- bloated with retarded size boobs
- bitchy with pimples and a need to clean and eat ice cream
- having cramps and experiencing the joy of menstruation
Friday, March 06, 2009
Okay, Teen Years, end already.
I break out every month when I'm about to get my period, and looking at the mirror this morning I realized that only ONE WEEK PER MONTH am I my normal self. The other weeks, I am, in order:
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Tweetle Lee Dee Doo
I like Twitter. And not necessarily the product as much as the branding.
The product is a little like Facebook status updates but through a different site so there's nothing too unique about it besides the fact that I can follow people without their mandatory approval.
But what's really fun about Twitter is the cuteness of it all. I like the colors and the logo font and the little birds they use (I normally don't like birds because I don't trust their hollow bones, so me liking their birds means they are doing birds well).
Even when the site craps out, I still like Twitter. Because even in crappy times, Twitter is still cute. Which is more than I can say for me.
The product is a little like Facebook status updates but through a different site so there's nothing too unique about it besides the fact that I can follow people without their mandatory approval.
But what's really fun about Twitter is the cuteness of it all. I like the colors and the logo font and the little birds they use (I normally don't like birds because I don't trust their hollow bones, so me liking their birds means they are doing birds well).
Even when the site craps out, I still like Twitter. Because even in crappy times, Twitter is still cute. Which is more than I can say for me.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
I dunno... just cool stuff
I've had a few "extra" minutes at work to spend perusing the internet and here are some things I've found that I like.
I Found Your Camera
This satisfies the voyeur in me but is also a great public service. How many times have I left my camera in a cab or at a party only to lose all evidence that the hangover I'm feeling is from me having a memorable time and not from me being stupid? Okay, never, because my camera is more important than my wallet (certainly more valuable). But for the rest of you, now when you lose your camera, there is hope that you'll get it back. And if you're like me and don't or haven't lost your camera, you get to snoop on the private lives of strangers in the name of "helping them." Win, win.
List of the Day
There are no rules for this blog other than to make a list of something each day. On some days, it's The 10 Most Special "Very Special" TV Episodes Of The Day, and on other days, it's an Engrish Roundup, but every day it's funny and makes me jealous because, dammit, my lists are never this good.
Book Inscriptions
I love a book inscription. I think I got this from my mom, who always signs the books she gives me with words that put the actual book to shame, and now whenever I get a book for someone, I try to write on the inside of it. And if someone gives me a book, I usually insist they write a message on it. I also like to use photos or receipts or other little life trinkets as bookmarks while I'm reading them and then store them in books when I'm done. Liz does that too, because when she lent me Love in the Time of Cholera, I used her enclosed bookmark. Just another little personal touch and something to send the imagination over a cliff.
Unnecessary Quotes
Look. I studied journalism in college. I work as an editor. I used to get excited in the 7th grade about diagramming sentences. I watch Cops because I like feeling superior to idiots. Unnecessary Quotes feeds that part of me, alright!
Please Enjoy
A couple years ago a guy I work with stumbled across this site, and when he sent me the link, I read it as Plea Seen Joy. Not only do I stop by this guy's site periodically to get design or branding inspiration, but I also check in to see what incredible DIY social commentary project he's crafted. Be sure to check out the projects if you're feeling like you want to give your vandalism a clever purpose.
JR ART
Surprise! I like photography! I first started following whoever this JR is when he was doing a project called Face 2 Face. He took photos of Israelis in certain occupations (bakers, lawyers, tailors, etc) and then took photos of Palestinians in those same occupations, and then he hung larger than life versions of the photos of the Israelis version and the Palestinian version next to each other in both countries. The goal was to get these people to go, "Hey, they're not that different from me." Since then he's gone all over the world, capturing humanity and putting our similarities front and center, simultaneously showcasing beauty and disgust at the same time and making us ask how can we do this to each other? (Be sure to click on the English version in the top left, unless you just want to let the photos speak for themselves. and be sure to click on Projets to see his body of work so far.) I subscribe to him so now I get email updates and photos, and I'm never disappointed.
The Belly Project
I'm still sussing out how I feel about this one. I like the concept -- women of different ages and life experiences showing the reality of these bodies we inhabit -- but I have to be in the right mood for it. Like the one that comes on days when the Victoria's Secret catalogues show up and I start having a fit of self-loathing. On days like that, this is a handy little collective of gals being real.
F My Life
Props to Amy for turning me on to this one. I'm not sure how many of these are real and how many are made up, but all of them are entertaining and make me feel grateful that this crap hasn't happened to me. So far.
I Found Your Camera
This satisfies the voyeur in me but is also a great public service. How many times have I left my camera in a cab or at a party only to lose all evidence that the hangover I'm feeling is from me having a memorable time and not from me being stupid? Okay, never, because my camera is more important than my wallet (certainly more valuable). But for the rest of you, now when you lose your camera, there is hope that you'll get it back. And if you're like me and don't or haven't lost your camera, you get to snoop on the private lives of strangers in the name of "helping them." Win, win.
List of the Day
There are no rules for this blog other than to make a list of something each day. On some days, it's The 10 Most Special "Very Special" TV Episodes Of The Day, and on other days, it's an Engrish Roundup, but every day it's funny and makes me jealous because, dammit, my lists are never this good.
Book Inscriptions
I love a book inscription. I think I got this from my mom, who always signs the books she gives me with words that put the actual book to shame, and now whenever I get a book for someone, I try to write on the inside of it. And if someone gives me a book, I usually insist they write a message on it. I also like to use photos or receipts or other little life trinkets as bookmarks while I'm reading them and then store them in books when I'm done. Liz does that too, because when she lent me Love in the Time of Cholera, I used her enclosed bookmark. Just another little personal touch and something to send the imagination over a cliff.
Unnecessary Quotes
Look. I studied journalism in college. I work as an editor. I used to get excited in the 7th grade about diagramming sentences. I watch Cops because I like feeling superior to idiots. Unnecessary Quotes feeds that part of me, alright!
Please Enjoy
A couple years ago a guy I work with stumbled across this site, and when he sent me the link, I read it as Plea Seen Joy. Not only do I stop by this guy's site periodically to get design or branding inspiration, but I also check in to see what incredible DIY social commentary project he's crafted. Be sure to check out the projects if you're feeling like you want to give your vandalism a clever purpose.
JR ART
Surprise! I like photography! I first started following whoever this JR is when he was doing a project called Face 2 Face. He took photos of Israelis in certain occupations (bakers, lawyers, tailors, etc) and then took photos of Palestinians in those same occupations, and then he hung larger than life versions of the photos of the Israelis version and the Palestinian version next to each other in both countries. The goal was to get these people to go, "Hey, they're not that different from me." Since then he's gone all over the world, capturing humanity and putting our similarities front and center, simultaneously showcasing beauty and disgust at the same time and making us ask how can we do this to each other? (Be sure to click on the English version in the top left, unless you just want to let the photos speak for themselves. and be sure to click on Projets to see his body of work so far.) I subscribe to him so now I get email updates and photos, and I'm never disappointed.
The Belly Project
I'm still sussing out how I feel about this one. I like the concept -- women of different ages and life experiences showing the reality of these bodies we inhabit -- but I have to be in the right mood for it. Like the one that comes on days when the Victoria's Secret catalogues show up and I start having a fit of self-loathing. On days like that, this is a handy little collective of gals being real.
F My Life
Props to Amy for turning me on to this one. I'm not sure how many of these are real and how many are made up, but all of them are entertaining and make me feel grateful that this crap hasn't happened to me. So far.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
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And you thought OctoMom was a freak show... have you watched TLC lately?
Last night I was flipping between Intervention on A&E and Little People, Big World on TLC. Little people sometimes make me nauseous -- I KNOW I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON -- but those Roloffs are a sweet family and if I'm feeling like the world is crap, watching them puts me in a much better mood. Plus, the camera people have some good tricks up their sleeves to make them seem less dwarfish -- I KNOW, ME = TERRIBLE.
During one particular commercial break - on both channels - I caught a promo for the show Table for 12. This is not a restaurant show. This is a show about a family of 12. Which normally wouldn't be so bad, but it's on the same network as the shows Jon & Kate Plus 8 and 18 and Counting (yes, and counting...).
I watch Jon & Kate Plus 8 sometimes, but sometimes I just can't. It makes me want to kick babies and smack some sense into hyper breeders -- I FULLY ADMIT I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON. I know babies are a gift from god, a miracle, the purpose of humanity, but I also know that, seriously, this planet will (and is) kill(ing) babies if it gets too many of them. Imagine how many people could be saved from malaria if Jon & Kate had stuck with 2 babies, one to replace each of them...
