A few weeks ago I was checking my email at the front desk and a man walked in. He looked a bit pinched, unpleasant, giving off the aura of either needing to get laid or being constipated. This, I gathered before he said anything. When he DID open his mouth, what drifted out was not exactly poetry and butterflies:
“Is there a man here I can talk to about your business? I want to hire a personal trainer.”
I started to reply, but he held up his hand to cut me off before I could get “you sexist bastard” out of my mouth.
“Now, honey, I’m sure you THINK you know what you’re talking about, and you’re really blond and cute up here at the front desk, and I’m sure they pay you well to sit here and look pretty, but I’d prefer to talk to someone about this who knows a thing or two about training. And I’m in a hurry.” Pity he didn’t have ample time, as I would have asked him to bend over so that I could shove the computer monitor up his ass. It's an Apple so it only would have improved his personality. Yes, I was hostile that day.
Then, like a gift from above, in walked my client who is also a professional athlete. We’ll call him S. S said, “excuse me” as he walked by the man who looked as though he might shit his pants, finding himself in the presence of such athletic prowess.
“Excuse me,” said our charmer, “Are you S? Man, you’re incredible!! It’s an honor to meet you!!” He almost squealed...I think he might have even had an orgasm. S, being the gracious person that he is (and used to having men fling themselves at him in admiration), shook his hand and said “Thanks man! Hey, if you’re planning on working with Jen, watch out. She's made me cry a few times and is harder than any trainer I’ve ever had. Good luck!” And he walked back to the pilates equipment. I could have kissed him.
The man stood there, mouth agape, looking first at S, then at me. “You train HIM?” he asked incredulously. I nodded my head. “Wow. Do you have any openings?” And then, in one of those rare moments of mental dexterity, I shot back with “You know, my dance card is full. That’s what I get for being blond and pretty and not so bright. Men love that.” I wanted to add in THAT, AND ALL OF THE HAND JOBS THAT I GIVE but I have to draw the line somewhere.
And they wonder why I want to install a bar at work. The 1960's called...they want their sexism back...although, it never really left, did it?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Wherein I find a happy ending through my knowledge of power tools
I had this weekend to myself, and I should have gone crazy with the freedom, participating in a wild orgy of THINGS I CANNOT DO WHILE MARC IS AROUND, such as eating onions, putting Obama signs on my parents lawn, cooking meth or watching reality TV in the nude. (I'm kidding about the Obama signs...Marc would have totally helped me with that). Instead, I cleaned out and organized a closet that has been causing my brain to spontaneously explode and shoot out of my eyes each time I opened its door.
So after several hours of intense labor involving a power tool and enough swearing to have my chances of ever entering The Pearly Gates revoked, I have an organized and gorgeous closet with shelves! And a place to hang things! And everything is level! And now each time I open that door, I experience spontaneous orgasm!
My porn collection is now complete. That picture I have of Marc cleaning the toilet? Nothing compared to how hot this closet gets me. And yes, I'll be refilling my OCD medication later this week.
So after several hours of intense labor involving a power tool and enough swearing to have my chances of ever entering The Pearly Gates revoked, I have an organized and gorgeous closet with shelves! And a place to hang things! And everything is level! And now each time I open that door, I experience spontaneous orgasm!
My porn collection is now complete. That picture I have of Marc cleaning the toilet? Nothing compared to how hot this closet gets me. And yes, I'll be refilling my OCD medication later this week.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Another birthday...will you all stop with the getting older thing?
This is for my friend Justin, who is somewhere in London, hopefully holding onto the last vestiges of both his dignity and sobriety. Or not. On your birthday you're allowed to tell dignity to take the night off...it might get in the way of your good time.
Justin is someone who was part of a memorable junior year abroad in Scotland, though most of it I don't recall, what with all of the red wine I was bathing in on a daily basis. But despite my perpetual haze, he became an important friend. In many ways, his room in our dorm was the place that I felt most myself; I was in a stage of constantly questioning my place in life, and he offered a safe haven and some words of wisdom, like "Just shut up already. You're young and you'll figure it out eventually. Fancy some wine? I snogged someone today...want to hear about it?" (It helped that his rebukes were issued in a British accent. Then we would go draw on Frasier's face since he had passed out in Kari's bed, again, writing "cock" on his forehead. Empirical evidence of Justin's superior maturity.)
Anyhoo, he's now a writer in London living with his longtime love (hi Caroline!) and I hope he's at the beginning of a wonderful birthday weekend. I say sit in a deck chair at the park without regard to what it costs. When the chap in the stupid striped hat/vest combo comes up to charge you for resting your ass, tell him to suck it. It's your birthday and you can do what you want to.
Justin is someone who was part of a memorable junior year abroad in Scotland, though most of it I don't recall, what with all of the red wine I was bathing in on a daily basis. But despite my perpetual haze, he became an important friend. In many ways, his room in our dorm was the place that I felt most myself; I was in a stage of constantly questioning my place in life, and he offered a safe haven and some words of wisdom, like "Just shut up already. You're young and you'll figure it out eventually. Fancy some wine? I snogged someone today...want to hear about it?" (It helped that his rebukes were issued in a British accent. Then we would go draw on Frasier's face since he had passed out in Kari's bed, again, writing "cock" on his forehead. Empirical evidence of Justin's superior maturity.)
Anyhoo, he's now a writer in London living with his longtime love (hi Caroline!) and I hope he's at the beginning of a wonderful birthday weekend. I say sit in a deck chair at the park without regard to what it costs. When the chap in the stupid striped hat/vest combo comes up to charge you for resting your ass, tell him to suck it. It's your birthday and you can do what you want to.
It's a long one, people, but I use 'penis' five times, so hang in there
Someone asked the other day how I came to be a pilates instructor. While the exact path is quite a long and boring story, wandering primarily through the hall of horrors that is high tech, people are often surprised to hear that I started out as an art restorer.
