Saying "Happy Holidays" is nice and all, but it's insincere. Not only is it a cop-out designed to include all the holidays this time of year in one easy alliterative phrase, but it's easy to say. I will have none of that. I sincerely want you to have a wonderful whatever-the-fuck-you-celebrate, and I will create a word to showcase that sincerity.
I thought for a full thirty or thirty-five seconds and now I am ready to wish you all a very happy Solstichrismanukwanadan. (Go ahead. Try to dissect it at its seams--this fucker is built solid.)
Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Like maple syrup off a cotton ball.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
does amanda seem jittery? yeah, she forgot to floss
"I know exactly how hard it is to quit smoking. It's as hard to quit smoking as it is to start flossing. Mitch, you seem jittery. Yeah man, I'm about to floss."
--Mitch Hedberg (probably not a direct quotation--if you want legitimate research, teach a class)
It will come as no great surprise to you, Loyal Readers, that I inherited a bit of obsessive-compulsiveness from my father. Or at least I think I did. His parents lived through the Great Depression, plus they were crazy, which meant they used to steal ketchup packets from everywhere they went and then squirt them into a jar when they got home. So it's somewhat natural that my father can't throw things away. With the exception of hoarding dental floss, it's all quite organic in the Family Nut Tree. But I'm not sure where my particular psychological oddity comes from, other than perhaps a fear of the dentist.
I take obsessively good care of my teeth. I don't brush them constantly, because that's not good for them either. My usual routine is to begin with a rinse with a normal plaque-breaker-upper. My favorite is Crest Pro-Health, because I can using and not feel like I'm doing a shot really badly. (Corporate sponsor for my blog? You know you want to, Crest.) Then I brush my teeth. However, this is where I stop being a normal person. After I brush, I floss. Then I brush again. That first time was just for practice. A warm-up for the toothbrush. Then I end with a two-minute flouride rinse.
Right about now is where you guys wonder if you can continue to read this, or if you can still be my friend, or if you ought to return the necklace and get me a water pick for Christmas. (The answer to all three is "yes.")
But tonight I crossed a line. A line I had seen on the horizon, much like unemployment. But, like unemployment, I was in denial until I found myself hurtling over the line, straining several tendons in the process. Tonight I began by brushing and flossing my teeth in the "real" bathroom upstairs. And then halfway down the stairs to my basement lair, I felt myself being pulled toward the bathroom. I rinsed, brushed, flossed, brushed, and rinsed again. I guess brushing them upstairs was just to dislodge any food I'd saved for later or small animals that had begun nesting behind a bicuspid. (Even my cuspids are bicuspids. Yeah, don't pretend you didn't get that.)
Apparently it's not just starting to floss that can give you the jitters. It's the lack of flossing in the correct bathroom, or the lack of a flouride rinse. By the way, my favorite is Act. Cinnamon flavored. I bet I'd look great holding that in a promo spot. I have influence over literally dozens* of people. Come on, dental industry. It's time to back one of your biggest** consumers. You can pay me in electric toothbrush attachments.
*Probably not true. But like I said, if you want facts, teach a class.
**I have no idea. I suggest you do not look into it. Also, I straight-up lied in the next sentence. Cash or check only.
--Mitch Hedberg (probably not a direct quotation--if you want legitimate research, teach a class)
It will come as no great surprise to you, Loyal Readers, that I inherited a bit of obsessive-compulsiveness from my father. Or at least I think I did. His parents lived through the Great Depression, plus they were crazy, which meant they used to steal ketchup packets from everywhere they went and then squirt them into a jar when they got home. So it's somewhat natural that my father can't throw things away. With the exception of hoarding dental floss, it's all quite organic in the Family Nut Tree. But I'm not sure where my particular psychological oddity comes from, other than perhaps a fear of the dentist.
I take obsessively good care of my teeth. I don't brush them constantly, because that's not good for them either. My usual routine is to begin with a rinse with a normal plaque-breaker-upper. My favorite is Crest Pro-Health, because I can using and not feel like I'm doing a shot really badly. (Corporate sponsor for my blog? You know you want to, Crest.) Then I brush my teeth. However, this is where I stop being a normal person. After I brush, I floss. Then I brush again. That first time was just for practice. A warm-up for the toothbrush. Then I end with a two-minute flouride rinse.