That being said, Jon and Kate -- mostly due to Kate's efforts -- do an inspiring job loving and taking care of their brood. And if they can do it with 6 babies, the rest of the world can do it with 2-4. I see how the show is comforting to overwhelmed and exhausted parents, many of whom appreciate that how HARD it is to raise kids is conveyed so well, and that they get a lot of perspective and, in some cases, good advice from Jon and Kate on parenting and marriage. Plus, Jon and Kate only had two pregnancies, so I don't think they were being freaky as much as they got lucky with their IVF. Like I said, sometimes I like the show too.
But I'm afraid it's started an epidemic.
Not too many seasons after Jon & Kate came to TLC, the Duggars also moved in. You know the Duggars. They're the one who look Amish, but are actually an evangelical Christian religion called Quiverful. I shudder to think...
Anyway, the Duggars got their own show, 17 & Counting, which then became 18 & Counting and a book deal called 20 & Counting. Twenty. Freaking. People. That's a classroom of family. Two baseball teams.
I should say that if the Duggars want to have 100 kids and they're bodies and wallets can support them, more power to them, but I don't feel that way. Because they are freaks, completely self absorbed with their own agenda (one they get away with because they tacked it onto god), and their multiplying affects me... financially, environmentally, socially.
Seriously, if breeding like a bunny couldn't make you famous... couldn't get you a television series that would let you afford all those rug rats... would OctoMom have been so tempted? Don't think TLC isn't developing a show for her right now, one that will air once all the judgy single momness subsides. I can just hear the brainstorms now:
During one particular commercial break - on both channels - I caught a promo for the show Table for 12. This is not a restaurant show. This is a show about a family of 12. Which normally wouldn't be so bad, but it's on the same network as the shows Jon & Kate Plus 8 and 18 and Counting (yes, and counting...).
I watch Jon & Kate Plus 8 sometimes, but sometimes I just can't. It makes me want to kick babies and smack some sense into hyper breeders -- I FULLY ADMIT I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON. I know babies are a gift from god, a miracle, the purpose of humanity, but I also know that, seriously, this planet will (and is) kill(ing) babies if it gets too many of them. Imagine how many people could be saved from malaria if Jon & Kate had stuck with 2 babies, one to replace each of them...
That being said, Jon and Kate -- mostly due to Kate's efforts -- do an inspiring job loving and taking care of their brood. And if they can do it with 6 babies, the rest of the world can do it with 2-4. I see how the show is comforting to overwhelmed and exhausted parents, many of whom appreciate that how HARD it is to raise kids is conveyed so well, and that they get a lot of perspective and, in some cases, good advice from Jon and Kate on parenting and marriage. Plus, Jon and Kate only had two pregnancies, so I don't think they were being freaky as much as they got lucky with their IVF. Like I said, sometimes I like the show too.
But I'm afraid it's started an epidemic.
Not too many seasons after Jon & Kate came to TLC, the Duggars also moved in. You know the Duggars. They're the one who look Amish, but are actually an evangelical Christian religion called Quiverful. I shudder to think...
Anyway, the Duggars got their own show, 17 & Counting, which then became 18 & Counting and a book deal called 20 & Counting. Twenty. Freaking. People. That's a classroom of family. Two baseball teams.
I should say that if the Duggars want to have 100 kids and they're bodies and wallets can support them, more power to them, but I don't feel that way. Because they are freaks, completely self absorbed with their own agenda (one they get away with because they tacked it onto god), and their multiplying affects me... financially, environmentally, socially.
Seriously, if breeding like a bunny couldn't make you famous... couldn't get you a television series that would let you afford all those rug rats... would OctoMom have been so tempted? Don't think TLC isn't developing a show for her right now, one that will air once all the judgy single momness subsides. I can just hear the brainstorms now:
- "14 vs. 1" -- Nooo, sounds too combative.
- "Extreme Single Mom" -- Maybe, it uses the right buzz words. Maybe we could roll out a line of Extreme kid foods to go along with it.
- "Must Really Love Kids" -- You think she's ready to date? Because this would be PERFECT!
Monday, March 02, 2009
Goodness Gracious
A year and a half ago, I put "learn poi" on my Google To Do List. And then I stared at it until this past January when I finally got sick of looking at it and signed up for a poi class.
Poi is basically spinning wads attached to strings around your body. Sometimes those wads are just bags of beans, sometimes they're glowing eggs, and sometimes they're balls of fire.
Last night was a ball of fire night.
I especially like the commentary by Victor, a long-haired Harley biker dude who taught me that you're only supposed to sport a braid after you've had sex with someone. He sounds almost girlish in his fire watching delight.
Poi is basically spinning wads attached to strings around your body. Sometimes those wads are just bags of beans, sometimes they're glowing eggs, and sometimes they're balls of fire.
Last night was a ball of fire night.
I especially like the commentary by Victor, a long-haired Harley biker dude who taught me that you're only supposed to sport a braid after you've had sex with someone. He sounds almost girlish in his fire watching delight.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Quite Literally Funny
Because people on the Internet are awesome, they spend their time making literal versions of music videos, where the singer narrates the action and thereby points out the ridiculousness around them. I saw this one today, and I love it... and not just because I love weddings and ruffians.
White Wedding: Literal Video Version - watch more funny videos
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Financial Planning
On my first day of college I signed up for a Visa card with a $2000 limit. Ever since then, I've ebbed and flowed into debt and deeper debt. I'm a smart person, so I know credit cards are bad. But I'm also an impulsive person, an I-want-it-all-and-I-want-it-now American, so on days when my head was swirly with desire, Daddy MasterCard was there to help me out.
To be fair, Daddy MasterCard made a lot of things I cherish in my life possible. He paid for my airfare to Europe. He helped me start my own business. He even foot the bill for my and Mr. T's wedding.
When we moved across the country and I started collecting a normal paycheck again, I decided it was time to grow up and start living within my means. I put the old plastic in a baggie of water and threw it in the freezer. For about two weeks.
After more than 10 years of bad judgment and a lack of self control, I wised up and stopped the spending spree in the Fall 2007, days after charging more than $2000 on a flat screen television I cherish. I have been diligently paying off huge amounts of credit card debt each month, a feat made possible by working 3 jobs for more than a year and taking on extra freelance work whenever I can. (And when I say jobs, I don't mean glamorous, sexy jobs. I mean front-desk-babysitting-work-on-the-weekends type of jobs. That's how sick I am of having credit card debt.)
Finally, I have made some measurable progress. Card #1 is paid in full. To celebrate, we bought some champagne and cut the card into confetti. Now I have a taste for blood and Card #2 is next on my hit list.
To be fair, Daddy MasterCard made a lot of things I cherish in my life possible. He paid for my airfare to Europe. He helped me start my own business. He even foot the bill for my and Mr. T's wedding.
When we moved across the country and I started collecting a normal paycheck again, I decided it was time to grow up and start living within my means. I put the old plastic in a baggie of water and threw it in the freezer. For about two weeks.
After more than 10 years of bad judgment and a lack of self control, I wised up and stopped the spending spree in the Fall 2007, days after charging more than $2000 on a flat screen television I cherish. I have been diligently paying off huge amounts of credit card debt each month, a feat made possible by working 3 jobs for more than a year and taking on extra freelance work whenever I can. (And when I say jobs, I don't mean glamorous, sexy jobs. I mean front-desk-babysitting-work-on-the-weekends type of jobs. That's how sick I am of having credit card debt.)
Finally, I have made some measurable progress. Card #1 is paid in full. To celebrate, we bought some champagne and cut the card into confetti. Now I have a taste for blood and Card #2 is next on my hit list.
Married... without Children
OK, so I started another blog, really it's a spin off of this one, called Dulywed where I chronicle my relationship with Mr. T because, really, what's better for a marriage than having no boundaries.
I'm pretty sure this is the one that will make me a million dollars, but if not, it will hopefully make you laugh.
Bookmark it already.
I'm pretty sure this is the one that will make me a million dollars, but if not, it will hopefully make you laugh.
Bookmark it already.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
For Your Infomercial
Favorite Quotes from this Sham Wow Masterpiece:
"It's made in Germany. You know the Germans always make good stuff."
"You following me, camera guy?"
"We can't do this all day."
Favorite Quotes from this Slap Chop Masterpiece:
"You're gonna be in a great mood all day 'cause you're gonna be slapping your troubles away with the Slap Chop."
"You love salad. You hate making it. You know you hate making salads, that's why you don't have any salad in your diet!"
"This tuna looks boring. Stop having a boring tuna. Stop having a boring life."
"You're gonna love my nuts."