(Which might be the most tedious job of all time, should you get any romantic notions into your head about what it involves. Try working on one square inch of canvas for about three months, getting the chemistry of the paint just right, the original artists brushjkh;hte;hieorasdl....oh whoops! See, I just fell asleep there.)
What it entailed for me was working for a prominent art dealer who also happened to be a paranoid, raging alcoholic. I worked out of a studio in his home, flanked by his accountant (who was a RECOVERING alcoholic) and his personal assistant who came to work, daily, with a massive hang-over and commenced drinking again around lunch. My boss would come into the studio each morning, clothed in only his canary yellow bathrobe, drinking whiskey (with a shot of Sanka), to check in on his workers. By 12noon, he was usually so sauced that we would take bets on whether or not he would fall into the pool as he wandered between the studio and the house (he did, once, on the only sick day I ever took). My job was to repair damaged canvases that he brought back from buying trips throughout Europe.
Nine months into this slow descent towards purgatory, I coped by smoking crack, spent too much time with a cute, tattoo covered Starbucks barista (while still sort of engaged to my college boyfriend who demanded that I talk with NO OTHER MEN since he couldn't supervise me from his perch in Michigan…), and rebuffed advances by the accountant who asked me to attend his AA meetings with him because he thought working with me was compromising his sobriety (what with all of the crack smoking). It was a strange time. My boss had taken to wearing his robe constantly and as he was leaning over me one day, bathing me in his whiskey breath, his robe opened and the sight of his flaccid, 60 year-old penis nearly made my 21 year-old brain ooze out of my ears and my soul dissolve. I promptly went outside, hid behind a shrub and called a friend, wailing "NO ONES WORK DAY SHOULD INVOLVE A GERIATRIC, FLACCID PENIS!" Not unless there is lots and LOTS of money at the end of it. And tequila. And DIAMONDS. And, perhaps, a full lobotomy. (I was kidding about the smoking crack part, by the way, but it might have helped.)
So I went to Banana Republic and bought what was then an outrageously priced suit and began interviewing. One day, I was heading into my final interview for a job I eventually accepted. Before leaving the studio, I sat down to apply some lipstick and heard a sickening, squish as my butt made contact with the chair. I had sat in my paint palette, my black pants now festooned with the bright orange and yellows of my current canvas. The bellows that issued forth brought my co-workers running, fearing either that I was having a bad acid flashback or had endured another penis sighting. The accountant started to wipe at the spot on my ass (giving him much material for his next AA meeting) and the assistant took a nip from something resembling a flask while saying "It looks like you just shit crayons!" The timing was dreadful as I had to leave RIGHT THEN to go meet with a CEO and some VC's and could do nothing about the stain. Did I mention it was ON MY ASS? BRIGHT ORANGE?
Without going into too much detail, I spent the entire interview sitting on my purse in such a way as to hoist up that side of my butt rather than leave permanent stains all over the swanky Menlo Park offices. I got the job and weeks later my new boss said to me "So I have to ask, what was with you and your handbag that day you had your final round of interviews?" Blushing, I told him the story. He laughed and, knowing what kind of work environment I had been subjected to, said "I don't know, I think if you had led into your interview with 'Excuse me, I just saw a 60 year-old penis and the force of that emotional blow knocked me over into my paint palette, so pardon my messy pants' we would have all understood and probably offered you a beer and a heavy narcotic."
God, I miss the days of working at a start-up: readily available alcohol and not a penis in sight. Well, not unless you asked for it, but that’s another post entirely.
(Which might be the most tedious job of all time, should you get any romantic notions into your head about what it involves. Try working on one square inch of canvas for about three months, getting the chemistry of the paint just right, the original artists brushjkh;hte;hieorasdl....oh whoops! See, I just fell asleep there.)
What it entailed for me was working for a prominent art dealer who also happened to be a paranoid, raging alcoholic. I worked out of a studio in his home, flanked by his accountant (who was a RECOVERING alcoholic) and his personal assistant who came to work, daily, with a massive hang-over and commenced drinking again around lunch. My boss would come into the studio each morning, clothed in only his canary yellow bathrobe, drinking whiskey (with a shot of Sanka), to check in on his workers. By 12noon, he was usually so sauced that we would take bets on whether or not he would fall into the pool as he wandered between the studio and the house (he did, once, on the only sick day I ever took). My job was to repair damaged canvases that he brought back from buying trips throughout Europe.
Nine months into this slow descent towards purgatory, I coped by smoking crack, spent too much time with a cute, tattoo covered Starbucks barista (while still sort of engaged to my college boyfriend who demanded that I talk with NO OTHER MEN since he couldn't supervise me from his perch in Michigan…), and rebuffed advances by the accountant who asked me to attend his AA meetings with him because he thought working with me was compromising his sobriety (what with all of the crack smoking). It was a strange time. My boss had taken to wearing his robe constantly and as he was leaning over me one day, bathing me in his whiskey breath, his robe opened and the sight of his flaccid, 60 year-old penis nearly made my 21 year-old brain ooze out of my ears and my soul dissolve. I promptly went outside, hid behind a shrub and called a friend, wailing "NO ONES WORK DAY SHOULD INVOLVE A GERIATRIC, FLACCID PENIS!" Not unless there is lots and LOTS of money at the end of it. And tequila. And DIAMONDS. And, perhaps, a full lobotomy. (I was kidding about the smoking crack part, by the way, but it might have helped.)
