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.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
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!
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!
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 21, 2008
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
Thursday, November 20, 2008
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.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 14, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, November 10, 2008
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.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
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
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
Saturday, November 8, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 7, 2008
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)
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)
Thursday, November 6, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, November 3, 2008
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?
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