"You can't open this up. It's worthless. Forget about it."
"We're gonna make America skinny again... one slap at a time."
"Tacos. Fettuccine. Linguine. Martini. Bikini."
"You know we can't do this all day."
Would it be really wrong of me to want one of these in Royal Blue?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Turns out... I AM AWESOME!!
So that video thing I did for Heather... yeah the one just below here.
IT WON!! Which means me and Heather will be heading to New York for a makeover and shopping spree and 3-day opportunity to yell PENIS everywhere we go.
Holy crap this is awesome! Finally, I will be stylish for at least ONE DAY of my life and Heather and I will be taking a trip for the first time since Spring Break '96!
IT WON!! Which means me and Heather will be heading to New York for a makeover and shopping spree and 3-day opportunity to yell PENIS everywhere we go.
Holy crap this is awesome! Finally, I will be stylish for at least ONE DAY of my life and Heather and I will be taking a trip for the first time since Spring Break '96!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
BFF... &E
I started a new school in the 5th grade. I went from St. Matthews to Zachary Taylor, and for someone who was so shy her mom advocated to keep her with the same teacher for grades 3 and 4, moving to a new school was basically my 10-year-old hell.
On the first day, I walked into Mrs. Kidd's classroom and sat at a desk near the door. The desks were arranged in clusters of 4 to 6, facing each other to make squares or rectangles or age appropriate study groups or opportunities for new girls to feel like aliens.
I sat next to a cute girl with huge boobs named Stacy Dickey, hoping we could be friends so I could get through the 5th grade with my fragile psyche in tact (and so I could get her secrets on how to get boobs). Then a girl named Heather Kellogg walked in and changed my life forever.
"Yeah, you have to move," she said. "That's my friend and that desk next to her is mine."
I was defeated, scooped up my supplies and relocated next to a girl named Leslie Smith. Leslie and I became fast friends, probably because she was as needy as I was. We spent every available weekend together most of the school year, earning all As and being teachers pets and over achievers, while that Heather girl caused a commotion and was forced to sign the conduct notebook almost daily.
Then, toward the end of the year, Heather and I became friends. Maybe it was the love feud over Tommy Goins that split her and Stacy up. Maybe it was the rearrangement of desks into twos, all facing front. Maybe it was an invitation to her 11th birthday sleepover party. Whatever it was, Heather became like a sister to me. Another girl for me to fight to the death with, to hate with all my being, to need to survive, to rely on for the will to breathe. So long nice, quiet, respectful, generous, nerdy, safe Leslie. Hello wild, crazy, nutty, hysterical, outrageous, unpredictable Heather.
Without Heather to delicately push me out of my nerdy cocoon, I would probably be afraid to do anything the least bit valuable. Afraid to kiss a boy. Afraid to stand up for myself. Afraid to make noise and take up space. Afraid to explore new places and meet new faces. Heather blazed a trail to life for me. I owe a lot of who I am to her, probably more than anyone (not counting those who are one of us).
I recently saw a contest that was about what friendship means, and even though I've been blessed with the world's most incredible women for friends (shout outs: Liz, Amy, Ruble, Sarah, Kristin, Jen, Leigh), Heather popped into my mind immediately. She has seen me through everything that mattered since things started mattering. So I made this, to honor her and to try to win us a trip to New York for a makeover.
Because that's what best friends do.
Happy Birthday Sheba!
On the first day, I walked into Mrs. Kidd's classroom and sat at a desk near the door. The desks were arranged in clusters of 4 to 6, facing each other to make squares or rectangles or age appropriate study groups or opportunities for new girls to feel like aliens.
I sat next to a cute girl with huge boobs named Stacy Dickey, hoping we could be friends so I could get through the 5th grade with my fragile psyche in tact (and so I could get her secrets on how to get boobs). Then a girl named Heather Kellogg walked in and changed my life forever.
"Yeah, you have to move," she said. "That's my friend and that desk next to her is mine."
I was defeated, scooped up my supplies and relocated next to a girl named Leslie Smith. Leslie and I became fast friends, probably because she was as needy as I was. We spent every available weekend together most of the school year, earning all As and being teachers pets and over achievers, while that Heather girl caused a commotion and was forced to sign the conduct notebook almost daily.
Then, toward the end of the year, Heather and I became friends. Maybe it was the love feud over Tommy Goins that split her and Stacy up. Maybe it was the rearrangement of desks into twos, all facing front. Maybe it was an invitation to her 11th birthday sleepover party. Whatever it was, Heather became like a sister to me. Another girl for me to fight to the death with, to hate with all my being, to need to survive, to rely on for the will to breathe. So long nice, quiet, respectful, generous, nerdy, safe Leslie. Hello wild, crazy, nutty, hysterical, outrageous, unpredictable Heather.
Without Heather to delicately push me out of my nerdy cocoon, I would probably be afraid to do anything the least bit valuable. Afraid to kiss a boy. Afraid to stand up for myself. Afraid to make noise and take up space. Afraid to explore new places and meet new faces. Heather blazed a trail to life for me. I owe a lot of who I am to her, probably more than anyone (not counting those who are one of us).
I recently saw a contest that was about what friendship means, and even though I've been blessed with the world's most incredible women for friends (shout outs: Liz, Amy, Ruble, Sarah, Kristin, Jen, Leigh), Heather popped into my mind immediately. She has seen me through everything that mattered since things started mattering. So I made this, to honor her and to try to win us a trip to New York for a makeover.
Because that's what best friends do.
Happy Birthday Sheba!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
And then Laila went to college.
When the government makes it a 3-day weekend and your employer complies and you live in LA, the best way to spend those 72 hours is to GET OUT.
So Mack and I loaded up the hatchback with a change of clothes and went to kidnap Laila and take her to San Diego. She'd been so excited to go with us on an overnight, out-of-town, NO PARENTS ALLOWED trip that ever since we mentioned it, she made a point to tell Mack, "I'm free this weekend," every time we visited.
She assumed the back seat on her own, after trying to convince me that I wouldn't be as bored back there as I'd be in the front seat, and we hit the road.
We went to the beach and inspected tidepools and sandstone cliffs.
We walked along the rocky outcroppings and felt the ocean mist our faces.
We watched the pregnant seals roll around on the sand, certain they were seconds from giving birth.
We explored caves marked by strange foot formations.
We went back in time and visited dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum.
All of this was a lame waste of time. Laila wanted to get to the hotel, "check out the mini fridge," and pretend we were college roomies. Less than 30 minutes after checking in, she had unpacked her bag AND my bag (hanging up all of our clothes, including our pajamas) and created a "beauty bucket" for our toiletries.
Then we broke out the beer bong and took her to get a tattoo. How can she be this big already?
So Mack and I loaded up the hatchback with a change of clothes and went to kidnap Laila and take her to San Diego. She'd been so excited to go with us on an overnight, out-of-town, NO PARENTS ALLOWED trip that ever since we mentioned it, she made a point to tell Mack, "I'm free this weekend," every time we visited.
She assumed the back seat on her own, after trying to convince me that I wouldn't be as bored back there as I'd be in the front seat, and we hit the road.We went to the beach and inspected tidepools and sandstone cliffs.
We walked along the rocky outcroppings and felt the ocean mist our faces.
We watched the pregnant seals roll around on the sand, certain they were seconds from giving birth.
We explored caves marked by strange foot formations.
We went back in time and visited dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum.
All of this was a lame waste of time. Laila wanted to get to the hotel, "check out the mini fridge," and pretend we were college roomies. Less than 30 minutes after checking in, she had unpacked her bag AND my bag (hanging up all of our clothes, including our pajamas) and created a "beauty bucket" for our toiletries.
Then we broke out the beer bong and took her to get a tattoo. How can she be this big already?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Analyze This.
Lately Mr. T and I have been using separate comforters, an act he hates and I love. For years I've been freezing my ass off at night, clinging to the duvet overflow because my bedmate thinks he needs a king size comforter all to himself. But last week our other comforter wasn't dry all the way, so we brought in our back up, and then, well, then we just never put the back up away.
So now we get to be two cocoons of warmth instead of one. Sweet equality.
But all this sound sleep hasn't necessarily been restful. I sleep so deeply that my dreams take the place of reality and I'm up all night running from killers and saving people's lives.
Take last night for example. Everything was great at first. I was sitting on the dock of a huge lake, watching Amy swim, beer in hand, in the little roped off swimming area. She was floating that special way she has of floating and everything was just fine. That is, until Shamu showed up.