So I went to Banana Republic and bought what was then an outrageously priced suit and began interviewing. One day, I was heading into my final interview for a job I eventually accepted. Before leaving the studio, I sat down to apply some lipstick and heard a sickening, squish as my butt made contact with the chair. I had sat in my paint palette, my black pants now festooned with the bright orange and yellows of my current canvas. The bellows that issued forth brought my co-workers running, fearing either that I was having a bad acid flashback or had endured another penis sighting. The accountant started to wipe at the spot on my ass (giving him much material for his next AA meeting) and the assistant took a nip from something resembling a flask while saying "It looks like you just shit crayons!" The timing was dreadful as I had to leave RIGHT THEN to go meet with a CEO and some VC's and could do nothing about the stain. Did I mention it was ON MY ASS? BRIGHT ORANGE?
Without going into too much detail, I spent the entire interview sitting on my purse in such a way as to hoist up that side of my butt rather than leave permanent stains all over the swanky Menlo Park offices. I got the job and weeks later my new boss said to me "So I have to ask, what was with you and your handbag that day you had your final round of interviews?" Blushing, I told him the story. He laughed and, knowing what kind of work environment I had been subjected to, said "I don't know, I think if you had led into your interview with 'Excuse me, I just saw a 60 year-old penis and the force of that emotional blow knocked me over into my paint palette, so pardon my messy pants' we would have all understood and probably offered you a beer and a heavy narcotic."
God, I miss the days of working at a start-up: readily available alcohol and not a penis in sight. Well, not unless you asked for it, but that’s another post entirely.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Wherein Marc is the Great White Hunter
During my pre-shower ritual last night (which involves me sitting on my bathroom counter and doing deep, close inspection of my pores and a status check on my eyebrows) I encountered a fly of such gigantic proportions that I feared I might sustain a concussion should it dive bomb my frontal lobe. It must have flown in during the afternoon (when I keep the sliding glass doors open so that Kylie can come and go as she pleases) and enjoyed a siesta until I disturbed its resting place by turning on the lightbulb it had been calling home. It flew furiously around my head and I made every effort to avoid coming into contact with it, shaking my leg violently when it landed there not once, but twice. The thing was so large it almost pulled my pants right off. YES I WAS WEARING PANTS. I DO THAT SOMETIMES.
Marc came up after I had concluded my shower, ready for his and I retreated to the other side of the house, not mentioning the fly because, knowing his hatred for them, I was sure its demise was imminent.
From my perch in the guestroom, I had a direct view into our bedroom and what ensued was Marc making several appearances in the doorway, jumping first this way and then that, leaping at the fly, simultaneously flapping at it furiously with a shirt, "DIE FUCKER!" floating gently down the hallway. He prevailed, coming in somewhat breathless saying "I JUST KILLED THREE HUGE FLIES!" with enough gusto that one might think he was gunning for an award.
Reason #1,569 to get married. Someone else will kill the beasties.
Marc came up after I had concluded my shower, ready for his and I retreated to the other side of the house, not mentioning the fly because, knowing his hatred for them, I was sure its demise was imminent.
From my perch in the guestroom, I had a direct view into our bedroom and what ensued was Marc making several appearances in the doorway, jumping first this way and then that, leaping at the fly, simultaneously flapping at it furiously with a shirt, "DIE FUCKER!" floating gently down the hallway. He prevailed, coming in somewhat breathless saying "I JUST KILLED THREE HUGE FLIES!" with enough gusto that one might think he was gunning for an award.
Reason #1,569 to get married. Someone else will kill the beasties.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Kylie's Nature Programming
Mom: So Kylie has a bed in almost every room in this house, doesn't she?
Me: Yes. And she views anything that has a horizontal surface as a potential bed. I'm surprised we haven't found her napping on the coffee table yet.
Mom: She sleeps in your bedroom with you, right?
Me: Yeeeeees? (curious as to where this was going)
Mom: Well, what does she do when you and Marc are...well, YOU know...
Me: No mom, I don't. (because I'm evil and wanted to see if she would say HAVING HOT SEX)
Mom: Well (struggling), what does she do when you're having...a TENDER moment?
Me: OH! You mean like HAVING SEX? Well, when we're HAVING SEX, she usually watches and then rates us based on our endurance and creativity during SEX. It's her version of Mutual of Omaha*.
Mom: That was NOT necessary OR lovely. (hitting me on the arm)
Me: Hey, you asked.
*How RAD was Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom? Do you remember Marlin Perkins? And how he always introduced the show in that room with the really awful wood siding? My childhood living room had such siding. Also, whenever we would watch that show, my mom would turn it off when the animals would have sex. It wasn't lovely. Neither is the fact that I would dare do so the same room as my dog. Take note.
Me: Yes. And she views anything that has a horizontal surface as a potential bed. I'm surprised we haven't found her napping on the coffee table yet.
Mom: She sleeps in your bedroom with you, right?
Me: Yeeeeees? (curious as to where this was going)
Mom: Well, what does she do when you and Marc are...well, YOU know...
Me: No mom, I don't. (because I'm evil and wanted to see if she would say HAVING HOT SEX)
Mom: Well (struggling), what does she do when you're having...a TENDER moment?
Me: OH! You mean like HAVING SEX? Well, when we're HAVING SEX, she usually watches and then rates us based on our endurance and creativity during SEX. It's her version of Mutual of Omaha*.
Mom: That was NOT necessary OR lovely. (hitting me on the arm)
Me: Hey, you asked.
*How RAD was Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom? Do you remember Marlin Perkins? And how he always introduced the show in that room with the really awful wood siding? My childhood living room had such siding. Also, whenever we would watch that show, my mom would turn it off when the animals would have sex. It wasn't lovely. Neither is the fact that I would dare do so the same room as my dog. Take note.
Monday, September 22, 2008
It's all in the amenities
This weekend, Marc and I trotted off to a wedding of a client of mine. She's become a friend over the years and I was honored to be a part of her day. (Hi Cares! Hope you're having fun in Hawaii! You were so stunning as a bride that you made my mascara run!)
