Because everyone else is doing it

The Lucky Paw 2008 Quickie List:

Best movies I’ve seen this year: In Bruges and Iron Man

Movies I’m ashamed to say I enjoyed: Transporter I & II. What can I say? JASON STATHAM WAS SHIRTLESS.

Worst movie I’ve seen this year: Wanted

Best book I read this year: Tough call between Disgrace and The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel

Worst Book I read this year: Big Sur by Jack Kerouac. What a blow hard.

Best Music I bought this year: Ra Ra Riot, Kings of Leon, Bloc Party, The Stills, The Walkmen

Songs that never failed to make me happy: Just Dance by Lady GaGa, Elevator by Flo Rida, Revelry by Kings of Leon, Signs by Bloc Party, Face to Face by Daft Punk, Oh, La by Ra Ra Riot

Best Concert I went to this year: Eddie Vedder, acoustic. Amazing. Yes, Rod, he was better than Madonna.

Worst months this year: August/September

Best month this year: June

Biggest, girl crushes this year: Gwyneth Paltrow! I know! I can’t help it! She was so cute in Iron Man! And Tina Fey, who I’m determined to be when I grow up.

Best kiss I’ve received this year: The year ain’t over

Favorite memory of this year: Taking Maren, a friend’s daughter, on walks through the Boboli Gardens in Florence. There is nothing so spectacular as seeing things through the eyes of a child.

I managed to keep all of the resolutions I made this year: Meaning I haven’t robbed any banks, inflicted bodily injury on people who irritated me or woken up in a tequila laden stupor. This is called growth. I’m maturing, people! Hell hath frozen over. I still need to work on my fear of large groups of women, capri pants and my desire to kick people in the loins who always have to work into conversation that they went to an Ivy League school.

In 2009, I’ll work on keeping my nails manicured, my closet organized and eyebrows evenly drawn in. I’ll also try to be less bossy. I’m already exhausted.

Happy Holidays everyone. See you in ought-nine.

Things Overheard at the Bar This Weekend

"I'm way too sober to be this wet."

"If I start screaming balls, balls, BALLS! she knows to back off."

"Tequila shortens one's idea of personal space."

"I'm sorry...I didn't hear a thing you were saying...I was thinking of blow jobs."

"Everything on this menu looks like a one way ticket to Ass Blow Town."

"It's fun, making him scream like a little girl."

We like to keep it klassy, people. And this is just a short list. An amuse-bouche, if you will - I'm keeping the rest private. You know. For blackmail purposes.

Kindness & Consideration

It sometimes worries me how quickly I can be taken in. Per usual, I will blame my mother, the woman who taught all of her children that Kindness & Consideration should be the first thought when dealing with our fellow man. My problem being that I took that to also mean Hurt No One’s Feelings and often get suckered as a result of my inability to say, “No. No, thank you.”

I had wandered into Saks the other day in search of a perfume that I had sniffed on a friend. Since burrowing my face deeply into her neck and inhaling all evening might have resulted in a restraining order and the end of our friendship, I politely asked her for the name instead. See? Kindness & Consideration! They always come into play.

Anyhoo, I was strolling through the perfume section and was suddenly assaulted by a cute, small, gay man wearing a fedora. It should be mentioned that I am helpless in the hands of cute, small, gay men. Putty. I want to put them into my large purse and carry them around all day so that they can tell me how pretty my hair is and how GIRL! your shoes are FIERCE! And then we could shop together and talk about how Vicki’s face is melting on the Real Housewives of Orange County. Simple pleasures, really.

So the cute, small, gay man, who we shall call Daniel, was sparkly and fun and jumped out from behind the counter, scaring the SHIT out of me and cried “HONEY! Where did you get that COAT?!” And, of course, in spite of the coronary I was enduring because of his enthusiasm, I told him about the coat, which was quite amazing. As were my shoes, which were next on his list of compliments. I am susceptible to flattery, it is true.

Daniel started to walk with me as I continued my meandering, whispering about the last woman he had helped who had the most wretched, pathetic, fake Louis Vuitton purse he had ever laid his blue contacts on. He was still reeling from the experience. I resisted the impulse to ask if he needed a damp rag to place across his eyes and a moment to lie down. Finally, realizing that I was, in fact, shopping, he asked, “Honey, can I help you find something?”

I told him about the perfume that I was looking for and he exclaimed, “OH SWEETHEART. You do NOT want to wear THAT. That is for OLD people,” knitting his perfectly waxed brows together. And there is nothing quite as humbling as being told by the cute, gay man, that you are somehow tragically off course in your beauty choices. Alarmed, worried that he might kick me out of Saks for having made such a catastrophic error, I tried to back pedal “Really? I had no idea!” I said, miming surprise. “Is there something else you might suggest?”

“I HAVE JUST THE THING!” he said, pulling my sleeve and leading me over to a display of perfume. “This JUST came in and it is HEAVEN. You MUST smell it!” And before I knew what was happening, he was spritzing me. Caught in a cloud of smell, I coughed as he went into his sales pitch, caressing the perfume bottle in a way I can only describe as faintly erotic. He put so much into the spiel, having obviously practiced what he was saying that I imagined him standing in front of his mirror the night prior, assessing what facial expressions would be most persuasive.

“Daniel,” I said, having pulled myself away from the brink of asphyxiation, “Do you work on commission? I’m only asking because I’ve never heard such a passionate dissertation about perfume.”

“HONEY! HOW DID YOU KNOW? Actually, we only get extra if we sell this stuff. Don’t you LOVE it?” Honestly, I didn’t know as my eyes and nose were burning due to his liberal ministrations. But it didn’t smell BAD. And he was so eager, and so cute. And his fedora had jewel things on it. And he had loved my coat. And I wanted to be Kind. And Considerate. So I said “I’ll take a bottle!” choking, somewhat, as he told me the price. But it was a designer I knew and admired, so really, I was getting something marvelous, and the bottle, having been all but French kissed by Daniel as he was expressing his love of the perfume, was quite pretty. Good things.

I walked out, happy.

What I didn’t take into account was that my body, having a complex and strange chemistry, tends to do things to perfume. Bad things. Within 15 minutes the scent started to resemble something between the grave and a unbathed whore with an undertone of feet. It was dreadful, and I was lacquered in it. And had an expensive bottle of the stuff in my bag with which to further assail my poor nose. I thought, “Well, this will never do,” and wondered if I could return it since the box was, as of yet, unopened.

But then I thought of Daniel and his delight over making his commission, having sold some of the vile stuff. And I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. His fedora would wilt, and I just couldn’t have that on my conscience. It wouldn’t be Kind or Considerate.

So the bottle went to a friend whose chemistry agreed with the perfume’s fabulousness and I’m still without the scent I had gone in there for in the first place. And I’m going to buy it. I don’t care if I DO end up smelling like a granny – I’ll go against the gays on this one. At least I won’t stink of prostitution. I should send my mother the bill.

Harbor

She used to like to sleep that way, with one foot or hand always touching him, bridging the divide of the large bed, grounding her as she drifted between sleeplessness and nightmares. He found it irritating and constantly migrated away to the solace and coolness of his side of the mattress, trying to avoid her hot limbs. He did not understand nights visited by demons, strife, and the heat of her need interrupted his rest. It distressed him.

Then one day, after he had asked her to go, permanently, he realized that the bed was too large, that her presence had soothed him despite her disquiet. And, that though there were a myriad of reasons as to why he should be at peace without her troubled spirit next to him, he could not sleep and would spend most of his nights uneasy, wondering if she had found a safe harbor elsewhere.

Plus/Minus

My thought is, if you have to sit down and write up a pro/con list about someone, doesn't that sort of already answer your question as to whether or not they should be in your life?

I must, I must, I must increase my you-know-what...

There was once a time where I was built like a 2x4. Straight up and down with about as many curves as Hwy 5. I remember shopping with my mother, wanting to buy a pencil skirt and her saying "Well, love, you'd need hips for that to work." Hips. Things I did not have. Nor boobs. I went to college, still possessing a boyish, athletic shape and decided that I would just have to deal with my figure, envious of my girlfriends who filled out jeans and sweaters in ways that I never would. I was the tall, gangly one. My boyfriend called me Runt and I made people laugh - the funny girl with the blond hair. I accepted this about myself.

So it was with some surprise that I realized my body had caught up with my wishes a few years ago. Things Had Been Happening under my unsuspecting nose - one day I tried on a dress and realized that my outline was more hourglass and less column like. Why I was so grossly late to blossom, I do not know. Perhaps Jesus had been buried under a black-log of prayer requests and my hopes had been lost in the shuffle of more important things, say, like, starving children and the imminent threat of WMD's.

However, leave it to my mother to put a damper on celebrating my newly acquired cleavage. I was over for dinner the other day and while eating what she called "the lovely fish stew" (the details of which I will spare you) she said "You know, I've been meaning to tell you something," a phrase which, if you know her, will stop you cold. "You should really be putting your bosoms away" she said, picking a small bone out from between your teeth. "Excuse me?" I choked, trying to swallow down a particularly large piece of fish and potato all at once. "Well, I've noticed that you've grown in certain areas, and while you look lovely, you should probably think of wearing things that are more concealing. You know. For the men." I knew where she was going with this, but since pressing my mother is like a sport to me, I pressed. "How do you mean?" I asked, innocently. "Well, you know. They can't help but look THERE. And when you have BOSOMS then that is all that they will be looking at or thinking about."

To clarify, I am no Pamela Anderson. Her massive rack is like a round house kick and a jab to the baby hole compared to what I'm packing. However, according to my mom, anything that qualifies as a feminine lump ought to be concealed under copious amounts of fabric. I answered my her by saying "But just think, mom, of the power we would have if we could harness that sexual energy!" To which she raised her eyebrows and said "Psh!" a sound that meant, quit being impertinent...and put on a turtleneck.