All of a sudden, I was screaming from the dock for Amy to swim to the side and get out. But she was floating that special way she has of floating and she couldn't make out my actual words with her ears in the water. Then Betsy ended up in the roped off swimming area magically and she heard me screaming and started to swim toward me. Which was dumb because I was farther from her than the side and she had to swim right past Shamu to make it to me.
In all the commotion, Amy finally caught on that her life was in danger and started to swim to the edge. But not very aggressively since she had to keep her beer hand up out of the water to keep her beer safe. At the very last second, just as Shamu was about to have an Amy snack, she swam under the dock and took cover.
Betsy got to me and I pulled her out of the water, very dramatically by her bikini bottoms, which gave her a ridiculous wedgie. Why was that part so clear in all of this? A wedgie sticks out during my whale attack dream? Come on brain.
We both ran to the dock where Amy was hiding, expecting her to come out the other side so we could pull her out, but she never came out the other side. She was just under the dock. Running out of air. Without her beer.
What a nightmare.
So now we get to be two cocoons of warmth instead of one. Sweet equality.
But all this sound sleep hasn't necessarily been restful. I sleep so deeply that my dreams take the place of reality and I'm up all night running from killers and saving people's lives.
Take last night for example. Everything was great at first. I was sitting on the dock of a huge lake, watching Amy swim, beer in hand, in the little roped off swimming area. She was floating that special way she has of floating and everything was just fine. That is, until Shamu showed up.
All of a sudden, I was screaming from the dock for Amy to swim to the side and get out. But she was floating that special way she has of floating and she couldn't make out my actual words with her ears in the water. Then Betsy ended up in the roped off swimming area magically and she heard me screaming and started to swim toward me. Which was dumb because I was farther from her than the side and she had to swim right past Shamu to make it to me.In all the commotion, Amy finally caught on that her life was in danger and started to swim to the edge. But not very aggressively since she had to keep her beer hand up out of the water to keep her beer safe. At the very last second, just as Shamu was about to have an Amy snack, she swam under the dock and took cover.
Betsy got to me and I pulled her out of the water, very dramatically by her bikini bottoms, which gave her a ridiculous wedgie. Why was that part so clear in all of this? A wedgie sticks out during my whale attack dream? Come on brain.
We both ran to the dock where Amy was hiding, expecting her to come out the other side so we could pull her out, but she never came out the other side. She was just under the dock. Running out of air. Without her beer.
What a nightmare.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Things I've Been Doing to Keep from Dying of Boredom
1. Listening to NPR's playlist of Lesser Known Love Songs.
2. Designing phone book ads for my neighbor's construction company.
3. Cropping photos of my professional clips and working on my professional website because I AM A PROFESSIONAL DAMMIT.
4. Taking mental vacations to South America. (Have you been here because it is AWESOME!)
5. Sniffing the different color Sharpie highlighters to see if they have subtly different smells.
6. Wondering if that lady who had the 8 babies really did have surgery to look like Angelina Jolie.
7. Revisiting the idea of composting.
8. E-stalking on Facebook.
9. Reading blogs. And more blogs. And more blogs.
10. Typing creative concepts as they're being dictated to me by the guy in the office with the broken finger who also likes to tell me about how he asked a girl once if he could just "stick it in her butt" since she was on her period.
11. Deciding if I really need a master's degree to do graphic design or if one of those education extension classes would do the trick.
12. Planning to take a long photo walk. Planning.
13. Watching this hilariousness over and over and contemplating if this really is real life.
14. Trying to forget my last horrible dentist appointment so I can fit in one last visit before my insurance goes bye-bye.
15. Wishing my office had a bubble bath.
16. Imagining what will happen tonight on Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible.
17. Chatting at an unnecessary length about the unconstitutionality of entrapment, even if it is to catch a predator.
18. Looking up photos of Michael Phelps with the bong.
19. Enjoying Good Earth tea 4-5 times a day.
20. Counting the minutes until I can escape, go home, and do the exact same things but find them pleasurable and exciting.
2. Designing phone book ads for my neighbor's construction company.
3. Cropping photos of my professional clips and working on my professional website because I AM A PROFESSIONAL DAMMIT.
4. Taking mental vacations to South America. (Have you been here because it is AWESOME!)
5. Sniffing the different color Sharpie highlighters to see if they have subtly different smells.
6. Wondering if that lady who had the 8 babies really did have surgery to look like Angelina Jolie.
7. Revisiting the idea of composting.
8. E-stalking on Facebook.
9. Reading blogs. And more blogs. And more blogs.
10. Typing creative concepts as they're being dictated to me by the guy in the office with the broken finger who also likes to tell me about how he asked a girl once if he could just "stick it in her butt" since she was on her period.
11. Deciding if I really need a master's degree to do graphic design or if one of those education extension classes would do the trick.
12. Planning to take a long photo walk. Planning.
13. Watching this hilariousness over and over and contemplating if this really is real life.
14. Trying to forget my last horrible dentist appointment so I can fit in one last visit before my insurance goes bye-bye.
15. Wishing my office had a bubble bath.
16. Imagining what will happen tonight on Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible.
17. Chatting at an unnecessary length about the unconstitutionality of entrapment, even if it is to catch a predator.
18. Looking up photos of Michael Phelps with the bong.
19. Enjoying Good Earth tea 4-5 times a day.
20. Counting the minutes until I can escape, go home, and do the exact same things but find them pleasurable and exciting.
Friday, February 06, 2009
A thrilling look at LICENSE PLATES!
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Correspondence
Laila got an email account. And with it came free access to the mind of an 8-year-old sass queen.
On Monday she whacked her head on the corner of the table and a blood panic ensued. (Laila used to get so upset at the possibility of blood or a scrape or a bump that she would cry so hard she'd vomit. It's tapered off incredibly since she's gotten older, but the head leak was new territory for her and her parents probably deserve an award for letting her live through what were no doubt the worst screams of her life). So today I emailed her to ask about it and to send her this.
(Mack gets all the credit for the cute puppy exchange idea. He started sending her videos and photos of adorable things, and without his guidance, I probably would have started swapping recipes with her. Puppy pics are waaaay better.)
I was thinking she'd email me back something I didn't totally understand. Like once I sent her a photo of herself from when she was 3 and looked like she'd gone for a swim in a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and I wrote a little message about how beautiful she's become and how I'm glad to have her as my sister. She wrote back, "How did you like my FANCY WIGGGGGGGG!"
I mean, it sort of makes sense, but not exactly.
And then she followed that one up with, "My favorites for songs are lalaland by demmi lavito and shreck2 allstar. ps also more of demmi lavito's songs."
So I'm used to being a little confused by her responses, but that bonk on the head must've done something to her email technique. Here's what it looked like today.
Finally, she's speaking my language of totally rotten.
On Monday she whacked her head on the corner of the table and a blood panic ensued. (Laila used to get so upset at the possibility of blood or a scrape or a bump that she would cry so hard she'd vomit. It's tapered off incredibly since she's gotten older, but the head leak was new territory for her and her parents probably deserve an award for letting her live through what were no doubt the worst screams of her life). So today I emailed her to ask about it and to send her this.
(Mack gets all the credit for the cute puppy exchange idea. He started sending her videos and photos of adorable things, and without his guidance, I probably would have started swapping recipes with her. Puppy pics are waaaay better.)I was thinking she'd email me back something I didn't totally understand. Like once I sent her a photo of herself from when she was 3 and looked like she'd gone for a swim in a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and I wrote a little message about how beautiful she's become and how I'm glad to have her as my sister. She wrote back, "How did you like my FANCY WIGGGGGGGG!"
I mean, it sort of makes sense, but not exactly.
And then she followed that one up with, "My favorites for songs are lalaland by demmi lavito and shreck2 allstar. ps also more of demmi lavito's songs."
So I'm used to being a little confused by her responses, but that bonk on the head must've done something to her email technique. Here's what it looked like today.
Finally, she's speaking my language of totally rotten.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Super Bowl XLIII
I don't watch any football. Ever.
I used to watch college basketball, but since the team I root for (CATS!) doesn't ever get played on TV on this side of the country, my college basketball watching is officially dormant.
Which means that aside from the Olympics, I don't watch sports.
Which means that it's no big deal for me to be at an airport on Super Bowl Sunday during the Big Game.
This year I was in Memphis. I was at Lenny's sandwich shop getting a tuna sub with baked BBQ potato chips and preparing to head to Gate B10 to read my New Yorker and my OK! magazines. The only thing I knew about either of the teams is that one was there on luck alone and one of the players used to bag groceries.
With dinner in hand, I started to walk down the terminal and noticed the gait of my fellow travelers as they approached big screen TVs. They slowed down like they were running out of batteries, their jaws loosened, their eyes glazed over, and they stood, in a trance, watching padded men chase each other around. They would dam up the terminal hallway ever 50 feet and then, when a whistle blew, they would break from their huddles and try to get a little closer to their own gates.