Right about now is where you guys wonder if you can continue to read this, or if you can still be my friend, or if you ought to return the necklace and get me a water pick for Christmas. (The answer to all three is "yes.")
But tonight I crossed a line. A line I had seen on the horizon, much like unemployment. But, like unemployment, I was in denial until I found myself hurtling over the line, straining several tendons in the process. Tonight I began by brushing and flossing my teeth in the "real" bathroom upstairs. And then halfway down the stairs to my basement lair, I felt myself being pulled toward the bathroom. I rinsed, brushed, flossed, brushed, and rinsed again. I guess brushing them upstairs was just to dislodge any food I'd saved for later or small animals that had begun nesting behind a bicuspid. (Even my cuspids are bicuspids. Yeah, don't pretend you didn't get that.)
Apparently it's not just starting to floss that can give you the jitters. It's the lack of flossing in the correct bathroom, or the lack of a flouride rinse. By the way, my favorite is Act. Cinnamon flavored. I bet I'd look great holding that in a promo spot. I have influence over literally dozens* of people. Come on, dental industry. It's time to back one of your biggest** consumers. You can pay me in electric toothbrush attachments.
*Probably not true. But like I said, if you want facts, teach a class.
**I have no idea. I suggest you do not look into it. Also, I straight-up lied in the next sentence. Cash or check only.
Friday, December 16, 2005
an open letter to all the people who, over several decades, have decorated our kitchen
Dear Decorators,
Seriously, what the hell. You started out with a nice plaster wall. Then you went with some light yellow paint. Wonderful move. Not far from the shade of yellow we intend to paint those very walls. Then something happened and you suddenly started painting in a horrid mustard color. I believe it was called Harvest Gold.
Not to be outdone, someone else painted half of the walls--only half, and I don't mean they painted two out of four, I mean they painted halfway up from the floor on ALL the walls--a robin's egg blue. Actually, it's more of a Demented Turquoise.
And then someone, god forbid I find out who, decided to wallpaper the kitchen. Leaving, of course, the exposed Demented Turquoise. Did the paint threaten you? You can tell me. I'm not afraid of it. Well, just a little.
But surely your Wallpaper From Hell could have stood up to Demented Turquoise. On any given square foot of that paper, you have what... seven or eight pieces of dancing fruit? It could have taken DT in a fight.
But oh how the mighty have fallen. Our primer may take a few coats, but it's covering the good yellow--the one shining moment in our kitchen's tragic history--the Harvest Gold, and even that sick bastard Demented Turquoise. And the wallpaper is nearly all gone, save for a few dangling strips over the fridge. They wave in the ceiling fan breeze like strands of hair on a row of scalps.
You did your worst. You installed horrible appliances, you put up awful cabinets made from fake wood. You used the ugliest and least ergonomic hardware available. --Did you have to special order it from a Nazi camp? You even gauged holes in the wall and stabbed the plaster. You installed a faulty shelf that periodically tips over, raining all its contents over the kitchen, making us wonder if the place is haunted. You even had a goddamn electric stove. How do you sleep at night?
I am no longer worried. All that is left of you is an awkward border in an unholy shade of blue, a fake tile floor, and those goddamn cabinets.
I will see you and your dancing pears in hell.
Seriously, what the hell. You started out with a nice plaster wall. Then you went with some light yellow paint. Wonderful move. Not far from the shade of yellow we intend to paint those very walls. Then something happened and you suddenly started painting in a horrid mustard color. I believe it was called Harvest Gold.
Not to be outdone, someone else painted half of the walls--only half, and I don't mean they painted two out of four, I mean they painted halfway up from the floor on ALL the walls--a robin's egg blue. Actually, it's more of a Demented Turquoise.
And then someone, god forbid I find out who, decided to wallpaper the kitchen. Leaving, of course, the exposed Demented Turquoise. Did the paint threaten you? You can tell me. I'm not afraid of it. Well, just a little.