I washed down the remaining soup with my wine and spent the rest of the evening pulling at the neck line of my sweater in an effort not to offend my mother with my obscene decolletage. I kissed her goodnight and left, thinking on my way home about how funny it is that at nearly 33, my mother still thinks it's her duty to remind me to be Proper and live with Decorum and to not Lead Others Astray. She, it would seem, has more faith in the powers of my rack than I do. And here I am, just thrilled to finally be able to fill out a shirt without the assistance of a padded bra.

Yes. I had a rabbit that I named Darling. Suck it.

Kylie insists on her walks. She is insistent in a way that would make a Jehovah’s Witness banging on your door seem like a melody. There is a lot of pawing, and whining and pacing. You cannot go near your sneakers without her freaking the FUCK out because OH MY GOD she might get to go Elsewhere, which is definitely better than Here, this House that holds her captive.

I’ve determined, through a very scientific poll (consisting of opinions from complete strangers), that she is part Shepherd and part Aussie Cattle dog. She is of dubious pedigree, but those are the two breeds that seem to rise most to the surface. Sweet Moses, if you ever want to have a dog that just sits and wants to be pet and loved on while in front of a crackling fire, do not, DO NOT, acquire an Aussie Cattle or any variation of said dog. They are working dogs, and since I am not planning on acquiring sheep or cattle for her to herd, she needs more exercise than most people can handle. You would think her chores of clearing the dishwasher and vacuuming and peeling grapes for me to eat would wear her out, but NO. She needs an hour long walk EVERY DAY. I’ve tried explaining to her that even God took a day off to rest, but it would appear that Jesus is not, in fact, her homeboy.

We didn’t have REAL pets growing up. There was a passing relationship with two rabbits during the second grade. That era ended with one, Snowy, falling into the pool and drowning and the other, my rabbit Darling, dying, unceremoniously, by the garbage cans. My father put Darling into a lunch baggie and threw him over the fence into a dumpster, which seemed like the right thing to do but put me into paroxysms of grief over not being able to give him a proper burial. I had envisioned a headstone, some touching words and music – in retrospect, I probably felt more cheated out of the dramatics of the funeral than I was upset about Darlings dying. We determined he had suffered from a broken heart, Snowy having taken her final swim only weeks before. We constantly found litters of baby bunnies that Snowy had disemboweled, so we assumed they were lovers. Apparently Snowy didn't want to share Darling with anyone since she kept eating her young. Bitch.

There were also some fish that somehow always ended up being flushed down the toilet, much to my mothers relief. She had raised four children and didn’t see why it was necessary to start all over again with a menagerie of animals that would never be able to pick up their own poop or clean up after themselves. Keenly aware of her workload, I understood her reasoning, but coveted, COVETED, a dog. I got my wish. One that requires more work than I had thought possible out of something that weighs only 45lbs and can't talk back.

I understand her misgivings, now. I think if I had children, in addition to Kylie, I would be an insufferable shrew, wearing a house-coat and curlers and yelling things like “GET YOUR OWN MAC ‘N CHEESE! BE QUIET, MY STORIES ARE ON! SOMEONE BRING MAMA A CIGARETTE!” I would give up based on the amount of Need that was being aimed my direction. But since I just have Kylie, I’m thankful that these daily marches are keeping me in some sort of shape and that I have such a lovely, albeit neurotic, dog to keep me company at all times. Plus, she makes a great martini. That took WEEKS of training.

She’s pawing at me now, her whine reaching a decibel that is beyond irritating, so off we go. There are days when I would welcome the Jehovah’s Witnesses. At least they would let me sit on my ass while they put forth their spiel and would take care of their own poop…though they probably wouldn't be as cute, or have that patch of fur between their ears that smells like heaven. Now THAT would be an awkward comparison test to ask for.

Found in an old journal...

Sometimes, I allow myself to think about you, and that day. You and I were walking down the street after breakfast - you had just told me about the latest girl you had kicked out of your bed. We stopped, waiting for traffic to pass, and you unexpectedly took my face in your hands and said “But these women? They will never be you.” It was so out of context for both the conversation and my version of you that my vision narrowed for a moment and I felt the blood rush out of my head as you stood, waiting for me to react. The light turned. You backed away and started to cross the street, talking of something else, walking ahead of me while I gathered up my dizzy self. For days I could feel your hands and see the bright flecks of green in your eyes and that one piece of hair that you could never get to lie flat poking out of your part.

I would replay it as I lay in bed next to S, not seeing anything with my open eyes, wondering only what you had meant. I had given up any hope of you years ago and was precariously, cautiously happy with S. And now I felt off balance, even while lying down. Your voice drowned out the sound of his breathing and I fell asleep to the melody of “they will never be you, they will never be you, they will never be you”.

Years later, I woke from a dream, thinking of you and the possibility that moment held had I been brave enough to grasp it and not let you carry the conversation on to something more benign. I thought “I will indulge for only a second…only until S comes back to bed.” Closing my eyes, I could already feel the pressure of your palms against my cheeks, and I sank deeply into what might have been.

Because I care

Dear Driver of the White Mercedes that I inadvertently cut off on 280N last Thursday,

Please accept my deepest apologies for having scared you shitless when I swerved into your lane the other night. I was air drumming to Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again, and there is a part in the middle that requires both hands. While I understand your surprise, was it really necessary to honk AND give me the finger? It would seem that one or the other would have conveyed your displeasure sufficiently.

Best,
Jen

P.S. Stuffed animals in your back window? Really? Super creepy.

Wherein I use the word asshat...which totally needs more airplay.

I came home yesterday and decided that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sounded like a good idea for lunch. Because, pray tell, when ISN’T it? So I made my sandwich and went to plop down on the couch in front of the TV for a wee bit of rest before starting my afternoon activities. And guess what my precious Tivo box had recorded for me? The Victoria’s! Secret! Fashion! Show!

And so I thought to myself “I need new bras...Shall I eat while watching scantily clad women? I think that sounds splendid!” I hit play.

And, OH MY GOD! That bitch, Victoria, TOTALLY ruined my lunch.

Did you know that they found some praying mantis type model things with huge boobs and hair and paraded them around in their unmentionables for an hour? Sweet Jesus! It’s as if those marketing asshats over at CBS were sitting around a table and thinking “WHAT can we air that will make all women hate their thighs and SIMULTANEOUSLY give all men an erection? Anyone? Any ideas? You over there….yes…women?…half naked?...sashaying to music?...making sexy eyes at the camera? GENIUS! We’ll do it…and you get a $100k raise!”

Does anyone else see how unfair this is? Why isn’t there a show, annually, wherein Hugh Jackman, Brad Pitt and George Clooney strut around in their boxers while vacuuming and scrubbing toilets, all while saying witty things and looking into the camera proclaiming “MEN DON’T MIND CELLULITE!” Why isn’t there a women's version of this televised monstrosity? Am I right?

Instead, we get to watch Heidi Klum, who, after three children possesses a stomach that most women will never have post-partum without the help of surgery. She smiles into the camera, winks, and trots off, her tiny, pert, bottom going “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” seemingly immune to the effects of gravity. And then we see someone by the name of Marisa Miller who, while getting ready backstage, bestows this pearl of wisdom: “To calm my nerves before catwalking, I have a donut! Hahahaha!” And then she takes a big chomp out of one. I wanted to throw my sandwich at the TV because you know, YOU KNOW, she has been living on, like, AIR to get that body. And perhaps one shrimp.

(Side bar…she is TOTALLY hot and I covet her boobs. COVET!)

Anyhoo, I spent the better part of an hour cursing the TV, angrily eating my sandwich and hoping that one of the models would trip or fall. Because I'm nice like that. And not at all envious. Let's just say Kylie is getting an extra long walk today and now I can't look at the cookies I made over the weekend without guilt washing over me like a tidal wave and my ass spreading twofold. Fuckers.

When it's good to be fake

So it would appear that the holidays are truly upon us, or, as I like to call it, the season wherein we all flirt with poverty to praise the Baby Jesus. I’m constantly asked what I want for Christmas, but since Obama is about to take office and I just bought some sweet new boots, I’m really out of suggestions. How about the Nobel for literature? That would be nice and also easy to wrap.

I struggle annually with whether or not to buy a tree. My parents were anti-tree. They also didn’t let us believe in Santa Claus, so draw whatever conclusions you would like. It might explain my apathy in general towards the season, though I do hold a tender spot in my heart for spiked egg-nog. Shocking, I know.

But back to the tree. I was drinking the café au lait that my manservant delivered to the foot of my bed this morning and pondering what to do about Christmas foliage. Being of the eco-sort, I’ve never loved the ritual of bringing in a tree only to watch it slowly die over the course of the month (see above: parents, anti-tree). But on the other hand, I like the idea of making one’s house festive for the season (see: adoration of shiny things). I also LOVE stringing lights. LOVE it. I cannot explain this, as it’s everyone’s least favorite job, but I will gladly come over and do it for you.

Last year, I solved this dilemma by purchasing two small, living trees with the intent of, keeping them alive! And then using them again next year! And they will become our family trees! Alas, I didn’t take into account the fact that I’m unable to keep anything that is supposed to grow, thriving (see: why I do not have children). Seriously. I have killed cactus. Cacti? It’s embarrassing, but also something I have accepted about myself. Unaccountably, I have two plants that my mother gave me that have survived two years of wanton neglect, interspersed by frantic watering when I remember that they are there. Everything flourishes under my mothers care, and I belive the plants live in fear of her coming over and berating them for not living up to her standards. Grow! She says. And things do. She is scary.