Anyhoo, the wedding was at a private vacation home on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It was one of those ridiculously beautiful properties that made you wonder 1) what these people did for a living, 2) where does one sign up for such a job and 3) sweet god what does their REGULAR home look like? Understandably, the owners did not want some 130-odd people trouncing throughout their home to use the toilets, and so the bride and groom had brought in two porta-potties for the occaision.
I have a long standing relationship with porta-potties, meaning that I use them as much as Sarah Palin has been out of the country - almost NEVER. (ZING!) But I also have a long standing relationship with open bars. I love them deeply and the adult beverages that spring forth from behind their shiny fronts. And so at some point my bladder was going to have to take care of what was sloshing around inside of it. Marc had also been enjoying the open bar and, knowing my position on porta-potties, decided our best bet was a group bathroom expedition.
So off we went. And IN we went. The stalls were side by side, joined by a vent enabling you to know just how your neighbors gastrointestinal situation was coming along. Let's just say that Marc was impressed with the amenities as his soliloquy started as soon as he went in and didn't stop until he had flushed. Behold:
"Wow! This is a REALLY nice shitter! I have perfume and lotion and gum and mouthwash and tampons - I'll take one for you just in case you need a tampax later - and mints and the toilet paper is really nice and soft and did you see how you can actually flush so that it won't smell? And no one has used the mouthwash yet so I'm going to - gurgle gurge gurgle - and now my breath will smell better than yours! This is a GREAT shitter!"
And then he exited, all smiles and with what was, in fact, great breath. Of course, throughout the rest of the evening, he would lean over at regular intervals and go "DO YOU NEED A TAMPAX? Because I have one, just in case! Or GUM?! I have GUM!"
We took another bathroom trip later with our friend Jeff in tow and I turned to him before he went in and said "Marc was very impressed by the toilet situation...I hope yours is just as fulfilling." And I KID YOU NOT as the door started to close on Jeff I heard him say "WOW! This is a REALLY nice shitter!"
Who knew that all you needed to do to get men so excited was to put a basket full of goodies in the bathroom? I totally know what I'm getting Marc for Christmas this year.
Anyhoo, the wedding was at a private vacation home on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It was one of those ridiculously beautiful properties that made you wonder 1) what these people did for a living, 2) where does one sign up for such a job and 3) sweet god what does their REGULAR home look like? Understandably, the owners did not want some 130-odd people trouncing throughout their home to use the toilets, and so the bride and groom had brought in two porta-potties for the occaision.
I have a long standing relationship with porta-potties, meaning that I use them as much as Sarah Palin has been out of the country - almost NEVER. (ZING!) But I also have a long standing relationship with open bars. I love them deeply and the adult beverages that spring forth from behind their shiny fronts. And so at some point my bladder was going to have to take care of what was sloshing around inside of it. Marc had also been enjoying the open bar and, knowing my position on porta-potties, decided our best bet was a group bathroom expedition.
So off we went. And IN we went. The stalls were side by side, joined by a vent enabling you to know just how your neighbors gastrointestinal situation was coming along. Let's just say that Marc was impressed with the amenities as his soliloquy started as soon as he went in and didn't stop until he had flushed. Behold:
"Wow! This is a REALLY nice shitter! I have perfume and lotion and gum and mouthwash and tampons - I'll take one for you just in case you need a tampax later - and mints and the toilet paper is really nice and soft and did you see how you can actually flush so that it won't smell? And no one has used the mouthwash yet so I'm going to - gurgle gurge gurgle - and now my breath will smell better than yours! This is a GREAT shitter!"
And then he exited, all smiles and with what was, in fact, great breath. Of course, throughout the rest of the evening, he would lean over at regular intervals and go "DO YOU NEED A TAMPAX? Because I have one, just in case! Or GUM?! I have GUM!"
We took another bathroom trip later with our friend Jeff in tow and I turned to him before he went in and said "Marc was very impressed by the toilet situation...I hope yours is just as fulfilling." And I KID YOU NOT as the door started to close on Jeff I heard him say "WOW! This is a REALLY nice shitter!"
Who knew that all you needed to do to get men so excited was to put a basket full of goodies in the bathroom? I totally know what I'm getting Marc for Christmas this year.
Friday, September 19, 2008
My woo
Let's just say it hasn't been my favorite week. I've sort of hated everyone for the past five days, and though I've been doing an incredible job of hiding it, there are a few people who just almost haven't made it home alive. Don't worry, it will pass.
Yesterday, however, there was a bright spot. A client was in for her usual Pilates session, and somewhere around the 1/2 way mark, during what had thus far been a fairly quiet hour, she popped out this little gem:
Client: "You know what I hate? I hate it when my husband says 'snatch' during sex."
Me (suddenly very alert as things were looking up): "Would you rather he said 'vagina'? That seems sort of clinical."
Client: "Well, no. But there has to be a better word."
So for the next 1/2 hour, we really, earnestly tried to come up with an acceptable term for her privates. One that she could take home and offer up to her husband as an alternative to use during their special time, if you will. My personal favorite was 'woo' which I employ often, myself (not during sex, mind you). Hers was 'my Britney', though we axed that as it would sort of be like inviting the pop star into bed with them. I pointed out that her husband might be into that, but she passed based on the fact that if she was going to verbally cue thoughts of another woman, they'd best not have perkier tits than her own. Good point.
She went home without a solution, since we spent most of our brainstorming session laughing. There are many reasons why I love my job, and being able to say things like "you should call your vagina 'my woo'" without worry of an HR infraction is certainly one of them. Being self employed rules.
Yesterday, however, there was a bright spot. A client was in for her usual Pilates session, and somewhere around the 1/2 way mark, during what had thus far been a fairly quiet hour, she popped out this little gem:
Client: "You know what I hate? I hate it when my husband says 'snatch' during sex."
