stop to pee without any argument (”But you JUST WENT!”) and have the entire bag of Combos (Pizzeria Pretzel is my flavor) to myself. I can also blast whatever music I want, and play a little game with myself, wherein I refuse to skip any tracks unless they are TRULY abysmal, which meant I listened to the entire Pet Shop Boys’ album, Please, along with some ancient New Order and yes … John Cougar Mellencamp. I also wished more than once for a bullhorn so that I could announce “Yes, I have Florida plates, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to drive in Massachusetts! SO BACK OFF, ASSHOLE!”
(I still totally have Florida plates. And license. I have to fix it, I know.)
I hope you had a great weekend. Happy new week to you! Who’s excited for a week of boob-stabbing and (new!) gynecologists (who might have drugs and tests and help!)? WHOOO?
*PSB. From Please!
May 4th, 2008
Well! We have a sort-of winner, for now, in that I went to the drugstore tonight and picked up Night of Olay (Swistle’s rec) because she has great skin and how do I know this? I AM TOTALLY WINNING her contest because dude, I knew her face within seconds and she DOES have great skin! YES. I AM SAYING IT RIGHT HERE AND NOW FOR THE FRILLIONTH TIME. Swistle = Photo H. Take that to the bank, Swistlers! (If I’m wrong, I will make and eat pad thai again. Okay?)
(Late-day edit: VICTORY IS MINE, Y’ALL.)
I’m sorry what was I saying? Oh yes. I bought Night of Olay because iI am painfully impatient and it was the only recommended one I could find at my local drugstore other than Cetaphil, which was my original first choice, but then I read the ingredients and saw that petrolatum was the second ingredient and it sort of grossed me out. Plus, it was six bucks, yo. But I ALSO plan to fill out the survey on Mario Badescu and am going to try their seaweed night cream, too. Because Holly was very convincing and I TOO would like porcelain skin.
So um, hey! What are your thoughts on sharing toothbrushes and/or razors? I mean among loved ones, that is. Not with fellow subway riders or anything. Because I accidentally used Adam’s toothbrush last night and ZOMG THE AWFUL AWFULNESS. He always acts as though I had just spit directly in his mouth, which I suppose I sort of did. And while it’s not the most PLEASANT thing in the world, to think that I just swept away my plaque with something that probably still contained the remnants of his the moment prior, I maintain that by the very fact that we are married people who like each other, we DO on occasion swap bodily fluid-type things. And plaque, really, is is THAT bad? I mean, I wouldn’t do it by CHOICE, but in a pinch, I’d use his like if, say, it was midnight in a new destination and I forgot to bring mine. But I realize this is not true for everyone, and it’s most definitely not true of my husband.
He compares it to sharing a razor, which I disagree with, because a razor involves BLOOD and for some reason that bothers me more. This is paradoxical, yes, plus if you have, say, gingivitis, your toothbrush will be bloody and … oh forget it. But it’s my fluid policy and I’m sticking to it. And I am NOT OKAY with sharing a razor with anyone, ever. I won’t even use Adam’s OR my sister’s. Ever.
I’m off to Boston tomorrow afternoon again, by the way, for my nephews’ High School Musical fest and time with my parents and then MONDAY I get to have my boob ultrasounded and stabbed and I gotta tell you, I’m dreading it like nothing I’ve ever dreaded before. I have a cyst the size of a quail egg in my left boob (too much info?) and I’ve had it for … well, about a year, I guess, and I’ve had tons of doctors look at it, and mammograms so no, I am not particularly worried about it.
In fact, at this point, I feel like I should just offer it up to anyone I meet, like hi, have you seen my boob cyst? It hurts! Which it does. A lot. Pretty often, in fact, as I have hormonal fluctuations like you read about (hence likely future of fertility drugs!) and it’s not my favorite thing in the world, this boob cyst, because it hurts all the time, like right now, when I think it’s trying to move out of my boob and into its own apartment, such is the URGENT NATURE OF ITS COMPLAINT. It would like better plumbing, I think. I would, too. You’re not alone, boob.
And it’s becoming my LEAST FAVORITE THING EVER knowing that people are going to STAB IT and drain stuff from it, because my thyroid biopsy was one of the worst experiences of my whole life. Like, it was EPIC in its awfulness, with giant (GIANT) needles ripping through my neck like a hurricane. Pain I was totally unprepared for, by the way, as I was all, this is going to be so easy! Easy! Like, it totally won’t hurt at all!
It did. A lot.
So there’s that. I will be thinking of THAT while I suffer through High School Musical. Suffering upon suffering. I might as well imagine the side effects of Clomid and eat a carton of prunes while I’m in there to really make the experience TRULY EXCITING IN ITS OVERWHELMING PAIN. (I kid! I love those little boys and I’m sure it will be … loving in its pain.)