This year, I decided to do some research regarding fake trees. YES. FAKE. I know, I know…my house won’t smell like Christmas! And it’s not the same blah blah BLAH. But guess what? I don’t have to water the damn thing or vacuum up dropping needles or eventually deal with hauling it out to the curb where all of the other dead trees end up after New Years. I am a SCROOGE, whatever (see: things I know to be true). Anyhoo, after trotting through several stores yesterday, I found a DARLING one. So cute. It’s a wee bit Charlie Brown’ish, but in a good way, so tonight, I will deck the halls, or at least my living room, and be happy in the knowledge that when New Years comes around, I can just put this puppy in a bag and haul it out next year for round #2 (see: German Efficiency™).

I am a vessel of holiday cheer, ‘tis true.

At least she waxes

I just put up that new photo of Kylie and realized that it gives you a clear view up her ass. Why I didn’t notice this before is beyond me…it could have had something to do with not being able to get iPhoto open and then being distracted by a chocolate turkey that I found sitting on the counter that suddenly needed my attention. Because if there is a chocolate turkey, and it is past Thanksgiving, one must attend! And also eat! Which I did, and now I have a tummy ache and a photo that portrays the dog version of a money shot. But will I change it? NO! Because iPhoto is still being cranky and now I must go and search for Tums.

So be patient, and just enjoy the rest of the picture. The pretty trees! The mountains in the background! The big, blue sky! And the knowledge that at the end of this particular hike, we were rewarded with margaritas of such strength, of such mind bending properties that I woke up in the backseat of a strange car with my underwear around my ears and “John 3:16” written in pink lipstick on my forehead. Fa la la la LA!

Anyhoo, I’ll do my best to get a different, less offensive photo up by weeks end so that you don’t have to read my blog with one finger covering my dogs butt. Because that can’t be ergonomically correct or good for your neck. Never say I don’t think of my dear readers first.

UPDATE: You'll note our fair pup is now trotting along the beach, backside safely in the shadows. You're welcome.

This website makes your booty go POW!

I spent the weekend allowing my intestines to recover from the gluttony that was Thanksgiving and losing a Scrabble game to Mike. Online, no less, because I made it my mission not to wear pants this weekend, which would, of course, prevent me from leaving the house. Oh evil waistband! How the turkey I consumed doth protest against your unyielding tightness!

But by Sunday evening, hunger returned and so I went to the fridge, which only offered a yawning abyss of emptiness and a small jar of mustard. Seeking sustenance, I hauled on some pants and left for the market. It was a quick trip – I picked up the necessary items and headed for the register. On my way, I noticed that the new In Style was out with Heidi Klum on the cover. Heidi! With her pretty hair and teeth and German-ness! She says auf widersehen, I say ausgezeichnet!

Anyhoo, I marched on to the check out line only to hear “HEY LADY HEY LADY!” being hollered behind me. I turned to see a small, Chinese man running after me, waving a piece of paper that happened to be a subscription card…you know the kind that fall all over your kitchen floor when you’re opening a new magazine? I hate those things. “YOU DROP THIS!” he said, I think making up for his accent with volume. “Thank you” I said, taking the card and putting it back into the magazine. I smiled and turned to go, but he wasn’t finished.

“YOU HAVE NICE SEAT!” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“NICE SEAT. YOU KNOW, BOTTOM!”
“What?” I was perplexed and also, without thinking, clutched at my ass.
“IT ROUND AND NICE!” at which he turned to the side and made a half circle around his own butt, making the shape of a rear whose largess I hope to never mimic. “IT GO POW!” he continued, pumping his small fist into the air.

I was at a loss. If, in fact, my booty did go pow, I wouldn’t expect an elderly Chinese man to sing its praises in the middle of the dry cereal aisle. But, you know, I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks!” I said. “I guess I’ll keep doing my squats!” He laughed, clearly not understanding what I meant and left.

But now I know what to ask when I’m trying on jeans. It’s not about your butt looking big but if it, indeed, goes POW! How much better will that make pants shopping? Am I right? You’re welcome!

If you don't have anything amusing to say, shut up

So have you noticed? That I totally fell off of the wagon this week? That my daily blogging went to hell in a hand basket? Even though I only had a week to go, the pressure of getting something posted every morning finally wore me out. You know what I found? That if I’m forced to write something, it will most likely be shit. I can’t tell you how many times I was over here, clawing my face off, trying to come up with something to post. “How can I make a story about folding my laundry amusing?” or “Should I tell everyone how I’ve been beset with a terrible bout of sciatica this week? How I’ve been falling to the floor, clutching my leg and yelling ‘MY ASS, OH, MY ASS!’?” So you see my predicament - my life is simply not interesting enough to document every 24 hours. I was literally drowning in bad content and so decided, in the spirit of the holidays, to just stop and spare you all my humiliation. Plus, there was no cash prize at the end, or diamonds, or a pony. And what's the point without a pony?

NaBloPoMo was an interesting concept, but I think there is enough crap on the internet without my adding to it. For those of you who stuck with me, you are champs and will reap your reward in heaven - or at least, that’s what my mom always told me when I would endure something boring or painful that had no immediate benefit. We’ll just take her word for it, and if you’d like, I’ll treat you to a glass of wine and we can rejoice in my decision not to flood your brain with my inane made-upperies.

In other news, I am beginning an immediate fast after what was a fierce bout of grappling with a turkey. The turkey won. So did a few bottles of wine, for which I’ll blame my mother, since she “over ordered” on this last wine shipment and we had to “help her” consume the excess or else there would be no room in her wine cellar. And we are, if nothing else, a group who does not shirk from our familial duties. And so, while we are all paddling around in the sloppy hell of withdrawal from both food an alcohol, I bid you all a good weekend. Posting will resume, per usual, on Monday. If I feel like it.

I think the video would sell like hot cakes

I had a boyfriend, once, who started off the day by saying, “You want to hear about the dream I had last night? I dreamed that we were at a bar and you started making out with that girl we met the other day. Isn’t that weird? It was sort of hot. Have you ever done that before? Or, would you, if the opportunity came up? Hahaha…just kidding...but would you?”

He became an ex, shortly after.

I thought of this the other morning, because I woke up after a very vivid dream wherein I was training Tim Daly and he said he would pay me extra if I taught him in the nude. When I refused, he then asked if I would kiss a woman who was standing nearby. I again said no, and he told me I was a prude and walked out of the studio. I ran after him hollering “BUT TIM DALY I LOVE YOU.” Which I don’t, even though I was a fan of Wings and think he’s the one redeeming character on Private Practice. Does anyone else think that Kate Walsh looks perpetually constipated? And her eyebrows totally freak me out. I’m right on the verge of breaking up with that show…

Sorry, tangent.

Anyhoo, it was odd, and it made me wonder if the crab rolls I had last night had something extra in them, causing me to dream about old celebrity crushes who were verbally abusive if their girl on girl requests were denied. Strange. But it got me thinking that naked Pilates might, as of yet, be an untapped market. I’m always coming up with ideas that would make my mother proud. Though it should be noted that I took the moral high ground, even while asleep. Yay, ME! One more day of avoiding that lightening bolt!

Would he have approached had I been holding, say, and artichoke?

Guy at grocery, in produce section: “So, what are you planning on doing with that cucumber?” (This was said in a manner that my mother would consider improper. There was a wink and a raised eyebrow and a touch to the arm.)

I mean, how am I supposed to respond to that? I realize that vegetable could be construed as suggestive, but PLEASE. You could go the risqué route, the innocent route, or, as is my style when asked a stupid question, the obvious route.

Me: Chop it within an inch of its life and put it in the salad I’m having for dinner.
Guy: What time should I come over? (Standing a bit too close)
Me: Oh, you really don’t think you’ll score a dinner invitation with that line, do you? (Me, inching away)
Guy: Never hurts to try.
Me: Really? I think your dignity is bleeding.
Guy: Man, you’re tough.

Actually, I was just hungry. But you know, don’t interrupt a woman deep into dinner planning. It never ends well. And sweet, freaking Moses, don’t try to hit on someone over penis shaped veggies. That’s just bad form.

Off with your head! Or hair...whatever...

I survived! My hair has been chopped off and I didn't bleed to death, or start speaking in tongues or fall to the floor and rend my garments. I know that this qualifies as TERRIBLY IMPORTANT INFORMATION, but since you read this blog, you had to know I would do a follow up to yesterdays entry.

My stylist actually did ask if I needed a shot of tequila before she cut off my pony tail. How awesome is THAT? I asked if she was kidding and she said no, that she had a shot glass and liquor at ready for big moments like this. If I ever move away and have to find someone new to cut my hair, this will be a requirement: do you have a wet bar hidden somewhere in the salon for hair emergencies? Because you SHOULD. A woman, sitting in the waiting area, yelled "HOLY SHIT!" as my stylist made the first snip - SHE could have used a shot. See? Everyone wins when there's alcohol involved!

I floated out of there feeling infinitely lighter and more like myself. I also got asked out twice at the grocery store (which is where I always get asked out...why? I don't know. It must be the way I fondle the vegetables) and ran into two people I know who immediately said "YOU LOOK SO MUCH BETTER WITH SHORT HAIR!" I didn't realize I had been wandering around all hag like for the past four years, but thank you!

So all is well. My pony tail will be sent off to Locks of Love and made into a wig for a child that is going through cancer treatment, and the photo above is of me, newly shorn, apparently eating my fist. Tyra would not be happy, since I've completely lost my neck, but she can just suck it. A whiz at self-photography I am not, but I'm very adept at tequila drinking, which I'm off to do. Happy Friday, bishes!

In honor of Jensen Barrett

Rapunzel, no more

So today, I am becoming a short-haired person. I am chopping off my long locks and going back to what I consider my normal self. I’ve never identified with the long-haired version of me; the woman who is supposed to be sexy and alluring with décolletage and dewy lips. I’ve resisted this person, instead throwing my hair up in an elastic in an attempt to find my usual, tomboy self each time my hair has started to grow past my neck.