But surely your Wallpaper From Hell could have stood up to Demented Turquoise. On any given square foot of that paper, you have what... seven or eight pieces of dancing fruit? It could have taken DT in a fight.
But oh how the mighty have fallen. Our primer may take a few coats, but it's covering the good yellow--the one shining moment in our kitchen's tragic history--the Harvest Gold, and even that sick bastard Demented Turquoise. And the wallpaper is nearly all gone, save for a few dangling strips over the fridge. They wave in the ceiling fan breeze like strands of hair on a row of scalps.
You did your worst. You installed horrible appliances, you put up awful cabinets made from fake wood. You used the ugliest and least ergonomic hardware available. --Did you have to special order it from a Nazi camp? You even gauged holes in the wall and stabbed the plaster. You installed a faulty shelf that periodically tips over, raining all its contents over the kitchen, making us wonder if the place is haunted. You even had a goddamn electric stove. How do you sleep at night?
I am no longer worried. All that is left of you is an awkward border in an unholy shade of blue, a fake tile floor, and those goddamn cabinets.
I will see you and your dancing pears in hell.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
do they have a short version of air force one?
"Wow! Brazil is big." —George W. Bush, after being shown a map of Brazil by Brazilian president Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, Brasilia, Brazil, Nov. 6, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
the box matrix is far from perfect
Despite what you might have heard in the title of my blog, I've been without work for a while now. And I have so much time that I accomplish nothing every day. I've somehow gotten into this summer vacation mindset where I think "Well, I'm back from Target... looks like I'm done for today!"
It's given me time to read. Instead, I watch tv. It's given me time to write. Instead, I do my nails. It's given me time to cook. Well, ok, I do that. I also make my bed, slightly obsessively, every day. I also drink way too much soda for no apparent reason other than I can.
I also get way too involved in the little projects I make for myself that are of absolutely no consequence whatsoever. I made a garland of extra Christmas glass-ball ornaments the other day. I made a pattern that alternated color (of which there were three) and pattern (of which there were two.) A person with other things to do might have just put the ornaments on the string. But no, I planned out and executed the most complicated, well-done, completely unnoticed decoration ever.
I also have almost all of my Christmas shopping done. And because that wasn't irritating enough to people who have shit going on in their lives, I wrapped it all tonight. I had to put one item in a box that came from Urban Outfitters, which has become one of my new favorite stores. I love Urban Outfitters. They have great trendy stuff, and I'm lucky enough to live in a city where only a small percentage of the population is even aware of current fashion trends, so I don't look like a clone of every other twentysomething on the street. Pittsburgh is a place where I can wear the most mass-produced bohemian-styled clothing and still look like an individual. It's both wonderful and terrifying. Suffice to say, I love practically everything in Urban Outfitters.
That said, what the hell cracked-out sadist devised their gift boxes?
If I were a professional box-assembler, this baby would be a piece of cake. However, I am but a mere unemployed poet, and I am not savvy to the ways of the Box Matrix. That dotted line across that little 1/8 inch flap? What the fuck is that? Some sort of reinforcement? What kind of structural integrity does that offer? And the part that's glued down--yeah, I understand that now. But you might have mentioned it before I tried to pull it up. Furthermore, having it glued down like that means that you can flip up one side of the box in a jiffy, but in order to pull the other side into box-like position, you practically have to disassemble what you've already accomplished. And frankly, that was not an option. Also, I don't understand why cursing at the cardboard made it slide into place easier, but it did, and that would be some nice information to have on a little card or insert, or perhaps embossed on the inside of the box. Plus, that way, we'll all know which way to fold the little flaps next time.
After I assembled the box and wrapped the present, fearing that the box would self-destruct at any moment, and that Target gift-wrap would help keep it from falling apart, I stacked it neatly with the others (read: put it on the floor in the dining room) and tried to figure out how to wrap a particularly oddly-shaped gift. I cannot reveal the gift's identity here, as it would give away a friend's Christmas present. So, although I love my friend very much, I shall refer to this particular item as The Motherfucker.