Me (suddenly very alert as things were looking up): "Would you rather he said 'vagina'? That seems sort of clinical."
Client: "Well, no. But there has to be a better word."
So for the next 1/2 hour, we really, earnestly tried to come up with an acceptable term for her privates. One that she could take home and offer up to her husband as an alternative to use during their special time, if you will. My personal favorite was 'woo' which I employ often, myself (not during sex, mind you). Hers was 'my Britney', though we axed that as it would sort of be like inviting the pop star into bed with them. I pointed out that her husband might be into that, but she passed based on the fact that if she was going to verbally cue thoughts of another woman, they'd best not have perkier tits than her own. Good point.
She went home without a solution, since we spent most of our brainstorming session laughing. There are many reasons why I love my job, and being able to say things like "you should call your vagina 'my woo'" without worry of an HR infraction is certainly one of them. Being self employed rules.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Work it out, people
Gas prices are wreaking havoc on my social life. I realized this weekend that I've been basing my activities on whether or not they merit the cost of fuel.
"You know, between the cost of gas and the time it takes to get up there and back, I think I'll just sit at home and do my nails rather than hang out with my friends. If they came to ME, however..." I've actually SAID this, or some version of it.
This is not good. Clearly, the war needs to end if for no other reason than people are being denied my presence. And I'm becoming a miserly, self-important shrew.
Yeah, don't think I was going to let one of you point that out.
"You know, between the cost of gas and the time it takes to get up there and back, I think I'll just sit at home and do my nails rather than hang out with my friends. If they came to ME, however..." I've actually SAID this, or some version of it.
This is not good. Clearly, the war needs to end if for no other reason than people are being denied my presence. And I'm becoming a miserly, self-important shrew.
Yeah, don't think I was going to let one of you point that out.
Monday, September 15, 2008
And Aloha means goodbye
We decided to go backpacking this weekend. It's something Marc and I used to do often, but as time and life have marched on, we've had less and less time to trot off into the wilderness.
But this weekend, we said "SUCK IT" to all of our engagements, loaded up our packs and hiked some six or so miles back into Aloha Lake. Several blisters later, we arrived and were rewarded with amazing views, a balmy evening and a bottle of wine that made it into the back country, unscathed, and fell down our throats with alarming swiftness. (We get it done, people, even away from civilization).
Neither of us slept well. Marc was ravaged by mosquitoes and I was plagued by my old friend, insomnia. Kylie, however, had no such problems. She slept for most of the afternoon and then took the night hours to explore, chasing other nocturnal creatures, frisking about on the shore of the lake, and, as luck would have it, rolling in bear poop. She felt like sharing the poop, nudging each of us separately out of sleep, smearing the scat on either our sleeping bags, or in my case, my face. Sweet. It's not a great way to wake up, especially when you know that a shower is many LONG hours away.
But the above image is what I woke up to Sunday morning. So despite the aura of bear shit, lack of sleep and incessant dust, the view made it all worthwhile. We plodded out by lunch, weary, with a fine layer of grime over everything. Kylie will sleep for days, possibly dreaming of the chipmunks which are still giving her the finger and mocking her from their hiding places. I'll be walking around gingerly on a tender knee and several blisters and Marc will complain about the sheer amount of laundry that comes from a 24 hour trip. And then we'll start planning the next one.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Sweet nothings
My Dad over dinner: This wine needs to de-gas.
Marc, in reply: Oh! You mean like your daughter in the morning.
It's his version of pitching woo. I'm a lucky woman.
Marc, in reply: Oh! You mean like your daughter in the morning.
It's his version of pitching woo. I'm a lucky woman.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
One household, under Kylie
So after yesterdays post I've received a lot of messages that boil down to one question "DO YOU HAVE GUNS IN YOUR HOUSE?" and a few "IS MARC INSANE?" Yes, and yes.
How a gun toting, moderate ended up marrying a bleeding heart, tree-hugging-almost-hippie is a question for the ages, but here we are. We're sort of like a more efficient version of Congress...differing opinions on many things, but we compromise and pass internal legislature all of the time. (Marc is downright filibusterous once you pour some vodka down his throat.) Also, Kylie is a lobbyist for whomever is holding a dog treat at the moment (she'd say she's non-partisan, but I think she's voting for Obama). So you see, we have our own little, productive government going on. There are even social programs! And we stay within budget! Congress could LEARN some shit from us, I'm telling you.
And yes, I'm the hippie...but with a penchant for pencil skirts and heels rather than long, flowing dresses and Birkenstocks (though I've owned several pair...I blame the Germanic influence). Plus, I shower and wear deodorant. But I will seriously cut you if you litter and will wax poetic about the virtues of eating local if you get me started...you've been warned.
How a gun toting, moderate ended up marrying a bleeding heart, tree-hugging-almost-hippie is a question for the ages, but here we are. We're sort of like a more efficient version of Congress...differing opinions on many things, but we compromise and pass internal legislature all of the time. (Marc is downright filibusterous once you pour some vodka down his throat.) Also, Kylie is a lobbyist for whomever is holding a dog treat at the moment (she'd say she's non-partisan, but I think she's voting for Obama). So you see, we have our own little, productive government going on. There are even social programs! And we stay within budget! Congress could LEARN some shit from us, I'm telling you.
And yes, I'm the hippie...but with a penchant for pencil skirts and heels rather than long, flowing dresses and Birkenstocks (though I've owned several pair...I blame the Germanic influence). Plus, I shower and wear deodorant. But I will seriously cut you if you litter and will wax poetic about the virtues of eating local if you get me started...you've been warned.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Badass, my ass.