I’ve done this several times, grown my hair out long, only to chop it off since it never felt right or natural. But, for the first time, I’ll miss the hair. I’ll miss the way it blows in the wind, the way it curls in an unruly manner when I’m at the beach, the way it feels to brush. I don’t know why I’m so nervous to cut it off, as each time before it’s been so liberating, like the first day you finally put on shorts after a long winter.

Regardless, later this afternoon, I’ll sit in the chair and allow my stylist to take it all off. Because it grows back, and somewhere out there is a little kid who needs the wig it will make more than I need it on top of my head. I just hope my stylist has some Valium, or wine or will just knock me out cold before-hand because I’m almost sure my head will explode when she makes that first cut. And I'm sure she charges extra for that kind of clean up.

Why you do what you do and how you do it

A client asked me under what circumstances I blog. Let’s see…after I put on my tweed coat, don my pince-nez, get the Mozart going and pour myself a glass of Scotch, the creativity just FLOWS! I wish there were some exact method under which writing came easily. I have many friends who are artists who can attest to the daily struggle, the fight that it is to mine one’s consciousness for things that will entertain or inspire. And there are days where nothing comes - where you stare at your computer or your canvas or whatever it is that motivates you and the desperate blankness of what’s in front of you steers you to sheer terror and self doubt, or towards your liquor cabinet or, in my case, your heavy narcotics cleaning supplies. On the days when people come over and my floor is spotless and the toilets gleam? Well, that has been a very bad writing day indeed.

It’s lonely work. I spend a lot of time in my office with only Kylie as company. I’ll write for a while and think, “Well, this is crap.” Then I read it to Kylie and she agrees, or yawns, or farts, depending on her mood. And then, sometimes, I think “This sentence is GENIUS!” and I begin mentally decorating my office with all of the Pulitzers that will eventually fill it. But, the truth is, no one else might respond to it or find any merit in what I’m trying to say. You’re never sure what the perception will be. It takes either bravery or a “fuck it” attitude to attempt this. I’d like to think I fall somewhere in between, though when someone emails me with a note of “Great post!” I wonder if sending them a gift basket and perhaps my first-born would be too bold of a gesture of gratitude.

There are days when I wish that I were an accountant, or made cheese or could build something useful. I once lived behind a desk and wore suits and high heels and thought that if I didn’t put in my 60 hours per week that the Earth would stop turning on it’s axis. But, despite the paycheck and glamour, I knew that wasn’t the life I was supposed to be living. It was scary making those changes, moving away from the corporate ladder and deciding that being my own boss would give me more joy and less stress. The paycheck isn’t great, people, I’m not going to lie about it. But to be passionate about something is not only to fantasize about what life could be like if you pursued what you love, but it's to be willing to throw off some of those safety measures and dive forward and in, despite the cost and how battered and beaten you get along the way.

So here I am. Adjusting my pince-nez. Making room for my Pulitzers. But first, the toilets need scrubbing!

Wherein I see my tax dollars at work

My four and a half hour drive home from Santa Barbara went shockingly fast. I don’t know if it was my happy mood, the sunshine or the fabulously bad music I had blaring that made the time fly, but it felt like I was pulling into my drive way within two hours of starting my trip.

I tend to be a fast driver. If there is open road, then I’m going to cover it quickly. It’s called being efficient and in the spirit of passing the buck, I’ll blame the lead foot on my father. However, yesterday, I was the picture of a law-abiding citizen. I’m not sure why, but the highway was crawling with police. It’s as though the Lord Baby Jesus Himself came down from heaven and told the CHP to GO FORTH AND PATROL, and patrol they did. So I very reluctantly eased up on the gas and coasted along at 65mph, a speed at which one might as well be walking, though it did get me home, ticket-free.

North of Pismo Beach, a Mercedes pulled onto the road behind me and proceeded to tailgate at such a range that the driver could have reached through my back window and changed the dial on my radio. It was a tad ridiculous, especially since there was room for him to pass on my left. I eased up on the gas, just to give him a little bit of a scare which temporarily pushed him back, but a few moments later, he was back on my tail, inspecting the contents of my trunk.

There are moments on the road when I wish I had signs that had helpful hints on them that I could press up against the window at fellow drivers. Phrases such as “BACK OFF, DOUCHEBAG” or “LEARN TO USE YOUR FUCKING BLINKER” or “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHERE YOUR GAS PEDAL IS?” I think some people could really use the assistance, you know? Yesterday, I wish I had the first one. Alas, I didn’t, but I knew that if I was patient, the CHP would take care of this idiot for me.

A moment later, the Mercedes swung around me and throttled off, disappearing around the bend. I was disappointed, knowing that we would have come across an officer of the law shortly who might have pulled him over for hitching a ride on my back bumper. But traffic karma was in my favor. As I rounded the corner myself, I saw a cop pull out from under the overhead bridge, flip on his lights and bring Mercedes DOWN. I wanted to stop and kiss the officer, congratulate him for actually ticketing someone who deserved it, for earning his paycheck and making me happy that my tax dollars were being wisely spent. I was in bliss. And even happier to note that when I passed the idiot in the Mercedes and waved happily at him, a little “la te DA” for being obnoxious back there, that he shook his head and flipped me off. Oh no, sir, fuck YOU.

The end of the weekend...boo...

I know, I know. I KNOW. It's almost midnight and I'm only now getting around to posting. It's been a long day, full of, well, sitting by the beach. As you can see above, the weather was really dreadful. It was hard, sitting out there, working on my tan...being in the hot, hot sun. November in California is really taxing on the soul. It's a good thing we had the afternoon to recover from all of the beach time. Sitting by the pool really helped. That and the white wine...and cheese...and then the additional lounging after all of the wine and cheese. It's been a productive day. Although, I DID get to see miniature donkeys this afternoon! Seriously! I have a small obsession with small horses and donkeys, but I'll go into that later. And no, that's not a euphemism for anything else, so get your mind out of the gutter.

So, more tomorrow, after I arrive back home. And Rod, I am not sporting a huge, new rack. Though I saw so many this weekend that I feel somewhat like clawing my face off in frustration, because OH MY GOD. How can the rest of us, who have NOT opted to have flotation devices installed in our chests, compete with those of you who walk around with your huge boobies thrust out in such a way that no man can be in your presence without being reminded that MY EYES ARE UP HERE??? I mean, I don't think rigorous hair flipping and jazz hands have a similar effect. Which is really too bad, because my jazz hands are something to behold.

Quantum of Solace spoiler...but not about the plot...so read on...

So, yes, Santa Barbara has been on fire. Los Angeles too, for that matter. Sunsets have been spectacular, we’ve all been talking in sexy voices due to the terrible air and there is a spectacular layer of ash over everything. The rumor is that Oprah’s dogs are staying at the Four Seasons, which makes me wonder what I’m doing wrong since I’m sleeping on a sofa bed without the hope of room service.

Though, the girls did fulfill my vodka request last night. We had dirty martinis before taking in the new Bond film. Without going into detail, I’ll just mention what was missing: sex and Daniel Craig shirtless. SERIOUSLY. If you have someone that looks like that, WHY WOULD HE NOT BE ALMOST NAKED ALL OF THE TIME? And why didn’t I get to see him make out with ANYONE? ANYONE?!? WHY? I’m very upset about this.

We’re going to try to make up for it tonight. Perhaps by getting one of the girls to make out with a guy just so at least SOMEONE gets action. Though if Daniel Craig can’t, we’re all screwed.

People who don't like SoCal are total pussies

I’m getting out of dodge this weekend. Escaping. Packing my little bag and heading down south. I’m something of a rare breed in that I am a Northern California girl who loves Southern California. Somewhere, my mother is wondering where she went wrong, as it seems to be a rule that if you were born in the San Francisco Bay Area that you automatically, genetically, think that anything to do with Los Angeles and its outlying areas is a scourge upon humanity. Sort of like New Yorkers feel about New Jersey…it’s there, but is there really any need to set foot into it? Won’t that foot fall off?

But I love SoCal. I love its relentless sun, its big boobs, the traffic, the groomed beaches, and the plethora of pretty people who do nothing but check out their reflections all day. It’s like being at the zoo, but instead of tigers you can watch an endless parade of model like people! Mind you, living there would be a different story entirely. Despite what I do for a living, I don’t think I could pay that much attention to my appearance ALL of the time. It would get boring. I have more important things to do. Like breathing.

Anyhoo, I’m off to visit my friends Andrea and Brit and Gianna. I’ve been promised a dirty martini upon arrival, which shows you what kind of friends they are. THE KIND WHO CARE. The kind who know, by the time I’m done with my five hour drive, that pouring alcohol down my throat will be the elixir I need to soothe my frayed nerves. Also, it will make me tolerable company. Smart girls, those three.

It's just that kind of week

Hey all! It's almost the end of the week! Woooooo! So, I’ve been spending the last few days writing some crap over here. Crap that you will never see because of that lovely button that says “DELETE” on it. Because why keep that kind of thing? What if I died, suddenly, and someone came in, all CSI like (hopefully without the stupid David Caruso puns) and said “SWEEP HER HARD DRIVE!” And then they would come across this saved drivel and say, with a gasp, “SHE CALLED HERSELF A WRITER?” And that would never do. I don’t need to live in fear of “TOTAL HACK” being carved onto my tombstone.

So besides panicking over my lack of brain content, which leads to wallowing in self-loathing and doubt, wondering why I ever considered myself someone who could write, all is well! Eventually, I’ll come up with some better crap. Something that can be edited for human consumption without needing a warning, such as “BEWARE OF DANGLING PARTICIPLES.”

For now, however, I’m going to head out for a run. Let’s hope there’s some inspiration in the air, people, because my well done dried up.