We are funny monkeys.
I used to watch college basketball, but since the team I root for (CATS!) doesn't ever get played on TV on this side of the country, my college basketball watching is officially dormant.
Which means that aside from the Olympics, I don't watch sports.
Which means that it's no big deal for me to be at an airport on Super Bowl Sunday during the Big Game.
This year I was in Memphis. I was at Lenny's sandwich shop getting a tuna sub with baked BBQ potato chips and preparing to head to Gate B10 to read my New Yorker and my OK! magazines. The only thing I knew about either of the teams is that one was there on luck alone and one of the players used to bag groceries.
With dinner in hand, I started to walk down the terminal and noticed the gait of my fellow travelers as they approached big screen TVs. They slowed down like they were running out of batteries, their jaws loosened, their eyes glazed over, and they stood, in a trance, watching padded men chase each other around. They would dam up the terminal hallway ever 50 feet and then, when a whistle blew, they would break from their huddles and try to get a little closer to their own gates.
We are funny monkeys.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Letters to the Cupboard (in this case... the filing cabinet by my desk)
Dear Flavor Blasted Goldfish,
You. You and you're unique paper bag packaging. You even look like the lunches my mom used to send with me to the bus stop. But just because you look like an extreme reinterpretation of school lunch from a happy childhood doesn't mean I should treat you that way.
Like, I probably shouldn't eat your entire contents in one sitting.
Sure, it starts out simply enough. A salty craving justified by your small packaging. The knowledge that 51 -- yes 51! -- of you comprise a single serving. The low price point. Next thing I know you've found an open spot in my shopping basket, alongside things that represent my better judgment.
I added you to my secret stash -- the bottom drawer to my left -- and expected you to sit there quietly... like the pretzels do. But no, you and your fishy little contents swimming in flavor blasted goodness just had to stew in that drawer and jump up into my salivary glands every other thought.
Then, when I brought you out and made a 51-piece pile next to my computer, you repaid me by having 5 other 51-piece piles left in your reserves. And you let those 5 servings beckon me until not a single little fishy was left.
And to think they give you to babies as a snack. Shame on you Goldfish. Shame on you.
Love,
Amber
You. You and you're unique paper bag packaging. You even look like the lunches my mom used to send with me to the bus stop. But just because you look like an extreme reinterpretation of school lunch from a happy childhood doesn't mean I should treat you that way.
Like, I probably shouldn't eat your entire contents in one sitting.
Sure, it starts out simply enough. A salty craving justified by your small packaging. The knowledge that 51 -- yes 51! -- of you comprise a single serving. The low price point. Next thing I know you've found an open spot in my shopping basket, alongside things that represent my better judgment.
I added you to my secret stash -- the bottom drawer to my left -- and expected you to sit there quietly... like the pretzels do. But no, you and your fishy little contents swimming in flavor blasted goodness just had to stew in that drawer and jump up into my salivary glands every other thought.
Then, when I brought you out and made a 51-piece pile next to my computer, you repaid me by having 5 other 51-piece piles left in your reserves. And you let those 5 servings beckon me until not a single little fishy was left.
And to think they give you to babies as a snack. Shame on you Goldfish. Shame on you.
Love,
Amber
Monday, January 19, 2009
It's Beginning to Look a lot like Black History Month
If you have the day off today, you should watch this so you know why.
If you're working like me, you should steal 20 minutes from your employer and watch this so you won't feel like as much of a slave to capitalism.
Happy MLK-One-Day-'til-Obama Day! Let the end of segregation begin! Again!
If you're working like me, you should steal 20 minutes from your employer and watch this so you won't feel like as much of a slave to capitalism.
Happy MLK-One-Day-'til-Obama Day! Let the end of segregation begin! Again!
Friday, January 16, 2009
Seriously
My friend David is in Congo right now making a documentary and mingling with child soldiers and it's got me thinking about, you know, child freaking soldiers.
I've heard about 100 stories of child soldiers carrying guns, getting raped, watching their families get slaughtered, sensational stories of survival go team! In general, I think it's bad to have child soldiers and I feel bad about children having to be soldiers.
In specific, look at this:
That woman up there (not the white one, duh) was a child soldier. Her name is Chantal and she was taken by rebels when she was six.
Six.
She was held captive in the forest for nine years.
Nine.
Every day of those nine years she was raped by seven different men.
Seven.
She, like any six- to 15-year-old being raped every day by seven different men, tried to escape. Three times she got away, only to be captured, brought back and tortured. On her fourth attempt, she finally found a way out.
But in the cruel reality of child soldierdom, her escape didn't leave her liberated. Instead she found out she would be forever tethered to the men who'd been raping her every single day because she was pregnant.
Pregnant and with no idea who the baby daddy was.
My friend David met Chantal. And her baby, who is now two years old. Chantal has just started to take care of her child because for the first two years she just couldn't stand the thought of being kind to something that was associated with the person who destroyed her life. I can't say I'd be so generous.
Who really wants to think about this sad crap on a Friday? Not me. It's far worse than I ever imagined it was, and even though I prefer being in the dark about the cruel reality, that won't help other kids like Chantal get a fair shot at life.
I've heard about 100 stories of child soldiers carrying guns, getting raped, watching their families get slaughtered, sensational stories of survival go team! In general, I think it's bad to have child soldiers and I feel bad about children having to be soldiers.
In specific, look at this:
That woman up there (not the white one, duh) was a child soldier. Her name is Chantal and she was taken by rebels when she was six.Six.
She was held captive in the forest for nine years.
Nine.
Every day of those nine years she was raped by seven different men.
Seven.
She, like any six- to 15-year-old being raped every day by seven different men, tried to escape. Three times she got away, only to be captured, brought back and tortured. On her fourth attempt, she finally found a way out.
But in the cruel reality of child soldierdom, her escape didn't leave her liberated. Instead she found out she would be forever tethered to the men who'd been raping her every single day because she was pregnant.
Pregnant and with no idea who the baby daddy was.
My friend David met Chantal. And her baby, who is now two years old. Chantal has just started to take care of her child because for the first two years she just couldn't stand the thought of being kind to something that was associated with the person who destroyed her life. I can't say I'd be so generous.
Who really wants to think about this sad crap on a Friday? Not me. It's far worse than I ever imagined it was, and even though I prefer being in the dark about the cruel reality, that won't help other kids like Chantal get a fair shot at life.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Thing about HMOs
Since I'm in media and the media industry is insecure to put it nicely, I've decided to get my health in order. I've lived without insurance before, and, thanks to Planned Parenthood, it's manageable, but the things I need to do now aren't things Planned Parenthood takes care of.
Like a colonoscopy.
My Uncle Mike died from colon cancer when he was 33. He was diagnosed a couple years before that, which basically makes him my age. The thing about my Scott blood is that it really isn't optimized unless it's got a layer of filth in it -- courtesy of violence, sex, smoking or alcohol -- and Mike's blood was pristine compared to my other relatives. He didn't smoke or drink, didn't break his siblings' bones, didn't cheat on women and was generally a good guy. While the rest of the Scotts swam around in the smoky residue of Chesterfield Kings unfiltered cigarettes and toasted their health with cases of Hamm's beer, Mike focused his attention on his shiny red Corvette and adventures in Africa.
Fortunately, I exist with that protective layer of filth on me, but even so, I feel like I should get a colonoscopy to be sure it's working. Plus, my mom told me to do it on my 30th birthday and I put it off and put it off, and for some reason, she just won't forget about it like I do. If I want to hear the end of the colonoscopy, I need to send her footage of a healthy intestine for Mother's Day.
Today I started the process. I made an appointment with my Primary Care Physician (PCP) and paid $25 to spend 3 minutes with her while she filled out a referral form claiming I was "constipated." It's true that I don't crap every day, that sometimes I won't crap for 3 or 4 days, but I wouldn't say I'm ever constipated. I don't feel any pain... I just need the right circumstances to relieve myself. Like a cup of coffee, some reading material, an hour of isolation, and the confidence a book of matches buys you.
With referral in hand, I left the office and called the gastrointestinal (GI) doctors. After confirming my HMO/PPO status, I made an appointment for a consultation with them for Jan. 27.
On Jan. 27, I'll pay another $25, offer up some hyperbole about my "constipation" problem -- something that involves bloody stool and cramping -- and hope that I'll be able to come back in another few weeks to get diarrhea. That is what my HMO makes me do. Lie about my condition so my poor mother (and a little bit of me) can get peace of mind.