A few nights ago, I was trying desperately to fall asleep, losing a battle with insomnia. Marc, in the meantime, was snoring contentedly next to me, having drifted off about five seconds after his head hit the pillow. I was contemplating what to do next...go downstairs and read? t.p. the neighbors house? shop online? when Marc rolled towards me and said, with some conviction, "Remember that time I killed a deer in Wichita? Let's go back there and drink some bourbon!"
Now, there are several things wrong with those two sentences, but the first thing I said in my exhausted state was "But you don't LIKE bourbon!" He didn't respond and I realized that he was dead asleep and that the oblique comments had come from somewhere deep inside his subconscious.
We were talking the following afternoon and I told Marc about the above, expecting him to flesh out the story of Bambi's demise in further detail, but he had no idea what dream that statement was adjoined to. (He's never been to Wichita, either, so who knows where that came from. It's a fun noun to say, though. Try it! Bet you just sounded it out...)
He said that his entire night had been filled with violent dreams wherein he was shooting all sorts of people and watching others light themselves on fire. I believe there was even a helicopter chase. Neat! This is what he gets for talking guns with my dad over dinner.
He went on, becoming more animated as he recalled details, and I thought to myself "Sweet god! I'm married to a homicidal maniac." Marc simultaneously let out with "I'm a freaking American BADASS!!!"
Perhaps we'll take that bourbon after all. Or at least I will. I'm scared to go to bed, now. Hold me.
Now, there are several things wrong with those two sentences, but the first thing I said in my exhausted state was "But you don't LIKE bourbon!" He didn't respond and I realized that he was dead asleep and that the oblique comments had come from somewhere deep inside his subconscious.
We were talking the following afternoon and I told Marc about the above, expecting him to flesh out the story of Bambi's demise in further detail, but he had no idea what dream that statement was adjoined to. (He's never been to Wichita, either, so who knows where that came from. It's a fun noun to say, though. Try it! Bet you just sounded it out...)
He said that his entire night had been filled with violent dreams wherein he was shooting all sorts of people and watching others light themselves on fire. I believe there was even a helicopter chase. Neat! This is what he gets for talking guns with my dad over dinner.
He went on, becoming more animated as he recalled details, and I thought to myself "Sweet god! I'm married to a homicidal maniac." Marc simultaneously let out with "I'm a freaking American BADASS!!!"
Perhaps we'll take that bourbon after all. Or at least I will. I'm scared to go to bed, now. Hold me.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Update: Twitter
I've had a few emails from some readers that basically say "WHAT'S UP WITH THE DAMNED TWITTER THINGY EVERY TIME I TRY TO LOAD YOUR BLOG?"
Sheesh...why are you so CRANKY?
But I agree, it's irritating, and it's hopefully been removed. I deleted some code, waved burning sage over my laptop and lit a candle, so that ought to do it. Don't ever tell me I don't listen, people. Now get back to work...
Sheesh...why are you so CRANKY?
But I agree, it's irritating, and it's hopefully been removed. I deleted some code, waved burning sage over my laptop and lit a candle, so that ought to do it. Don't ever tell me I don't listen, people. Now get back to work...
I'm going to head up this task force, bishes
I was driving behind a man this morning who felt that it was appropriate to throw his empty Starbucks cup out of the window, onto the roadside. Now, my opinion about Starbucks aside (HATE IT. Venti? Come ON...it's LARGE), I live in the Bay Area where being environmentally conscious is almost a religion. I’m surprised there isn’t some sort of task force that finds littering nincompoops - such as this gentleman - straps them into a chair, tapes their eyes open and forces them to watch An Inconvenient Truth until they scream for mercy or their eyes bleed or they promise to start recycling..or possibly all three. Then we’d shove them onto an ice floe with a polar bear and place bets on who would come out alive. My money would be on the bear considering the claws and teeth and sheer desperation over his habitat being melted away by the relentless sun (plus the lack of Starbucks and Gossip Girl...and polar bears are cute)…or we could just put them into a compost bin and spin them round and round with the brown matter until they promised to mend their ways.
Sorry, tangent.
How is everyone? Good? Today, I've been in love with my little life. It was the kind of day that was cool enough to walk Kylie up in the mountains midafternoon without the threat of heatstroke setting in...though I did sweat through my top which led to a rather uncomfortable moment at my local coffee shop. The guy behind me in line goes "Jesus, how did you get so sweaty?" I turned to look at him, first in disbelief that he would ask a stranger such a personal question and then secondly because he looked as though he hadn't had a brush with a piece of workout equipment in about 10 years. So before you criticize my healthy glow, maybe think about taking your treadmill out for a date...get reacquainted, like. I just made a "Psh" face at him and turned back around. Then he went "No, really, how did you? It's totally hot."
Seriously? WHY do men always pick up on me when I'm gross, sweaty and in need of a shower? I don't get it. If I'd been really brave, I would have wrapped my leg around him and said, in a breathy voice "You want to see HOT? Meet me in the bathroom in 2 minutes." But I really just wanted my iced latte. LARGE. NOT VENTI.
See how I linked those two stories, there? That's called aptitude, people. It's going to be a good week.
Sorry, tangent.
How is everyone? Good? Today, I've been in love with my little life. It was the kind of day that was cool enough to walk Kylie up in the mountains midafternoon without the threat of heatstroke setting in...though I did sweat through my top which led to a rather uncomfortable moment at my local coffee shop. The guy behind me in line goes "Jesus, how did you get so sweaty?" I turned to look at him, first in disbelief that he would ask a stranger such a personal question and then secondly because he looked as though he hadn't had a brush with a piece of workout equipment in about 10 years. So before you criticize my healthy glow, maybe think about taking your treadmill out for a date...get reacquainted, like. I just made a "Psh" face at him and turned back around. Then he went "No, really, how did you? It's totally hot."