The finer points of rap

Yesterday, I rolled up to work with Flo Ridas, Elevator, blaring on my radio. Sometimes, I like to get on with my bad self and it should be noted that I know all of the words. If Flo Rida finds himself without the means to rap one night, I’m happy to step in.

Anyhoo, I stopped the car and opened the door, music still playing, as I gathered my things and prepared to pull the key out of the ignition. I noticed someone standing nearby and looked to see a young boy, aged 14 or 15, leaning up against the fence in such a manner that made obvious his efforts to look cool, full of the requisite ennui and irritation that being a teenager requires. He looked at me with some scorn, observing my lunch bag, Kylie swirling around my feet, an aura of middle-age coming off of my 32 year old person.

“Aren’t you a little, like, OLD to be listening to that music? A little white?” he asked, his tone coated with contempt and superiority. “I mean, what are you? Like 25?” This was something of a compliment, given the actual number of my years, though I don’t think saying “HA! I’m THIRTY-TWO, you bonehead!” would have impressed him.

“Dude, I’m no whiter than you are. And why aren’t you at school?” I asked, cementing my image as an annoying adult. He slouched further down the fence and I turned to walk into work, herding Kylie towards the door.

“I’ll bet you don’t even know what that song is ABOUT,” he called after me. I don’t know why I did this, why at 9am on a Tuesday morning after approximately 3 hours of sleep I felt compelled to prove some young punk wrong, but I turned to him and said, “Oh REALLY: ‘She gotta nail kit, she gotta hair kit, She gotta a Gucci bag, her brand new outfit, Stuck on my elevator, she on the second floor, Now I want you to break it down, DJ turn it up some more, Hey, dime piece girl turned to Internet hottie, Little mama got that top model body.’ Now, do you think we really need to sit here and discuss what this song is about?” I said. He shoved his hands into the pants that were already threatening to make a break for it and fall off of his body entirely and stood quietly for a moment while Kylie sniffed nearby and finally relieved herself on a pile of leaves.

“Well?” I said, now impatient as I had exposed my rapping genius and was expecting praise. He shrugged, looking up at the sky. “I have to get to school,” he said. I rolled my eyes, gathered up the dog and went into work.

I watched him through the front window while I waited for my client. He was joined by a friend. They talked, the first boy gesticulating and finally pointing at me. They looked at me through the glass for a moment, as though I was some strange specimen of adulthood, and then walked off, hopefully to school. I can only imagine what that exchange included, but I hope part of it was adulation and praise for my ability to THROW DOWN. Because that shit takes PRACTICE, yo.

General Malaise!

I have an empty head today. I came home from work yesterday, exhausted, collapsed onto the couch and immediately fell asleep for one of those unsatisfying naps, where you wake up with cotton in your mouth and a feeling that someone might have stuffed your head with gym socks while you were unconscious. I don’t think I’m sick but wonder if it’s just general malaise…a term my mom used to throw out when I was out of sorts and cranky. “You have general malaise!” she would say, “Go walk around the pool three times! You’ll feel better!” It shows my deep faith in her that I never questioned her diagnoses and would, in fact, go do my laps and return, declaring myself healed just out of fear that she might force me into further activity.

It was, however, too hard yesterday to get off of the couch and consider doing laps of any sort. One of the delights of being an adult is that I have the option of pulling the blanket up around my head, watching Law & Order reruns and eating ice cream sandwiches as a solution to feeling unwell. And while I’m sure my mothers German Solutions Towards Wellness™ pushed me towards being a more productive adult, prone to push through illness rather than succumbing to it, it’s nice to be able to wallow once in a while when nothing else seems like it will help.

There will be a time, I know, when my mom will no longer be with me. Should I be blessed enough to have children, I hope to pass on her legacy by making them walk their illnesses off, force them towards health with ministrations of her electrolyte soup (don't ask), that I insist that they shower frequently while sick, that they sleep in a bed with linens that have been changed after each shower and that there is frequent exposure to fresh air, regardless of the weather. It seemed to work for me, and I'll be damned if I let any child of mine be less lovingly pestered than I was when I had to stay home sick. So there.

Why did the duck cross the road? To prove he's no chicken.

The other day, I nearly drove over my neighbor’s chickens. (I should add that they are the only chickens I know of in Mountain View who wander freely along the street where I live. In fact, they are the only chickens I know of in Mountain View.) I swerved, barely missing them, yelling something like “SWEET FUCKING MOSES!” and narrowly avoided heading into oncoming traffic myself. From my rear view mirror, I watched them disappear back towards the sidewalk, wattles shaking vigorously and thought that perhaps the owners needed to rethink their dedication to “free-range”. (Although, yeah about Prop 2!)

While walking home from the farmers market yesterday morning, the chickens were sitting next to the sidewalk, roosting, one might presume. I told Marc to pick one up and see if there was an egg underneath as I hadn’t had breakfast yet and was feeling peckish. He refused. So much for honor and obey.

But a few hours later, after too much time on Wikipedia, I now know more about chickens than I had ever intended - including varying stories of where the chicken crossing the road joke originated. A different version of the same variety made me giggle – and if you don’t find it funny, I really don’t think we can be friends.

Why should not a chicken cross the road?
It would be a fowl proceeding.

Reasons I enjoy having a blog

1) It’s better than working as a fluffer
2) Provides readers with reassurance that there is someone out there that is crazier than they are
3) It’s something to do when the Tivo "What's playing?" list is emptied
4) My pimp doesn’t seem to mind
5) No need to wear pants
6) It’s acceptable, and encouraged, to drink and blog
7) Can listen to Britney at top volume without judgment
8) My cat brushing business isn’t taking up as much time as I thought it would
9) Rod’s comments
10) It’s fun to make shit up

Status report

Marc: How are you doing over there?
Me: Good, I’m thinking.
Marc: What are you thinking about?
Me: What to write on my blog this morning.
Marc: I know. It’s hard to sum up my greatness in just a few sentences, isn’t it?

If I'm ever suffering for content, it's good to know I have such a rich, in-house resource.

Mortified and aghast

I received so many emails regarding my post about Barack Obama and his socialistic leanings. Or, rather, his lack thereof. One of the more consistent reactions was “Wow, I didn’t know and hadn’t really done the research on this.” I’m paraphrasing, there, but I’m aghast by how many people - bright, intelligent people - will cling onto whatever line their party picks out and see it as Biblical truth.

One of the things that makes this country great is that we have freedom of thought and access to so much information. Information that covers both sides of issues. One of my concerns with this election was that the population would not do their due diligence of researching their candidate, of getting as close to the truth of the matter as possible. I voted for Obama. Many people informed me that they were voting for McCain and didn’t like Obama for several reasons. I looked up some of those reasons, found that some had no merit, and that some DID. So when I cast my vote, I felt like I was informed, I knew what I was putting my faith into, I wasn’t casting my ballot merely because it was the popular and hip thing to do. I stand by my decision and am proud that so many Americans cast their vote in his favor as well. While I might be relieved where our President-elect is concerned, I’m deeply saddened and ashamed by what happened with Prop 8.

I’m not a deeply political person. I know what I believe, but I’m not the person that can argue politics for hours. This, however, has cut me to the core. I believe it will be my generation’s civil rights issue, and I’m very committed to the side that I stand on.

When Prop 8 came up, I remember turning to Marc and saying “Why do we get to determine who gets to marry whom? Shouldn’t this just be a basic right?” Now, I know, I KNOW, people. Some of you get all up in arms about this because you think “POLYGAMY WILL BE NEXT!” Don’t you think people are intelligent enough to know where to draw the line? “THIS WILL RUIN THE INSTITUTION OF MARRIAGE!” Don’t you think us heteros have done a pretty good job of that, what with our 50% divorce rate? “THEY WANTED TO TEACH IT IN SCHOOLS!” No, they didn’t. That is what’s called a SMOKE SCREEN. And it worked! Again, DID YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH?

Prop 8, like I said, is a civil rights issue. Those of you who voted for it from a morality standpoint are marginalizing a group of people that God also loves, who He created. Your God says homosexuality is a sin? Well, mine made gays in His image and called me to do unto others as I would want them to do unto me. He also said that we don’t have to stone people anymore, or crucify them. It’s out of date and one should move with the times. If you take God out of the equation, if you look at these people as individuals who are just like you and want to marry someone they love and don't want to judge YOUR marriage, where do you really stand?

When I have a child, and if he or she is gay, I want them to live in a world where they have the same rights that I do. I want them to feel comfortable and free to love who they desire and to marry them and raise children of their own. I want a son to be able to turn to a man he loves and say “This is my husband.” Because, as those of you who are married know, it changes things when you say “I do” and pledge yourself to one another. It makes a union more serious, tangible, permanent.

I never addressed this before because I had faith that Californians, as a whole, would do the right thing. Now that they have not, I feel that I need to speak out, to encourage people to really study the issue and do what they can to support having this “yes” ruling overturned. Someone close to me, who I will not mention, said that she was going to vote “yes” on Prop 8 because “If we don’t stop it now, people are going to want to marry their dogs!” Watch out Kylie, I know plenty of dudes that think you’re the cutest thing ever. Pick a rich one who doesn't mind supporting your parents, because Mama wants to retire.

"We have religious fundamentalists too. But ours are just funny. They spend their time identifying the gay Teletubby, not blowing themselves up." - Bill Maher

(Thanks, Simon, for the quote)

Who do you deck your halls with?

So, my niece, Holly, turned 25 yesterday. TWENTY FIVE. I am old enough to have a niece that is coming up on thirty, which means I need another drink and to break out the rest home pamphlets.

Even though she is a constant reminder of my swift descent towards middle age, I love having such a hip and gorgeous niece to call my own. If I weren't related to her, I would still totally invite her out for a glass of wine and want to braid her hair and share my lip gloss with her. She is that cool. Plus, how awesome is it that I can embarrass her by saying, truthfully "I USED TO CHANGE HER DIAPERS AND ONCE SHE POO'D ON MY ARM WHILE I WAS HOLDING HER"? You can't put a price on that kind of ammunition.