The Motherfucker was a great buy, and my friend is sure to love it. I just hope she doesn't buy her own Motherfucker before I get a chance to give it to her. So I looked for a box, but alas, none were the right size. Then I thought about a bag. There was a fairly large gift bag in the storage closet in the basement, so I went and got it. There was a tag still attached to it that said, for some reason, "To Sasha, From The King." I had no idea that my friend Sasha knew Elvis, but we all have secrets. As I tried to pull the tag off of the bag handle, I discovered a large-ish spider inside the bag. When I recovered from my stroke, I saw that the spider was in fact a spider corpse. But that just meant there was a spider ghost around here somewhere. I mean, if I were a spider that died inside a bag owned by two arachnophobics, I'd probably have some unfinished business. So I decided to dump the spider into the toilet and be rid of it. No way was I going to touch it. I once tried to pick up what I thought was a dead spider with a tissue, and the bastard jumped when I touched it. That was the end of my tissue-disposal method.
So I was still sort of wary of the spider corpse, and I really, really didn't want to touch it. But I soon discovered that it was stuck to the inside of the bag by web, or whatever it's called. After a lot of shaking the bag over the toilet, I concluded that the bastard was decidedly stuck, and I tried to dislodge the web with a piece of trash from the trash can. Unfortunately, I picked up a used toilet paper tube, and when I dislodged the web from the bag, it became stuck on the roll, and the dead (now most assuredly so) spider rolled out the other end and dangled dangerously close to my arm. So I did what anyone would do when confronted with a terrifying dead spider. I dropped the tube into the toilet. I picked it out, and there was spidey, dangling toward me. I dropped it again. I went through this several times before I gave up, plucked the roll out of the toilet (it got completely wet, and it's ridiculous that getting toilet water on my hands doesn't bother me nearly as much as touching a dried-out arachnid) and tossed it in the trash. Still afraid of the prospect of some sort of Resurrection Spider, I tied the bag as tightly as I could and threw it away. Far, far away.
And after all that, The Motherfucker didn't even fit in the bag. So I tied a red ribbon on The Motherfucker, took an Excedrine, and that's that.
Happy holidays, everyone.
It's given me time to read. Instead, I watch tv. It's given me time to write. Instead, I do my nails. It's given me time to cook. Well, ok, I do that. I also make my bed, slightly obsessively, every day. I also drink way too much soda for no apparent reason other than I can.
I also get way too involved in the little projects I make for myself that are of absolutely no consequence whatsoever. I made a garland of extra Christmas glass-ball ornaments the other day. I made a pattern that alternated color (of which there were three) and pattern (of which there were two.) A person with other things to do might have just put the ornaments on the string. But no, I planned out and executed the most complicated, well-done, completely unnoticed decoration ever.
I also have almost all of my Christmas shopping done. And because that wasn't irritating enough to people who have shit going on in their lives, I wrapped it all tonight. I had to put one item in a box that came from Urban Outfitters, which has become one of my new favorite stores. I love Urban Outfitters. They have great trendy stuff, and I'm lucky enough to live in a city where only a small percentage of the population is even aware of current fashion trends, so I don't look like a clone of every other twentysomething on the street. Pittsburgh is a place where I can wear the most mass-produced bohemian-styled clothing and still look like an individual. It's both wonderful and terrifying. Suffice to say, I love practically everything in Urban Outfitters.
That said, what the hell cracked-out sadist devised their gift boxes?
If I were a professional box-assembler, this baby would be a piece of cake. However, I am but a mere unemployed poet, and I am not savvy to the ways of the Box Matrix. That dotted line across that little 1/8 inch flap? What the fuck is that? Some sort of reinforcement? What kind of structural integrity does that offer? And the part that's glued down--yeah, I understand that now. But you might have mentioned it before I tried to pull it up. Furthermore, having it glued down like that means that you can flip up one side of the box in a jiffy, but in order to pull the other side into box-like position, you practically have to disassemble what you've already accomplished. And frankly, that was not an option. Also, I don't understand why cursing at the cardboard made it slide into place easier, but it did, and that would be some nice information to have on a little card or insert, or perhaps embossed on the inside of the box. Plus, that way, we'll all know which way to fold the little flaps next time.