Seriously? WHY do men always pick up on me when I'm gross, sweaty and in need of a shower? I don't get it. If I'd been really brave, I would have wrapped my leg around him and said, in a breathy voice "You want to see HOT? Meet me in the bathroom in 2 minutes." But I really just wanted my iced latte. LARGE. NOT VENTI.
See how I linked those two stories, there? That's called aptitude, people. It's going to be a good week.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Re-establishing my cred
What's been playing constantly on my iPod:
This War Is Noise - Sundowner
Sex on Fire - Kings of Leon
In the New Year - The Walkmen
Being Here - The Stills
Love Song - The Dandy Warhols
The Geeks Were Right - The Faints
Move - CSS
Each Year - Ra Ra Riot
The '59 Sound - The Gaslight Anthem
Untitled - Against Me!
Born & Raised - Fake Problems
Check out Sundowner if you don't know them already - I'm in love with his voice.
Here's to a great week wherein I don't forget to put on important pieces of clothing before I leave the house. I have high hopes, people.
This War Is Noise - Sundowner
Sex on Fire - Kings of Leon
In the New Year - The Walkmen
Being Here - The Stills
Love Song - The Dandy Warhols
The Geeks Were Right - The Faints
Move - CSS
Each Year - Ra Ra Riot
The '59 Sound - The Gaslight Anthem
Untitled - Against Me!
Born & Raised - Fake Problems
Check out Sundowner if you don't know them already - I'm in love with his voice.
Here's to a great week wherein I don't forget to put on important pieces of clothing before I leave the house. I have high hopes, people.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Brevity is the soul of lingerie
So, it's been SOOOOPER hot here this week. With temperatures rising above 100 degrees, I've been cranky, lethargic and not quite on the ball. I have the looks of someone who should be of Nordic descent (read: PALE); ergo, the heat does not agree with me. Or my hair, but that is another post entirely.
Yesterday afternoon, I came home and hunkered down to check my email and do some paperwork before getting some writing done. The heat came over me, however, and I found myself waking up about an hour later from a spontaneous nap, a drool stain by my mouth and an indent on my forehead from the pressure of my laptops keyboard. Neat! I didn't feel refreshed, but groggy and out of sorts. It was so HOT. Needing to move, I decided to trot down to our mailboxes to stretch my legs and get out of the house for a moment.
Off I went, down our long driveway. It should be noted that we live off of one of the busiest intersections in Mountain View. If I stood on our street corner long enough, I'd see most of this towns residents pass by. I'd probably get propositioned too, come to think of it. Might be a quick way to make a buck.
ANYhoo, I was getting the mail and heard some commotion behind me...I turned to see a full line of cars waiting at the stop light. Out of two of the cars hung some young men who were all looking in my general direction going "OH YEAH! NICE!" with the rest of the drivers giving me quizzical looks from inside their air conditioned cars. Still not really comprehending what was going on and being too cranky to care, I turned to walk back to the house, and in doing so, dropped some of the mail. It was only when I bent over to pick up the stack that I realized what they were focusing their attention on.
I had forgotten to put on my pants.
Yes, people, I was standing there in my driveway in front of an appreciative audience with just a shirt and my boy shorts on. No pants. Covering my behind with a newspaper, I scampered into the house, shutting the door behind me and having one of those moments wherein I wished that I had never been born.
So if ever you have that dream where you've shown up at school in your underwear, you can wake up and know that at least you were not idiotic enough to have done so in REAL LIFE.
I swear, I might need to rethink my no pants rule. It could get me arrested.
Yesterday afternoon, I came home and hunkered down to check my email and do some paperwork before getting some writing done. The heat came over me, however, and I found myself waking up about an hour later from a spontaneous nap, a drool stain by my mouth and an indent on my forehead from the pressure of my laptops keyboard. Neat! I didn't feel refreshed, but groggy and out of sorts. It was so HOT. Needing to move, I decided to trot down to our mailboxes to stretch my legs and get out of the house for a moment.
Off I went, down our long driveway. It should be noted that we live off of one of the busiest intersections in Mountain View. If I stood on our street corner long enough, I'd see most of this towns residents pass by. I'd probably get propositioned too, come to think of it. Might be a quick way to make a buck.
ANYhoo, I was getting the mail and heard some commotion behind me...I turned to see a full line of cars waiting at the stop light. Out of two of the cars hung some young men who were all looking in my general direction going "OH YEAH! NICE!" with the rest of the drivers giving me quizzical looks from inside their air conditioned cars. Still not really comprehending what was going on and being too cranky to care, I turned to walk back to the house, and in doing so, dropped some of the mail. It was only when I bent over to pick up the stack that I realized what they were focusing their attention on.
I had forgotten to put on my pants.
Yes, people, I was standing there in my driveway in front of an appreciative audience with just a shirt and my boy shorts on. No pants. Covering my behind with a newspaper, I scampered into the house, shutting the door behind me and having one of those moments wherein I wished that I had never been born.
So if ever you have that dream where you've shown up at school in your underwear, you can wake up and know that at least you were not idiotic enough to have done so in REAL LIFE.
I swear, I might need to rethink my no pants rule. It could get me arrested.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Where was the engineer on a Segway?
On my way to work today, I was behind a sports car. The vanity plate read "SEXU UP" and as I pulled up next to the drivers side I noted that the driver, a man, was of a certain age (over 50) and had a rather youngish, platinum blond passenger who might have just graduated from college. Maybe.
On the way home, I was behind a hybrid. The vanity plate read "EVOLVED" and as I pulled up next to the drivers side I noted that the driver, a man, was probably in his mid 30's wearing dark rimmed glasses and a button up shirt with a sweater vest over it. From the open window I could hear Death Cab for Cutie playing as we waited for the light to turn green.
Somebody let the stereotypes out to play today.