Like a colonoscopy.
My Uncle Mike died from colon cancer when he was 33. He was diagnosed a couple years before that, which basically makes him my age. The thing about my Scott blood is that it really isn't optimized unless it's got a layer of filth in it -- courtesy of violence, sex, smoking or alcohol -- and Mike's blood was pristine compared to my other relatives. He didn't smoke or drink, didn't break his siblings' bones, didn't cheat on women and was generally a good guy. While the rest of the Scotts swam around in the smoky residue of Chesterfield Kings unfiltered cigarettes and toasted their health with cases of Hamm's beer, Mike focused his attention on his shiny red Corvette and adventures in Africa.
Fortunately, I exist with that protective layer of filth on me, but even so, I feel like I should get a colonoscopy to be sure it's working. Plus, my mom told me to do it on my 30th birthday and I put it off and put it off, and for some reason, she just won't forget about it like I do. If I want to hear the end of the colonoscopy, I need to send her footage of a healthy intestine for Mother's Day.
Today I started the process. I made an appointment with my Primary Care Physician (PCP) and paid $25 to spend 3 minutes with her while she filled out a referral form claiming I was "constipated." It's true that I don't crap every day, that sometimes I won't crap for 3 or 4 days, but I wouldn't say I'm ever constipated. I don't feel any pain... I just need the right circumstances to relieve myself. Like a cup of coffee, some reading material, an hour of isolation, and the confidence a book of matches buys you.
With referral in hand, I left the office and called the gastrointestinal (GI) doctors. After confirming my HMO/PPO status, I made an appointment for a consultation with them for Jan. 27.
On Jan. 27, I'll pay another $25, offer up some hyperbole about my "constipation" problem -- something that involves bloody stool and cramping -- and hope that I'll be able to come back in another few weeks to get diarrhea. That is what my HMO makes me do. Lie about my condition so my poor mother (and a little bit of me) can get peace of mind.
From Crackle:
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Less than 5 feet from each other
There's some stuff going down at the office of The United States of America, and it's got me feeling all sentimental and wishy.
For the last few years, my job -- the one that has made me a horrible wife, a lousy friend, an absent sister, and a lame, one-dimensional person -- has been the highlight of my life. It's been the reason I get out of bed and do stuff all day long. Not necessarily because I love it, but because I love doing something. The sense of accomplishment I get from being productive is what makes me take note of my days, what gives time its value.
I have made almost all of my friends in Los Angeles thanks to my job. And while I've not connected with them as much as I wish I had because, you know, we're "colleagues," I plan to add these people to my collection of admirables and make sure they get a Christmas card from me every year at the very least.
But as my office -- and every office in the country -- works to suss out this insecure limbo we call "tough economic times," I'm afraid of losing these friends more than I am of losing my job. I'm afraid that the girl who sits not five feet from me, who I find to be talented and adorable and far more dimensional than myself, who brightens up the dingy corner of our quarters with her easy laugh and sweet reflection, will leave my life before the depth of our connection is realized.
Laura is my friend, but the ease between us when we are together -- lingering with margaritas at the work party, walking to the library during lunch, talking about baking our own bread and imagining how life would be if cars were gone and we had more time to conduct ourselves instead of conduct business -- is something so precious and so full of potential. She's one of the few people I've encountered in the last 10 years who could be a good friend if conditions were right.
It's tough to find good friends at my age. Especially good girl friends. The friends who are your given people. The ones you're going to be hanging out with over the weekend even though no one has planned for it. The ones you're going to go see Mamma Mia with without needing an invitation. Part of it is because my best friend is Mr. T, he's my given, and he's a good given to have. And a lot of women my age have spouses or serious partners who are their givens too. Which makes it hard for us to, you know, be friends.
I guess I'm just bummed that I've taken for granted something that was right next to me for so long. The potential of a good friend is just as valuable as the reality of one, and if this job has taught me anything, it's to break through the cubicle walls before they come crashing down.
Oh, and to build up my savings.
For the last few years, my job -- the one that has made me a horrible wife, a lousy friend, an absent sister, and a lame, one-dimensional person -- has been the highlight of my life. It's been the reason I get out of bed and do stuff all day long. Not necessarily because I love it, but because I love doing something. The sense of accomplishment I get from being productive is what makes me take note of my days, what gives time its value.
I have made almost all of my friends in Los Angeles thanks to my job. And while I've not connected with them as much as I wish I had because, you know, we're "colleagues," I plan to add these people to my collection of admirables and make sure they get a Christmas card from me every year at the very least.
But as my office -- and every office in the country -- works to suss out this insecure limbo we call "tough economic times," I'm afraid of losing these friends more than I am of losing my job. I'm afraid that the girl who sits not five feet from me, who I find to be talented and adorable and far more dimensional than myself, who brightens up the dingy corner of our quarters with her easy laugh and sweet reflection, will leave my life before the depth of our connection is realized.
Laura is my friend, but the ease between us when we are together -- lingering with margaritas at the work party, walking to the library during lunch, talking about baking our own bread and imagining how life would be if cars were gone and we had more time to conduct ourselves instead of conduct business -- is something so precious and so full of potential. She's one of the few people I've encountered in the last 10 years who could be a good friend if conditions were right.
It's tough to find good friends at my age. Especially good girl friends. The friends who are your given people. The ones you're going to be hanging out with over the weekend even though no one has planned for it. The ones you're going to go see Mamma Mia with without needing an invitation. Part of it is because my best friend is Mr. T, he's my given, and he's a good given to have. And a lot of women my age have spouses or serious partners who are their givens too. Which makes it hard for us to, you know, be friends.
I guess I'm just bummed that I've taken for granted something that was right next to me for so long. The potential of a good friend is just as valuable as the reality of one, and if this job has taught me anything, it's to break through the cubicle walls before they come crashing down.
Oh, and to build up my savings.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Hype, Hype Hooray!!
And now for the big reveal.
Also, those three gals in the last photo, yeah, me, Leiah and Betsy, WE'RE COMING!!
Also, those three gals in the last photo, yeah, me, Leiah and Betsy, WE'RE COMING!!
Thursday, January 08, 2009
"I drank Shannon's puke. How do I deal with this?"
New Year's Eve 2009 was the first I've ever spent with just my sisters. Of course Seth was there, but he's always around, and Lara was there, but she volunteered to be the DD, which elevates her to sister status in my book.
Because we're all married gals (Seth is always around), we decided to hit up the gay bar so we could dance without having boners in our backs... okay, and because the drinks are always stronger at gay bars and we're in a recession people! We got dolled up, raided our mom's jewelry, put on our dancing shoes and had Charles drop us off at The Connection.
The night was primed to be a blast. Good company, strong drinks, balloons netted by the ceiling just waiting to rain down upon you, party hats, drag queens.
This was Betsy's first New Year's Eve as a legal drinker, so I made sure to keep pace with her as she slammed gin and tonicsI could better gauge her drunkenness.
A few minutes past midnight, Shannon, who had more reason to celebrate than just the passing of a year (it's Dr. Hensley now, especially if you nasty), got the dancing bug. I followed her out there, left her with a new friend who though my name was Edna to go look for Betsy, and then lost her in a sea of swirly lights and flailing arms. I sent Leiah and Lara in as reinforcements, and they dragged my leggy big sister back to the table, where she plopped down under a curtain of drunk hair.
And then good times started to roll.
Shannon looks up at me with her face -- her eyes weren't opening at this point -- and says, "Imunnabesich."
Got it. I spot a discarded drink on the table, toss the ice out of it, and put it in front of her. One heave and it overflows onto my hand. I set it on the table, turn to the first doctor in our family, and help her get through it. Bystanders clear out like an atomic bomb of stomach bile would expect them too, the limp body goes rigid with pukey pulses, and as soon as there's a break in the action, it's all, "Come on, we gotta walk, let's go, gotta walk, fresh air, gotta walk."
I call Charles, apologize for the condition his wife is in, explain it's not her or our fault... she got overserved!... and ask him to come retrieve her. We sit outside while a nice smoker goes inside and gets her a cup of water.
"Imunnabesich."
Leiah meets me outside and we assure Shannon that three steps ahead and one to the right is a perfectly acceptable place to yak up all the disgusting mess that 2008 put inside her body. Charles pulls up, we plop her in the car, and me and Leiah head back the party people.
The second we see Betsy, she grabs my arm, gets as serious as a happy drunk can get, and says, "I drank Shannon's puke."
Awww, Betsy. That is a special kind of gross. Why in the....
"How do I deal with this?"
I don't know if she's said anything that funny since the time she told Leiah to "just let it come out your nose." That comment right there made my New Year's 2009 one of the most memorable of my life.