Love you HollyDolly. Wish you lived closer as I'd give you a big squeeze and break out the Scotch. Drink. Not tape. I'm that kind of aunt.

Socialism? Please.

I come from a family where "Republican" was stamped onto your birth certificate and was almost as certain of a family trait as blue eyes and a tendency towards sarcasm. Being perhaps the one member who has leaned more left of the middle over past 10 years (blue is a better color on me, anyways), I'd like to think that my conservative upbringing allows me a unique view into both sides of political issues or at least tolerate listening to an opinion that I used to agree with.

But I've been vastly irritated over the past few weeks over the constant grumblings of "OBAMA IS A SOCIALIST!" My father was raised Communist, fled his country because he was black listed for speaking out against the government and raised his children with a very clear understanding as to why democracy is the ONLY WAY to live and why socialism sucks ass. So while I might plug my ears and go "LALALA!" if asked to explain the electoral college, I have a pretty deep understanding of political policies that have failed historically or are such hot issues now.

And so, because he's done the research and is a better writer than I am, I'm going to link to an article that I read recently in the New Yorker that counters this opinion about our President-elect.

Like, Socialism by Hendrik Hertzberg

Enjoy.

We're not moving!

So it's the night of the election and I can unpack our bags! You all, over there in London, don't need to worry about housing us...which is just as well as Kylie was going to stage a protest. She's heard about your winters and doesn't like layering. It makes her look chunky.

More later, after I recover from our election partying. It involved a lot of sitting in front of the tv and going "Yay!" and then falling asleep, content, on the couch. It wasn't so much the streaking through downtown Mountain View as we had planned, which is just as well as it's cold out. And people would have pointed and laughed.

So I've joined NaBloPoMo, which means that I have promised to blog every day throughout the month of November. That means even on weekends, bishes. It's supposed to be incentive to write, to create. It might actually cause me to tear the skin off of my face or hear happy voices in my head...you know, as opposed to the belligerent ones that usually bounce around in there. But I blog because I love you all...and also because Rod berates me if I don't.

Me!Me!Me!

I was sent one of those quizzes today...you know the type where you're supposed to cut and paste the questions and then apply the answers to yourself. And I'm going to post mine here because my head space is all filled with politics and propositions. Space that is normally taken up by thoughts of butterflies and puppies and rainbows, so you might say I'm a little bit out of sorts and unable to come up with something more clever. My apologies for giving you more information about ME than you ever wanted to know.

Four Jobs I Was Really Bad At:
1) Personal Assistant: There was a lot of phone answering and calendering for someone who was a Very Important Person. I wore a suit and a grimace. After six weeks, when he realized that I couldn't answer the phones properly and would forget to put things on his calendar, he asked if I'd like to do research instead. I said yes only because it sounded like the polite thing to say.

2) Research Associate: Meant that I had to do research on companies and the people that worked in them. Which required an intimate understanding of software that would spool things out into spreadsheets that I did not understand. When asked if I could identify a proper candidate for whatever we were looking for, I would often say "I'm working on it!" not out of laziness, but out frightened ignorance as to what exactly I was showing up to work to do in the first place.

3) Art Restorer: That is covered here.

4) Group Exercise Instructor: Only because I felt like as ass putting on soft music and hollering out instructions to a room full of people. While I'm bossy, I also have staggering stage fright in groups over six.

Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over:
1) Shadowlands
2) When Harry Met Sally
3) The Princess Bride
4) The Russians Are Coming

Four Childhood Memories
1) Making a fort between my bed and my sisters with a blanket and reading for hours on a summer afternoon. I would pretend to be asleep when my mom would come in to ask me to come and help with dinner. She would leave and I would go back to reading.

2) Being 4 years old and wandering into the wrong beach cottage while on vacation in search of my mother. Being afraid, but yelling "YOU ARE THE WRONG PEOPLE IN THE WRONG HOUSE" before slamming the door and running back to the beach, in tears, looking for my sister instead.

3) My brother yelling "Oh, excuse ME!", age 6, when he almost fell over a woman sunbathing in the nude while we were on vacation in Croatia. Me, going over to be sure he was okay and laughing when he said, "She had HUGE breastes-es!"

4) Waking up my sister in the middle of the night when the crop-dusters were flying over Los Altos, spraying for fruit flies. I was scared of the low, constant drone of the planes and would climb into bed next to her where she would rub my back until I fell asleep again and let me stay there, even though I probably kicked at her all night while slumbering.

Celebrities I Have Run Into
1) Matthew Perry - who I see EVERY TIME I'm in Los Angeles. If I didn't know better, I would think he was stalking me. And I wouldn't mind if that was the case.

2) Joe Montana - or rather, his son. I was in the grocery store a few years ago, in a rush to get my lunch and turned quickly to grab a drink. My HUGE purse made a sickening smack against something, and I looked to see a small child stumble back, from the force of my purse, into the freezer section and slither, movie style, onto the floor. I was, of course, concerned that I had hurt the child, but even more so when Joe Montana came running up and was all "OH MY GOD, ARE YOU OK?" to his son, whom he scooped up, while glaring at me. I was all "PLEASE DON'T SUE ME FOR NEGLIGENT HANDBAG WIELDING!" He didn't. I never wore that purse again.

3) Ian Ziering - STEVE SANDERS! Who is much cuter in person than one might think from his time on 90210. I was standing next to him at a bar, and he bent down to tie his shoe. He had a nice ass. He was going through a divorce with that stripper that he married and I had an impulse to ask if he needed comforting. I did not, as my boyfriend at the time would probably have objected.

4) Amy Winehouse - at the Planet Hollywood Spa in Las Vegas. She was washing her hands next to me in the bathroom. She didn't use soap and rubbed her wet hands dry on her jeans. She smelled like incense. She looked as bad as she does in the photos you see and it made me sad. She bumped into me on the way out and I thought I might be engulfed in her beehive.

Names I Wanted Other Than Jennifer When I Was Growing Up
1) Leslie (I got over this)
2) Olivia
3) ...
4) I'm ok with my name, actually.

Four Injuries I Have Sustained
1) Hairline fracture of a small bone in my right foot - I fell off of a curb. And it wasn't even a big curb. It was a tiny one. I was wearing a skirt which flew up over my head and exposed my underwear to two 12 year old boys who were skateboarding nearby. I made their night, but had to wear a soft cast for six weeks until it healed.

2) Bone bruising of my right knee - I fell while demonstrating a very difficult dance move with Angie. I was wearing heels. I had to be on crutches for six weeks. She was unscathed, which seems, somehow, unfair.

3) Torn deltoid, right shoulder - I was moving pieces of granite in my backyard while Marc supervised (I think he was drinking beer at the time). I felt something go weak in that arm but continued to move the rock because I was suffering from the delusion that I am stronger than reality would show to be the case. It did not end well, but I can stick my finger WAAAAY into that shoulder, which is a neat party trick.

4) Messed up right knee, track injury - Once, a long long time ago, I used to be a hurdler. I was showing off at practice LOOK AT ME!, like, and went over a hurdle that was too high. The gods decided it was time to put me into my place so they twisted my tibia around which ended my running career. Which is too bad, because I looked cute in tiny track shorts.

Equal rights for all!

I never thought I would follow the political leanings of a guinea pig, yet I find myself doing just that. Our neighbors keep this particular pet on their front lawn in the above makeshift cage and have used his/her home to declare their opinion on Prop 8. I'm not sure what the guinea pigs sexual preference is, but it should be happy that if it turns out to be gay, its owners will let him/her couple with whomever he/she would like. All I ask is that they move the cage to the backyard for that part of the program.

Y'all better be voting tomorrow. Depending on how things turn out, some of you over there in the UK might find me on your doorstep by the end of the week. Do you take dogs?

Put a ring on it

Good morning everyone! Did you realize it's Friday? I don't know where this week went...I spent most of it writhing on the floor, gasping for air, trying to get through a terrible bout of insomnia and allergies. And because I have nothing other to say than I AM SO FUCKING TIRED, I give you this, a video that has had me staring in fascination since Pablo sent it to me yesterday. First because I wish I could move like that and then secondly, WHERE IS HIS JUNK? But damn! It's a catchy song! And I've been singing it! All day! And now, so will you!



Hopefully, by next week, my ennui will have worn off and I'll be back to my regular, sparkly self. But for now, my head is shutting down and wanting me to lie, quietly, in a room with the windows drawn. If this were the early 1800's, I would ask my maid to loosen my corset and she would report to all who cared that I was suffering from consumption, and I would softly weep in the corner. As it's 2008, I suppose I'll just listen to my body...which is telling me to have a shot of tequila. And I must obey.

Happy Halloween!

Who needs fiber?

It was the butt plug that did me in.

Before I came to the conclusion that the Almighty would not, in fact, strike me down for drinking or having sex, I thought Adult Shops were a place for degenerate fornicators who wore long coats and big sunglasses. They would grope their genitalia in a back corner, perverted glances concealed as they watched porn and read filthy magazines. I thought if you visited a place like that, your morals had slipped to places so low, that no amount of witnessing would lead you back towards the pearly gates; anything that might have to do with self gratification immediately secured your spot in hell next to people like Larry Flynt and Hugh Hefner (when he gets around to kicking it, that is). The End. I thought touching a vibrator or masturbation would invite blindness, insanity or, as one article I looked up today stated, thinning hair (which explains the bald pates on a lot of you men out there. Ahem).

Of course, then something happened, called growing up and moving past my judgmental attitude. God…I was SO judge-y! Which isn’t to say that suddenly I’ve grown fond of porn or visiting sex shops. Of the two times I have ever seen porn, I have been reduced to fits of giggles and pointing and gasping. Usually things like “And THIS is supposed to get you in the mood? Where do you think she got shoes like that? Why does she have such weird tan lines?” Let’s just say it doesn’t work for me. But I find sex shops deeply interesting. Sort of like an exercise in social anthropology.