On the way home, I was behind a hybrid. The vanity plate read "EVOLVED" and as I pulled up next to the drivers side I noted that the driver, a man, was probably in his mid 30's wearing dark rimmed glasses and a button up shirt with a sweater vest over it. From the open window I could hear Death Cab for Cutie playing as we waited for the light to turn green.
Somebody let the stereotypes out to play today.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Potater
Did you know that paprika is pronounced pa-PREE-ka? I was unaware of this and have been pronouncing it as PAH-pri-ka for all of my 32 years. This is what comes of growing up with foreigners...you don't learn the proper pronunciation of things and then become the butt of dinner party jokes when you mention that the predominant spice in the kick ass potato salad that you made is PAH-pri-ka.
Get over it, people. Especially since around the table sat one Southerner and one Texan and lets not even get started on how the English language becomes bastardized by the both of them after a few glasses of wine, y'all.
The potato salad WAS good, though. So suck it.
Get over it, people. Especially since around the table sat one Southerner and one Texan and lets not even get started on how the English language becomes bastardized by the both of them after a few glasses of wine, y'all.
The potato salad WAS good, though. So suck it.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
100 and not a wrinkle in sight! Do you botox?
Good morning internet. I'm realizing, as I write this, that this is my 100th entry on this little blog of mine. I shall light a candle on a cupcake later in celebration, and as I blow out the flame, wish for my mothers continued ignorance as to this websites existence. I'm regularly thrown out of the will, people, but I'm in her good graces right now...let's keep it that way.
Normally, I try to infuse these pages with humor in the hopes of giving you a giggle mid way through your work day, but if you'd permit me some navel gazing, I'd appreciate it. Perhaps it's symptomatic of this being my centennial entry...I'm getting old.
I was having a conversation with a friend last week who has been going through some personal trials and battling what appears to be depression. I don't often speak about my own struggles with depression as I was raised in a family where any kind of emotional weakness was verboten. You just walked it off. My friend came from a similar background and I believe finally spoke to me because she felt as though she might drown in her own misery. When I shared with her that I have been in therapy myself, on and off for years, she was simultaneously shocked and comforted, happy to note that the strong exterior I present to the outside world is a thin veneer for someone who sometimes feels as though she is barely holding her shit together.
While I never swung to any particular extreme, my mother used to comment that as a child I had made friends with my sadness and would often withdraw from social settings, not really feeling comfortable anywhere. I chalked it up to German melancholy and went about my business, hiding that there were often days when I felt as though it might be to everyone's benefit if I just stayed in bed and didn't come out into the world.
Of course, this doesn't work once you reach adulthood. I had days where paying a phone bill seemed impossible, keeping up a friendship too big of a task. The beautiful thing, however, being that I was now in charge of my own mental health and so trotted off to a doctor who said "Your head needs some help." And so to therapy I went.
And to therapy I still go. I see no shame in this. I don't feel as though I'm a weaker version of myself for asking for help when I need it. I sometimes think there should be more honesty amongst friends; perhaps if we shared our struggles more openly, we wouldn't feel so alone and as though our complexities were just a bother and something to be hidden from others. If by my bearing my own weaknesses and imperfections, I save someone some anguish, then I am happy to do so.
My friend and I concluded our conversation with her less frightened about seeking out help and without feeling like she was a failure as an adult and a wife. If you're in a place where you're afraid you're drowning in your own sadness, stress, whatever it may be, then know that there are tools to help you get to the other side of it and you shouldn't allow societies notions about therapy or medication keep you from living a better life. I think sometimes, some of us just need a little bit of help pushing whatever boulder we've been given up the proverbial hill. So get it if you need it. And if you don't, support your friends who do.
Normally, I try to infuse these pages with humor in the hopes of giving you a giggle mid way through your work day, but if you'd permit me some navel gazing, I'd appreciate it. Perhaps it's symptomatic of this being my centennial entry...I'm getting old.
I was having a conversation with a friend last week who has been going through some personal trials and battling what appears to be depression. I don't often speak about my own struggles with depression as I was raised in a family where any kind of emotional weakness was verboten. You just walked it off. My friend came from a similar background and I believe finally spoke to me because she felt as though she might drown in her own misery. When I shared with her that I have been in therapy myself, on and off for years, she was simultaneously shocked and comforted, happy to note that the strong exterior I present to the outside world is a thin veneer for someone who sometimes feels as though she is barely holding her shit together.
While I never swung to any particular extreme, my mother used to comment that as a child I had made friends with my sadness and would often withdraw from social settings, not really feeling comfortable anywhere. I chalked it up to German melancholy and went about my business, hiding that there were often days when I felt as though it might be to everyone's benefit if I just stayed in bed and didn't come out into the world.
Of course, this doesn't work once you reach adulthood. I had days where paying a phone bill seemed impossible, keeping up a friendship too big of a task. The beautiful thing, however, being that I was now in charge of my own mental health and so trotted off to a doctor who said "Your head needs some help." And so to therapy I went.
And to therapy I still go. I see no shame in this. I don't feel as though I'm a weaker version of myself for asking for help when I need it. I sometimes think there should be more honesty amongst friends; perhaps if we shared our struggles more openly, we wouldn't feel so alone and as though our complexities were just a bother and something to be hidden from others. If by my bearing my own weaknesses and imperfections, I save someone some anguish, then I am happy to do so.
My friend and I concluded our conversation with her less frightened about seeking out help and without feeling like she was a failure as an adult and a wife. If you're in a place where you're afraid you're drowning in your own sadness, stress, whatever it may be, then know that there are tools to help you get to the other side of it and you shouldn't allow societies notions about therapy or medication keep you from living a better life. I think sometimes, some of us just need a little bit of help pushing whatever boulder we've been given up the proverbial hill. So get it if you need it. And if you don't, support your friends who do.
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