At the time, the only advice I could muster for her was probably, "Don't drink it again," but having had some time to reflect, here's what I would have said if I wasn't about to zerbert a stranger's stomach, steal beers and blow chunks myself within an hour.
"First of all, don't puke up her puke because that seems like a new type of incestuous. Then, pretend it never happened."
Too bad Betsy's big sister has a blog, huh?
Because we're all married gals (Seth is always around), we decided to hit up the gay bar so we could dance without having boners in our backs... okay, and because the drinks are always stronger at gay bars and we're in a recession people! We got dolled up, raided our mom's jewelry, put on our dancing shoes and had Charles drop us off at The Connection.
The night was primed to be a blast. Good company, strong drinks, balloons netted by the ceiling just waiting to rain down upon you, party hats, drag queens.
This was Betsy's first New Year's Eve as a legal drinker, so I made sure to keep pace with her as she slammed gin and tonicsI could better gauge her drunkenness.
A few minutes past midnight, Shannon, who had more reason to celebrate than just the passing of a year (it's Dr. Hensley now, especially if you nasty), got the dancing bug. I followed her out there, left her with a new friend who though my name was Edna to go look for Betsy, and then lost her in a sea of swirly lights and flailing arms. I sent Leiah and Lara in as reinforcements, and they dragged my leggy big sister back to the table, where she plopped down under a curtain of drunk hair.
And then good times started to roll.
Shannon looks up at me with her face -- her eyes weren't opening at this point -- and says, "Imunnabesich."Got it. I spot a discarded drink on the table, toss the ice out of it, and put it in front of her. One heave and it overflows onto my hand. I set it on the table, turn to the first doctor in our family, and help her get through it. Bystanders clear out like an atomic bomb of stomach bile would expect them too, the limp body goes rigid with pukey pulses, and as soon as there's a break in the action, it's all, "Come on, we gotta walk, let's go, gotta walk, fresh air, gotta walk."
I call Charles, apologize for the condition his wife is in, explain it's not her or our fault... she got overserved!... and ask him to come retrieve her. We sit outside while a nice smoker goes inside and gets her a cup of water.
"Imunnabesich."
Leiah meets me outside and we assure Shannon that three steps ahead and one to the right is a perfectly acceptable place to yak up all the disgusting mess that 2008 put inside her body. Charles pulls up, we plop her in the car, and me and Leiah head back the party people.
The second we see Betsy, she grabs my arm, gets as serious as a happy drunk can get, and says, "I drank Shannon's puke."Awww, Betsy. That is a special kind of gross. Why in the....
"How do I deal with this?"
I don't know if she's said anything that funny since the time she told Leiah to "just let it come out your nose." That comment right there made my New Year's 2009 one of the most memorable of my life.
At the time, the only advice I could muster for her was probably, "Don't drink it again," but having had some time to reflect, here's what I would have said if I wasn't about to zerbert a stranger's stomach, steal beers and blow chunks myself within an hour.
"First of all, don't puke up her puke because that seems like a new type of incestuous. Then, pretend it never happened."
Too bad Betsy's big sister has a blog, huh?
Half Time Entertainment
Who's sick of babies??!!! Not me!!!
Enjoy this little diddy by Ben, in which he teaches you the ABC's.
And now for a sweet number by Renee. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star can now be retired from the toddler vernacular.
We are a musically gifted bunch, a collective of singers and songwriters whose talent is so immense, it may be mistaken for a piercing shrill.
Rock on, my people.
Enjoy this little diddy by Ben, in which he teaches you the ABC's.
And now for a sweet number by Renee. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star can now be retired from the toddler vernacular.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
There's a reason we call him Bam Bam
Benjamin Ace Messer is a maniac. A bonafide two-year-old tornado who gets so amped up by a conga line that he clotheslines his darling cousin Renee.
I used to give him cuddles with Leiah when he drank his bottle, but now he wants none of it. He wants to line his cars up and ram his cars into peoples' toes and watch Cars. Either you're into cars or he's knocking you on the ground in an attempt to get you to like cars.
We went to a party at Charles' sister's house over Christmas, and Ben fed off the energy and ran around the room roaring at people... roaring like a dinosaur-lion-maniac in the faces of adult strangers. Luckily, his chubby cheeks and sparkly blue eyes made this frenzy quite adorable.
Sometimes when he gets uber-boyish, there's nothing you can do but baby body slam him, lay on top of him, and squish his scrawny little butt into the ground. Gigi says, "He needs someone to wrestle him. He needs it," and she's right. Twenty minutes of repeated takedowns later, you've got a sweaty little angel who's perfectly content to take his bath and go night-night.
Because he is so boy and needs to beat the living shit out of things, Santa Claus brought him a baby drum set for Christmas. Pretty much the cutest thing ever, although I've gotta say, I am glad it was out of sight before New Year's Day. I can only handle one pounding headache at a time.
I used to give him cuddles with Leiah when he drank his bottle, but now he wants none of it. He wants to line his cars up and ram his cars into peoples' toes and watch Cars. Either you're into cars or he's knocking you on the ground in an attempt to get you to like cars.
We went to a party at Charles' sister's house over Christmas, and Ben fed off the energy and ran around the room roaring at people... roaring like a dinosaur-lion-maniac in the faces of adult strangers. Luckily, his chubby cheeks and sparkly blue eyes made this frenzy quite adorable.
Sometimes when he gets uber-boyish, there's nothing you can do but baby body slam him, lay on top of him, and squish his scrawny little butt into the ground. Gigi says, "He needs someone to wrestle him. He needs it," and she's right. Twenty minutes of repeated takedowns later, you've got a sweaty little angel who's perfectly content to take his bath and go night-night.Because he is so boy and needs to beat the living shit out of things, Santa Claus brought him a baby drum set for Christmas. Pretty much the cutest thing ever, although I've gotta say, I am glad it was out of sight before New Year's Day. I can only handle one pounding headache at a time.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Sensual Seduction
Renee, in addition to saying "okay," "sit," and "rest" in the cutest little raspy voice you've ever heard, is basically a little sugar nugget.
She likes to talk to you nose to nose while staring into your eyes more intensely than most adults. She squeals when she's pissed, hoards stuffed animals, and melts into your arms when you kiss her neck.
And the girl can put down some M&Ms. She loves her num-num. I was playing duckies with her in the bath and it was only after 10 minutes of soaking that she finally handed over her yogurt covered raisins. But it's when she feels her nibbles may be threatened by the camera that she really gives you the looks.
I mean it, she is good enough to eat.
She likes to talk to you nose to nose while staring into your eyes more intensely than most adults. She squeals when she's pissed, hoards stuffed animals, and melts into your arms when you kiss her neck.And the girl can put down some M&Ms. She loves her num-num. I was playing duckies with her in the bath and it was only after 10 minutes of soaking that she finally handed over her yogurt covered raisins. But it's when she feels her nibbles may be threatened by the camera that she really gives you the looks.
I mean it, she is good enough to eat.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Coming in 2009
Here's what you can expect from me for the next few days.
I've just spent the last couple weeks in the delightful oblivion of home -- you know, where the heart is -- and I've come to realize a few things.
Namely that sugar cookies make babies insanely fun, gay bars always overserve you on New Year's Eve (much to my New Year's Day chagrin), and regressing to your 12-year-old self while still being allowed to purchase liquor is basically heaven on earth.
Because I want to relive the joy that was Holidays 2008 again and again, I'm going to here. I mean, really, who doesn't want to hear about Shannon's projectile vomiting, Seth's kissing boys and Ben's green poop in his ball wrinkles?!!
I've just spent the last couple weeks in the delightful oblivion of home -- you know, where the heart is -- and I've come to realize a few things.
Namely that sugar cookies make babies insanely fun, gay bars always overserve you on New Year's Eve (much to my New Year's Day chagrin), and regressing to your 12-year-old self while still being allowed to purchase liquor is basically heaven on earth.
Because I want to relive the joy that was Holidays 2008 again and again, I'm going to here. I mean, really, who doesn't want to hear about Shannon's projectile vomiting, Seth's kissing boys and Ben's green poop in his ball wrinkles?!!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
La Lasagna is Italian for The Lasagna
Back when I attended the College of Weight Watchers, I'd get a little low fat recipe card each week to make eating healthily easier and more delicious. Most of them were for fancy green beans or some freaky meatloaf, but the recipe for veggie lasagna, with fattening modifications of course, is one that has worked its way onto the list of 10 Things I Can Cook Really Well.
Every time I make this at home Mack eats through the entire pan in a day. And when I make it for parties or when we have friends over, I always get asked for the recipe. Which is fine except the recipe I have is the WW one and it's just not as good as the one in my brain.