And finally, I went to the post office to mail something at lunch today — it was an envelope being sent to a PO box WITHIN THE VERY POST OFFICE THAT I WAS STANDING. And yet, I had to pay postage. For them to WALK IT over to the box. Fair? I THINK NOT.
Have a great weekend.
*House of Pain. HA. Am killing myself here. Before my boob does, that is.
May 1st, 2008
My skin doesn’t like Vermont very much. Since we moved here, it’s been … well, a mess, really, and not a day hasn’t gone by when I haven’t been rocking what can only be described as pizza face. It did the same thing when we first moved to Florida, and eventually I got into a good groove by finally acquiescing to a decent moisturizing regimen, including a night moisturizer that I really loved (Boscia, if you’re wondering) and the clouds parted, and I had great skin until we got here and it all went to hell in a handbasket. I changed it up last night in an effort to reclaim great skin, and truly, I didn’t think it could get any worse, but hey, um, WOW. IT DID.
I used Burt’s Bee’s Radiance Night Cream with royal jelly, which sounds so absolutely gross, does it not? Like, it sounds like sexytime lube for bees, which I just don’t want to smear on my face. I know that’s not what it is, but dude, it’s called ROYAL JELLY. And it’s a SECRETION. BAHRGH.
No matter. I woke up this morning with FIVE BRAND-NEW ZITS of the extra-ooky variety, if you know what I’m saying. So no jelly for me. And perhaps none for you, for if you have oily skin, dude, RUN. RUN AWAY FROM THE BEE LUBE. Which brings me to the fact that I am now in the market for a new night cream, and because I don’t even live near a department store, I’d like something I can get at Rite-Aid. Call me cheap, but it’s mostly laziness and a hatred for mail-order. Do you have any recommendations?
Speaking of cheap, I got a library card at lunch today, when I realized that I’ve been spending an ungodly amount of money on books for an ungodly amount of time. I don’t even think I THOUGHT about the amount of trips I took to the bookstore, because I told myself, “It’s for books! Books are good for you!” I had a backlog of reading material that carried me through since we moved here, but in the last three weeks, I’ve spent upwards of $50 PER WEEK OR MORE on books. I’m sorry to say as well, that it’s because we only have a locally-owned bookstore here and NOTHING is discounted, ever — I mean, I’m all for buying local, but there’s something to be said for Barnes & Noble’s prices, I’m shamed to admit. Especially when my lifelong voracious reading habits suddenly mean I won’t buy any books at all. (I’m sorry authors! I’m sorry! Local is EXPENSIVE! Like, uh, more than $200-per-month expensive! Reading is supposed to be a cheap, at-home entertainment-type activity!)
Anyway, for some reason, the library card makes me feel virtuous, like the Elizabeth Berg novel I nabbed today helps me to contribute to society. It doesn’t. But I still feel SPECIAL. I have a LIBRARY CARD and am saving MONEY. Someone give me a cookie.
(Also, can I tell you again how much I love Goodreads, as it totally appeals to the listmaker in me and I’m embarrassed at the amount of procrastination I do there by browsing reviews and books and MAKING MORE LISTS.)
And finally, in the land of biting off more than you can chew, I — who have until this point only attempted culinary challenges to the level of SHAKE ‘N BAKE — thought that since we have no Thai restaurants near us, that I would attempt homemade pad thai. And folks, there is a reason that kids don’t grow up eating pad thai as a familiar comfort food, along with meatloaf and mashed potatoes. This is because it’s HARD. AND AWFUL. AND VERY, VERY DISGUSTING. AND NOT LIKE IT IS IN RESTAURANTS. I finished working at 5:30 and started dinner, thinking that it would be easy! The Web site said it was easy! We’d be eating by 6:15!
HA. We ate at 7:30, if by “ate” you mean took one bite each and nearly threw up in our mouths, because again, oh my sweet God.
“It tastes like soap! But it’s … it’s sort of okay.” Adam was horrified, but trying to be a good sport.
“No! NO! It tastes like PASTE in elementary school — no no, PASTE IS BETTER! THIS TASTES LIKE ROTTING PASTE! WITH SOUR FRUIT.” And it was. It was awful. So awful. So, so awfully awful.
I was almost in angry pad-thai’d tears, because dude, it was HARD. There were MANY INGREDIENTS. They were CHOPPED and for chrissake, I used MISE EN PLACE. WITH RAMEKINS. The kitchen was trashed like it has never been trashed before. Scallions littered the floor like confetti, while the refrigerator door was smeared with a slash of tamarind paste that resembled a bloodstain. Splashes of oily garlic were caked to the walls above the stove, and I used every pot we owned, along with the wok, which lay haphazardly askew in the sink, the sticky noodles permanently etched onto its surface, never to be removed again. I was sweating, despite the fact that it SNOWED TODAY. (Did I not mention it fucking SNOWED TODAY? WELL, IT DID.)