So Saturday night, after a very civilized dinner with Angie and Kenneth, we were walking home, past the transvestites and pretty men of the Castro, when Kenneth turned to me and said “Hey! Do you want to see that video of the cock punch?” Well, OF COURSE I DID. The weekend prior, Kenneth had explained how they had walked into a porn shop and there was a video playing of men punching each other in the privates as a way of getting off. It was either go home and play Scrabble or witness the cock punching in all of its seedy glory. Clearly, Scrabble could wait.

And so in we went. What Kenneth and Angie did NOT prepare me for was the immense display of toys that were on shelves within the first few feet of the shop. Toys that were intended to be inserted up one’s bottom.

Now, I’ve had a colonoscopy, so I’m VERY aware how far up the GI tract things can go, but I wasn’t prepared for the sheer length and girth of these particular instruments. I’m fairly certain that they would require not only a passport, but some sort of travelers permit to wander that far up someone’s ass. In fact, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if, upon insertion, the tip might in fact come out through one’s open mouth. Further perusal brought me upon the anal beads which resembled something one might use to unclog your toilet. It would definitely need a preamble of wine and a heavy narcotic to fit into a human orifice. How would you approach your mate with such a device? Fortunately, it bore the name “The Rascal!”, which would definitely divert from its ominous appearance. “Bend over, love! The Rascal wants to come out to play!” I imagine someone might say, playfully slapping their lover on the bottom as a sort of preparation for what was to come.

Fearing that my head might explode and shoot out of my eye sockets, I went to amuse myself in the back where the bondage suits and crotch-less wrestling outfits hung. Pity they didn’t have one in Marc’s size as he doesn’t have a costume for Halloween on Friday…next time. Kenneth came over, crestfallen, to report that the cock punching video was not playing. Being that he very much likes girls, he wanted to scoot, pronto, and head back to Angie’s, but I needed to inspect the butt toys one more time. For research. I led him back up front for a second opinion. “How do you think these things work?” I asked, still trying to do the math: A + B seemed to equate a trip to the emergency room for an unintentional episiotomy. “I think you need a lot of lubricant,” Kenneth said. Angie approached, somewhat indignant over the fact that, in the entire store, there was but one vibrator hanging, dejected, amongst the plethora of butt plugs with a small tag that said, quietly, “female play.” In the Castro, girls don’t even rate CAPS. However, it was a lovely shade of purple with a neat design on the packaging. You know, like where art and sex meet!

We left, but not before I took several, covert pictures of what I was seeing. I’ll only post the one photo of the most robust plug (apologies for the quality. I was trying to be discreet). If you imagine a new toilet paper roll (double ply) you’ll have some idea as to its dimensions. If used, constipation would no longer be a problem. On the other hand, you wouldn’t shit right for weeks.

Now I know how Hester Prynne felt

I have always thought of myself as a Dog Person. It’s not that I have anything against cats, per se. In fact, I’ve known a few that I’ve loved. Well, let’s make that two. Two cats that I’ve found acceptable. It’s not that I actively hate cats, or throw rocks at them, or veer my car ever so slightly at them when they run out into the street…WHAT? I just said I DON’T do that…quit giving me those disparaging looks.

I spent the weekend up in San Francisco at Angie and Mike’s house. Angie is also a Dog Person, which is one of the reason she is my friend. That, and she has pretty hair and shares my shoe size - IMPORTANT THINGS. The strange thing is that, Angie has no dogs, but DOES have three cats. It’s one of the mysteries of the universe, how this happened, but we won’t go into that, because it’s Monday and would require a lot of alcohol coffee.

Angie and Mike most recently acquired Smokey, who was wandering outside of Mike’s office building and decided that Mike looked like the kind of person who would take a wandering cat home. Smart cat, that one, as that is exactly what happened. (Hi Mike! Remember this weekend? When I beat you at Scrabble?)

And so, at 2am, I was woken up by Smokey who decided “Hey! You are a NEW PERSON and might not follow the same rules as those two other people and cats who SLEEP all night when it’s time to PLAY! But first, let me brush your hair for you!” He had taken my hair and spread it across the pillow and was raking through it with his claws. I wasn’t sure what to think about this, as his claws were a wee bit close to my carotid…so I rolled over, pulling my hair with me and Smokey saw this as an invitation to POUNCE! LAY ACROSS MY FACE! KNEAD MY CHIN! Seriously. There was a lot of kneading. But GOD, he was so cute! And so I totally made out with him all night and decided that if I could have fit him into my purse, I would have taken him back down to suburbia with me.

Later, after I had returned home, Kylie attached her nose to my jeans and figured out that I had been unfaithful. I tried to explain that it was a cat and not another dog, thinking that would make everything okay, but seeing as cats are her nemesis, I don’t think she’ll ever look at me the same way again. I'd tell you all about visiting the gay porn shop, but that will have to wait until later this week. (Bet you all just sat up in your chairs a little straighter! Am I right? WOO!) Right now, I have to go buy gifts for and pay attention to my dog...otherwise she's going to burn a scarlet A onto my forehead while I'm sleeping and that will totally clash with the outfit I have planned for tomorrow.

Because my philosophy is, if something embarrassing happens, I should share it with everyone

I consider myself a Clean Person. I kept myself from using ALL CAPS, there, because I don't want to seem obnoxious about it. But really, I like to keep my house clean. I shower regularly. My dog smells good. Marc smells good. We don't have suspicious stains on our carpets, and I have a deep and encyclopedia like knowledge about cleaning products.

And then, we get to my car.

Here is where I will heap the burning coal of blame upon Kylie's head. She SHEDS A LOT. And I WILL use all caps, because with the amount of hair that comes off of her each day, you would think a new dog would form and start demanding to be fed. Each week, you can hear a plaintive wail escaping my lips that goes something like this: "HOW, AFTER I HAVE JUST VACUUMED THIS ENTIRE HOUSE, IS THERE A FUR BALL DANCING ACROSS THE DINING ROOM FLOOR?? ARRRRRGHHHH!" And then I usually fall to the floor and begin rending my garments.

I used to employ my German Cleaning Skills™ towards my car. Somewhere over the past few years, however, I've had to stop, since I was either going to be cleaning ALL OF THE TIME, or have a life. So the car's interior went, literally, to the dogs. Fortunately, I don't have to bus anyone around in it, so I'm spared the embarrassment of people having to sit in dog hair and try to look out of the windows, which Kylie has completely smudged up with her nose. Those who dare enter know that it is not a representation of what my life looks like...thank the Sweet Lord in heaven, because my car would indicate that I live in a decrepit trailer with two pick ups out on the front lawn (on blocks, natch) and a couch on the porch where I sit in my house-coat and watch Jerry Springer all afternoon while pee'ing into my female Stadium Buddy. Want a Bud Lite?

So the other day, I went to meet Angie and a new friend, Kim, for lunch. I thought that we would be eating at their office, so I pulled up and parked, ready to call Angie to let her know I was downstairs. Imagine my dismay when I saw them walking towards me and realized, OH THE HORROR, that they wanted to go off-campus for lunch and wanted me to drive.

I think I might have pooped my pants a little.

Angie, telepathically understanding what my panicked look meant said "Oh, don't worry. I warned her about your car! And look! Her dress is made out of slippery material so the hair will glide right off!" This did not help. Especially since once we got back to my car, Kim noted "Oh, you really DO have a lot of dog hair!" Angie's descriptive powers had obviously not been sufficient. I quickly swept the crap off of the front seat, which had been further soiled that morning since my coffee carafe had leaked and I had nothing to wipe it off with. Fortunately, I am also ingenious, so poor Kim had to sit on an old grocery bag so that she would not get her dress filthy. I like my passengers to travel in style.

It should also be noted that my A/C doesn't work, and we've been dealing with temperatures in the upper 80's all week. So on the way home, Kim, foregoing the front seat and taking her chances in the back, had to ride with the window down, meaning the left side of her hair-do had a little more lift than the right once she exited my car. I'm sure she'll thank me later for injecting her style with lop-sided body. It's the kind of friend I am.

I think I might have to put Interior Auto Maintenance back on my list of things to do, since the mortification of that afternoon will burn brightly in my memory until at LEAST my next cocktail. But hey! We had sushi for lunch! And it was fabulous! And we discussed how two of our last names mean dirty things, so that was exciting!

If I don't post for a while, you'll know where I am. I'll be back when my car is clean.

A belated birthday, because I'm technically impaired

I was going through my archives today when I noticed a post in my "drafts" section that was supposed to have gone up LAST Friday. If you must know, I'm not the most technically savvy person in the world. In fact, I had to look up how to spell "technical"...it's a good day if I can figure out how to turn the computer ON. I just stopped using stone tablets last year, people.

But a dear friend of mine, Andrea, turned 31 on Saturday, and attention must be paid. So lest you think I forgot about you, darling, that is not the case. I just misfired on the "publish" button. Behold:

So, tomorrow, my friend Andrea turns 31. I've known her since her first day of college, back in the merry old 1990's, when Al Gore invented the internet, Bill Clinton got caught with his pants down and the economy was booming. A good time was being had, apparently, by all.

And so were we! Being two years older, and therefore full of wisdom, I took Andrea under my wing. A rudimentary knowledge of college life needed to be explained, such as: how to speaker dance at fraternity parties! how to smoke in a sexy manner! what the actual definition of shacking was! I'm happy to report that she was an apt pupil and a very successful co-ed. More importantly, she was and is one of my favorite people and I'm thrilled to have seen her grow from a bubbly and fun college student who used to study on the floor of the hallway outside of the library because she would get in trouble for talking too much inside of the library, to a bubbly and sophisticated woman who still has a lot to say, but no longer has to deal with the restraint of collegiate law.