So, for all those who want to know and for those who just need something to read right now, here's my La Lasagna.
Ingredients
The WW recipe says you can just construct it and rely on the sauce to cook the noodles... but sometimes parts don't cook all the way, so I throw my noodles in the pot and boil them while I chop veggies. Just make sure you stir them until they settle in the water so they don't stick together.
Chop your green peppers and broccoli into tiny little pieces and slice the squash into discs. The veggies can't be too bulky or else they won't lay flat and La Lasagna will be Una Mess.
I sometimes spray a 9x13 pan with olive oil but sometimes I forget. Either way, you need a 9x13 pan and you need to spoon some of your sauce favorita into the bottom of it. Just a thin delicious layer. (I buy Chunky Ragu Mama's Garden Recipe or something like that for $2.50 because it's cheap and I can use the leftover sauce for homemade pizza.)
Then, and this part is very important, put a layer of noodles on top of the sauce. Don't let how complicated that is scare you away from this recipe because it is worth it. Be sure you sort of squeeze off the extra water or else your lasagna might be a little juicy. And by squeeze off I mean squeegie it with your fingers. Also, if the noodles aren't all the way done, that's okay. They'll cook the rest of the way in the baking process.
After the first layer of noodles, you need a layer of veggies. I usually start with my zucchini and yellow squash because I studied food infrastructure in college and am an expert in sturdy vegetable foundations. On the day I made this lasagna I felt like mixing it up a bit and sprinkled on some green peppers. In college they called this "avant garde," which also happens to be the name of an annoying font.
Then put a layer of sauce on top.
The put another layer of noodles, a layer of ricotta cheese, some veggies. (I usually pair broccoli and green peppers with my ricotta layer because, again, it satisfies food infrastructure requirements.)
Put a layer of sauce on top, another layer of noodles, and a layer of mushrooms and green peppers or whatever other veggies you have. This is where I get confused and just sort of wrap things up regardless of where I'm at in the pattern.
At this point you should be out of veggies with three noodles, some sauce (I'm usually cracking into my second jar at this point) and some mozzarella cheese left. Since you want to cap the dish with a layer of noodles, a layer of sauce and a layer of mozzarella cheese -- in that order -- go ahead and arrange that on top.
Put it in the oven at 350-400ish degrees. I don't really know what temperature. Bake it until it smells good and you get hungry. Then check it, and if the cheese is the way you like your cheese to look, it's ready. It should cook for about 30 minutes to cook the veggies, so if your cheese is cooking too fast, lay a piece of foil loosely on top to keep it from burning while the veggies cook.
Let it cool before you cut it or it will be a little drippy and won't keep its shape when you serve it. In our house it gets cut within seconds of leaving the oven.
The best thing about La Lasagna is that you can put it all together the night before, cover it with plastic wrap, throw it in the fridge, and then the next day just toss it in the oven and act like you've slaved away all day.
Every time I make this at home Mack eats through the entire pan in a day. And when I make it for parties or when we have friends over, I always get asked for the recipe. Which is fine except the recipe I have is the WW one and it's just not as good as the one in my brain.
So, for all those who want to know and for those who just need something to read right now, here's my La Lasagna.
Ingredients
12 lasagna noodles
2 jars of spaghetti sauce
8oz. packages of mozzarella cheese
1 tub of part-skim ricotta cheese (the normal size)
veggies you love (I get 1 zucchini, 1 yellow squash, 1 head of broccoli, 1 package of sliced mushrooms, and 1 green pepper... sometimes I do tomato slices or black olives)
2 jars of spaghetti sauce
8oz. packages of mozzarella cheese
1 tub of part-skim ricotta cheese (the normal size)
veggies you love (I get 1 zucchini, 1 yellow squash, 1 head of broccoli, 1 package of sliced mushrooms, and 1 green pepper... sometimes I do tomato slices or black olives)
The WW recipe says you can just construct it and rely on the sauce to cook the noodles... but sometimes parts don't cook all the way, so I throw my noodles in the pot and boil them while I chop veggies. Just make sure you stir them until they settle in the water so they don't stick together.
Chop your green peppers and broccoli into tiny little pieces and slice the squash into discs. The veggies can't be too bulky or else they won't lay flat and La Lasagna will be Una Mess.
I sometimes spray a 9x13 pan with olive oil but sometimes I forget. Either way, you need a 9x13 pan and you need to spoon some of your sauce favorita into the bottom of it. Just a thin delicious layer. (I buy Chunky Ragu Mama's Garden Recipe or something like that for $2.50 because it's cheap and I can use the leftover sauce for homemade pizza.)
Then, and this part is very important, put a layer of noodles on top of the sauce. Don't let how complicated that is scare you away from this recipe because it is worth it. Be sure you sort of squeeze off the extra water or else your lasagna might be a little juicy. And by squeeze off I mean squeegie it with your fingers. Also, if the noodles aren't all the way done, that's okay. They'll cook the rest of the way in the baking process.
After the first layer of noodles, you need a layer of veggies. I usually start with my zucchini and yellow squash because I studied food infrastructure in college and am an expert in sturdy vegetable foundations. On the day I made this lasagna I felt like mixing it up a bit and sprinkled on some green peppers. In college they called this "avant garde," which also happens to be the name of an annoying font.
Then put a layer of sauce on top.
The put another layer of noodles, a layer of ricotta cheese, some veggies. (I usually pair broccoli and green peppers with my ricotta layer because, again, it satisfies food infrastructure requirements.)
Put a layer of sauce on top, another layer of noodles, and a layer of mushrooms and green peppers or whatever other veggies you have. This is where I get confused and just sort of wrap things up regardless of where I'm at in the pattern.At this point you should be out of veggies with three noodles, some sauce (I'm usually cracking into my second jar at this point) and some mozzarella cheese left. Since you want to cap the dish with a layer of noodles, a layer of sauce and a layer of mozzarella cheese -- in that order -- go ahead and arrange that on top.
Put it in the oven at 350-400ish degrees. I don't really know what temperature. Bake it until it smells good and you get hungry. Then check it, and if the cheese is the way you like your cheese to look, it's ready. It should cook for about 30 minutes to cook the veggies, so if your cheese is cooking too fast, lay a piece of foil loosely on top to keep it from burning while the veggies cook.Let it cool before you cut it or it will be a little drippy and won't keep its shape when you serve it. In our house it gets cut within seconds of leaving the oven.
The best thing about La Lasagna is that you can put it all together the night before, cover it with plastic wrap, throw it in the fridge, and then the next day just toss it in the oven and act like you've slaved away all day.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Holiday Spirit
Fine. Los Angeles doesn't naturally have any holiday spirit. Fireside chats and the first snow are sort of like jokes about Mars. Why would anyone need fire? And snow makes it cold.
But this year, I wanted it.
And despite his initial resistance, Mr. T fell for it too.
It was like the best day ever.
But this year, I wanted it.
And despite his initial resistance, Mr. T fell for it too.
It was like the best day ever.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Holiday Discoveries
I can always tell which of my friends have the baby itch based on the Christmas card they send. The tell tale sign that next year's card will feature a bundle of joy is a Christmas card with a festive pet on it.
Maybe it's just the dog with a Santa hat or maybe it's a "family" portrait with the pooch before it becomes old news, but that's my theory and I'm sticking to it.
In other exciting Christmas card news from the Random Thought Laboratory that is overrunning my mind, I found this today.
Is it just me or does that Santa baby freak you out? Kids are cute and it's fine if you want them to be on your Christmas card, but prop a baby up for goodness sake!
Maybe it's just the dog with a Santa hat or maybe it's a "family" portrait with the pooch before it becomes old news, but that's my theory and I'm sticking to it.
In other exciting Christmas card news from the Random Thought Laboratory that is overrunning my mind, I found this today.
Is it just me or does that Santa baby freak you out? Kids are cute and it's fine if you want them to be on your Christmas card, but prop a baby up for goodness sake!
Monday, December 08, 2008
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...
No, there aren't any lights sparkling off my eave. No, we don't have a Christmas tree twinkling in the window. No, the temperature hasn't dropped below 65 for more than three days in a row...
And yet, it's never been so festive outside. How could this be?
I don't know. Maybe this FREAKIN POINSETTA TREE that's on fire on my way to the beach is the culprit?!!
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A Poinsetta tree... Wonders never cease.
And yet, it's never been so festive outside. How could this be?
I don't know. Maybe this FREAKIN POINSETTA TREE that's on fire on my way to the beach is the culprit?!!
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A Poinsetta tree... Wonders never cease.
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