And because by the time this all wrapped up, it was 8 p.m., and because we live in a town where NOTHING IS AVAILABLE AFTER SEVEN WITHOUT A BIG PRODUCTION, and I … I had no back-up plan at all … I had a McDonald’s cheeseburger for dinner, while Adam had a Quarter Pounder. Thai food is awesome.
(Seriously? My last meal was SHAKE ‘N BAKE. What was I THINKING? I AM NOT SMITTEN KITCHEN. Also? Tamarind tastes like absolute shit, as does fish sauce, I’m sorry. And as a sauce, together? Over NOODLES? WITH VERY LITTLE BLUNTING INGREDIENTS? NO NO NO.)
Have a great Thursday!
*Travis
April 30th, 2008
Perhaps I’ve just read “Valley of the Dolls” a few too many times, but I’ll tell you, I found it utterly hilarious that the Store Formerly Known as Lerner New York has giant signs up that say, “The Caftan: The Season’s Must-Have.”
The CAFTAN? Honestly? Can’t we come up with something else to call it, as we did with bell-bottoms, which mysteriously became FLARE PANTS once past their prime? Because man, caftan just evokes images of Anne Welles whipping out a Mother’s Little Helper and sporting a flip-do with a lot of hairspray. Oh how I love that book and everything it represents (fluff fiction, absurd vicarious debauchery and … the caftan? I don’t know).
We’re home, by the way, and really, it’s so NICE to be back in our own beds, for we were like an ad for Hotels.com in my nephew’s room, all snuggled up in separate bunk beds (my nephew was relegated to the basement). Although can I confess that there’s something so delightfully awesome about having your own set of sheets and comforter? Adam and I share a king-size bed — I am decidedly NOT a snuggler, and I NEED MY SPACE. If he touches me, in fact, I freak out, because I need FREEDOM. I am also a hot sleeper, emanating sweat and heat in waves off of my prone, drenched body, so ah, snuggling with me isn’t exactly appealing.
A king works just fine for that, really it does, but where things go wrong is the sharing of the blankets. I like to be wrapped up like a burrito, my feet exposed out the bottom, whereas Adam, too, likes to be wrapped up like a burrito, and two people cannot be burritoed unless they want to be burritoed TOGETHER, which sounds awful and very … close. And sweaty.
At any rate, I’m home, only to leave again on Friday for my nephews’ play, only to sleep in the same bunk bed — this time with my mother on the bottom (uh, ew? That sounds … wrong) as Adam is staying home. And so, on Saturday afternoon, I’ll be in the audience of a (very tiny) production of High School Musical. I know. It’s … it’s bound to be sort of cute, but honestly, it’s guaranteed moments of pain, particularly because both nephews have assured me that it sucks, using those exact words. “It sucks, Auntie. It’s really, really awful.” But honestly, what does one expect of a play cast with 9 to 11-year-olds? Of uh, High School Musical, no less? You expect wonderful, in that awful way, yes?
I neglected to mention, by the way, that I hit Target this weekend, and you know how some things take on a golden glow after you leave them, in a way they never glowed before and never will again? Target SHONE LIKE THE SUN AS IT HAD NEVER SHONE BEFORE. It … it IS that great, and I bought … well, a lot, including an inordinate amount of those swingy shirts that graze the belly area rather than cling to it like Saran Wrap that Target (or, I should say, Mossimo) is so outstanding at producing, despite the fact that they fall apart after three washings (which is why I bought thirteen! Or you know, THIRTY. And yet? My grand total was only $80! THAT IS THE BEAUTY THAT IS TARGET.)
It’s everything I remembered and … and more. And suddenly, I’m wondering if living here isn’t as wonderful as I thought, because Target is love. (That reminds me of the book, “Who Needs Donuts?” wherein they discuss “Who needs donuts when you got love?” Because LOVE replaces DONUTS. BUT NOT TARGET.)
I also walked around an actual mall that featured an actual Apple store and actual STORES THAT PEOPLE SHOP IN TO BUY THINGS MADE THIS DECADE other than … Fashion Bug. Which, again, it appears I am desperate enough to shop in and even appreciate after months of abstinence. Country girls need earrings, too.
And now, if you would, and you have some free time this week, please go to Target. Revel in the aisles, and buy a cheap necklace, buy some Mossimo T-shirts! Isaac Mizrahi! PLASTIC WELLINGTON BOOTS. CHEAP TOTES. WHO CARES? BUY IT ALL. OR AT LEAST A CAFTAN. At a bare minimum, caress it all, every moment you can, because I can’t, and I wish I could.
And finally, a word of caution: even if you LIKE prunes, as I do, they are not nature’s most perfect snack, as Sunsweet promises. They are, in fact, nature’s cruel joke, and are nothing more than the Road to Endless Bloat, which means that if you see a (again, totally fake) stripey redhead floating by your place of residence today — or hell, even THURSDAY, for I will be UP THERE THAT LONG — would you take her out with a rock to put her out of her misery? Please?
Have a great Wednesday.
*Remy Zero
April 29th, 2008
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