And while I might have introduced her to smoking, she doesn't anymore, people, so don't start in on me about leading people astray. Because while we both might look damn sexy while inhaling (after lots of practice) we also like our lungs to be pink and healthy. So now we reserve the sexy for our awesome dance moves which, alas, no longer take place on top of a speaker. Sigh. I guess that means we're officially adults.

Happy (belated) Birthday, bella. I can't wait to see you next month.

Charity work

Being a creature of habit, I tend to take Kylie on the same walk around our neighborhood several times a week. For the past few weeks, we've been walking during the later portion of the afternoon, and I've noticed something peculiar: there is a car that parks in the same spot, each day, and a man has been taking a nap in the passenger side seat whenever Kylie and I march by. It's a busy street, so I admire his undaunted quest for sleep. He drapes the newspaper over his head to shield out the sun, so I've never seen his face, but I'm overly familiar with his footwear.

You see, he sets his shoes out on the sidewalk next to his car. Heaven forbid his toes should not be able to dance and wiggle free during his slumber. Instead, I have to navigate around the shoes which is a challenge only because Kylie wants to bury her nose deep inside and absorb their odor which I can only imagine resembles decaying cheese or the grave (let's just say the shoes are not well cared for and leave it at that lest any of you have delicate stomachs). What does it say about my character that I've wanted to steal his shoes each time I pass them? Nothing good, I'm sure, but at least I can be certain that my spot in hell is reserved!

Today, to reward myself for not having eaten that second brownie, I moved the shoes under his car as I walked past - and I'll have you know this showed a remarkable amount of self-control on my part. I went down a ways and paused, hoping that since Kylie and I were walking by at a later hour that we might catch him at the end of his nap, and witness his Panic! and Alarm!, thinking his shoes were LOST! or STOLEN!, and then relief! over finding them tucked beneath his car. Alas, he still hadn't stirred after five minutes, and I really had to get home to pee.

I like to think I keep people on their toes and their minds sharp. It's a public service of sorts. I should really be compensated.

From the mouths of babes

I'm feeling much better today. Leeches and blood-letting really DO work! Who knew?

After having spent most of the weekend in a prone position on the couch and after using a million hundred tissues, I believe the allergies have gone off to afflict someone else. They've only left the sneezing portion of their program. And I DO love a good sneeze, so I'm thinking I came out the winner on this one. Ha-HA!

We had our friend and her daughter over for breakfast on Sunday. The daughter, who we will refer to as M, is one of the reasons that Marc and I will ever venture down the path of parenthood. She has made us less afraid of what it might be like to bring a Small Person into the world and we realize that it might actually be amusing to raise a child in such a way that they tell their therapist, later, how much My Parents Fucked Me Up. I mean, we have to have SOME fun, what with all of the sleep deprivation parenthood seems to include.

Anyhoo, M loves to be read to, and some six books in, she looked curiously at my face and said "What's wrong with your eyebrows?" and placed her small finger on my left brow bone. This type of question means one of two things...either that I have forgotten to darken the hair of my eyebrows, or that I've colored them in too darkly, which makes me look as though I'm a distant relative of Groucho Marx. Either way, it's not pretty.

She continued "They look sort of funny...they are not the same." At the age of four, M is terribly precocious, but I could tell she was struggling for the correct description as to what was going on north of my eyeballs... I went into the bathroom to inspect.

The left one had been completely rubbed off, giving me the lopsided appearance of a frat boy who'd had his eyebrow shaved while passed out after a night of too many keg stands. An elegant woman throwing a brunch at her house, I was not. I sighed and rubbed the right one off as well, figuring that if I couldn't have elegance, I would at least have symmetry.

First world problem, I know.

I came back out, ready to resume reading, but M had moved on and wanted to go upstairs to have her hair braided. So off we went to my bathroom; she observed my face in the mirror and took note that both of my eyebrows were now missing. "What's wrong with your face, Jen?" Where to begin, right? I told her that I had rubbed the other eyebrow off, so as not to look funny to which she said "Well, you look funnier NOW. I'm glad mine don't do that."

Indeed. It's a good thing she's made of sugar plums and the Baby Jesus, or else I might have wished a pox on her, but she's right. I wish mine didn't do that either.

Wherein I mine my own suffering for content

I woke up on Friday with a low grade headache and the desire to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed until next year, cradled by goose down. It's allergy season and I've felt, all week, like calling my clients to say "I cannot come in as I'm Afflicted with a serious Malady." However, being that it's only allergies, and not something dire enough to drown in black-market narcotics, I've persisted with going to work despite the feeling that my head is barely attached. It's a good thing I can teach while only half consious. I'm a professional, people.

So on this particular morning, I dragged myself into the bathroom to commence my daily ritual of eyebrow and eyelash application. Let's just say the overhead lighting was especially unforgiving as the black shadows underneath my eyes had reached such large proportions, it seemed like my face was disappearing into the sockets. Oh well, I thought as I spackled on the under eye concealer, I'll just distract people today with sparkling jokes and jazz hands! Except my clients are a bit more observant and vocal than most. All morning, I received comments of this ilk:

"You look really awful...did you sleep last night?"
"JESUS!"
"You're so pale...are you sure you should have come in today?"
"You're not going to get ME sick, are you?"

Well then, don't hold back. So sorry I showed up to work looking like an old, medieval hag. Come on and join me over by my cauldron! We'll go bobbing for Christians and heretics and cast spells on people who annoy us!

In the meantime, I'm heading back home towards the tequila and Benadryl. GOD.

Wherein I actually have the balls to tell someone how irritating they are

At Peet's, in line, waiting to order my latte. It's early enough that it's still dark out, ergo I'm cranky about being up in the first place. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

Stranger: Excuse me, where do you get your hair colored?
Me: Oh, I don't. It's natural.
Stranger: No, it's not.
Me: Um, yes, it is. I think I would know.
Stranger: It can't be.
Me: Well, it's grown out of my head like this for 32 years, so I think I have you there.
Stranger: I don't believe you.
Me: Allllllll-righty then.

I turned around, thinking the interaction had concluded, but she caught up with me in the pick-up line.

Stranger: I don't know why you would lie about something like coloring your hair.
Me: Why WOULD I lie about something like that? If you'd like, I'll yank out a strand and you can go and have it tested.
Then she made one of those noises that is impossible to type but I can only describe as an irritated fwoosh of air that started deep in her throat and came out as a snort.
Stranger: GOD. Just admit it isn't real!
Me: I would, but it's not the case. You shouldn't insult people before they have their coffee - it's rude.

And with that, my latte came up, I turned to her, made a psh sound and left (I visualized kicking her in the baby hole with a mighty hi-YA!, but I didn't have the energy). As a woman, she should understand...you only debate a strangers hair color credibility BEHIND their backs, not WITH them. Her mama didn't teach her right.

I shall fear no evil, not even the consequences of my love for punk rock

On my way home from work yesterday, I was enjoying the local classical music radio station. On a particular strip of 85North, that is the only station I receive, a strange feature of my malfunctioning radio that drops and catches signals at whim. I think it's fun...you never know what you'll get when you turn it on. And if nothing picks up, I can always whistle.

Regardless, a certain piece by Bach came on, one that my mother used to play over breakfast, often. We would eat together as a family each morning, then read the Bible and have prayer time before leaving for school. I think this assuaged my mothers fears that we might somehow stumble off of our righteous path - if we were bathed in the Holy Spirit before leaving the house (in His blessed name, amen) we were less likely to succumb to worldly temptations. We would, at the very least, have a heightened idea of just how close we were to stumbling into the fiery grips of hell (especially if I was having wicked thoughts about that cute boy in Algebra), what with Proverbs ringing in our ears before first period.

I was in high school when my parents took a particular interest in our musical preferences, having found my collection of Nirvana cassettes, thereby increasing their concern for the status of my soul. We had been raised on hymns and classical music, everything else was considered sinful, something that might lead to S-E-X or, at the very least, masturbation. My mother found a book on the sins of rock music and insisted on reading a chapter along with our Bible reading. (We found this mildly hypocritical considering my father had been in a polka band before he had ever met my mother and had a long running repertoire of popular music he could play on his accordion.)

I had a friend who used to pick me up in the morning. She had come early one day, and my mother insisted that she join in our devotional time. Mom was always excited to perhaps bring someone over to her side of life where all things were righteous and clean and no one ever touched themselves in that way. I feared, after my friend witnessed the spectacle that was my family, that I would become a complete social outcast, but she said nothing on the way to school and started coming earlier every day, listening attentively as my mother would read from the book and then Bible, even helping clear the table before we left for classes.

I asked her about it one day. She was a lapsed Catholic and quite verbal about her disdain for organized religion. Her reply to my inquiry as to why she had continued subjecting herself to my parents proselytizing was simple "Your mom makes great coffee." She then went on to ask why we never read from the Songs of Solomon. I explained that there were references to bosoms and S-E-X, so, you know, we ignored that book. Since my mothers vocabulary didn't include the word sex or any references thereto, I was sure her brain would explode and leak out of her ears if our breakfast devotions included praise of pursuing the pleasures of the body. You might as well stick her into a bathhouse orgy and tell her to act normal.

My parents efforts to keep us on the straight and narrow were, however misguided, appreciated in hindsight. While I think their methods may have been extreme, I sit here, as an adult, with the Golden Rule planted firmly in my gray matter, and I can recite passages of the Bible on command, which is always a neat party trick. I love punk music, my brother is a DJ and we've both had our share of S-E-X, but I'd like to think that those mornings, while we went through the motions so as to respect our parents, that we absorbed enough goodness to carry us through adulthood without leaving behind too much wreckage.

All of this from listening to Bach on the way home.