After I assembled the box and wrapped the present, fearing that the box would self-destruct at any moment, and that Target gift-wrap would help keep it from falling apart, I stacked it neatly with the others (read: put it on the floor in the dining room) and tried to figure out how to wrap a particularly oddly-shaped gift. I cannot reveal the gift's identity here, as it would give away a friend's Christmas present. So, although I love my friend very much, I shall refer to this particular item as The Motherfucker.
The Motherfucker was a great buy, and my friend is sure to love it. I just hope she doesn't buy her own Motherfucker before I get a chance to give it to her. So I looked for a box, but alas, none were the right size. Then I thought about a bag. There was a fairly large gift bag in the storage closet in the basement, so I went and got it. There was a tag still attached to it that said, for some reason, "To Sasha, From The King." I had no idea that my friend Sasha knew Elvis, but we all have secrets. As I tried to pull the tag off of the bag handle, I discovered a large-ish spider inside the bag. When I recovered from my stroke, I saw that the spider was in fact a spider corpse. But that just meant there was a spider ghost around here somewhere. I mean, if I were a spider that died inside a bag owned by two arachnophobics, I'd probably have some unfinished business. So I decided to dump the spider into the toilet and be rid of it. No way was I going to touch it. I once tried to pick up what I thought was a dead spider with a tissue, and the bastard jumped when I touched it. That was the end of my tissue-disposal method.
So I was still sort of wary of the spider corpse, and I really, really didn't want to touch it. But I soon discovered that it was stuck to the inside of the bag by web, or whatever it's called. After a lot of shaking the bag over the toilet, I concluded that the bastard was decidedly stuck, and I tried to dislodge the web with a piece of trash from the trash can. Unfortunately, I picked up a used toilet paper tube, and when I dislodged the web from the bag, it became stuck on the roll, and the dead (now most assuredly so) spider rolled out the other end and dangled dangerously close to my arm. So I did what anyone would do when confronted with a terrifying dead spider. I dropped the tube into the toilet. I picked it out, and there was spidey, dangling toward me. I dropped it again. I went through this several times before I gave up, plucked the roll out of the toilet (it got completely wet, and it's ridiculous that getting toilet water on my hands doesn't bother me nearly as much as touching a dried-out arachnid) and tossed it in the trash. Still afraid of the prospect of some sort of Resurrection Spider, I tied the bag as tightly as I could and threw it away. Far, far away.
And after all that, The Motherfucker didn't even fit in the bag. So I tied a red ribbon on The Motherfucker, took an Excedrine, and that's that.
Happy holidays, everyone.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
flying gorillas and turkeys by the six-pack
Not that you asked, but today was my birthday. I spent it living on the edge. First I had some Wendy's for lunch, and then I went to renew my driver's license. Hell yeah. It wasn't that bad. I initially went to renew it yesterday, but I was informed that I lacked the camera card. (What's that, you might ask? I have no idea. I was never actually given one. I suspect it was a ruse to determine how serious I was about retaining my legal driving status.)
So I must know... what is it about the DMV that makes old men refer to me by anything BUT my actual name? When I first took the driver's test, I failed it. This was due in large part to me cussing out the tester guy (that and not using my turn signal while parallel parking between two cement barricades in a parking lot). It was his fault. He called me "kiddo" and "honey" and "kitten." Guess which one it was that sent me over the edge? Before I digress further...
The guy I was talking to to get my invisible camera card called me "kiddo." So what if I'm 23? It didn't offend me, but I did think it was odd that I've only been called "kiddo" twice in my life and both times were at the DMV. I was just happy not to have to wait in line for six hours. I was in and out in less than fifteen minutes. That has to be some kind of a record, or at least karma making up for the EIGHT HOURS (yes, really) I had to stand in line with my father when I was getting my license. (That, incidentally, was the day after I failed it. Apparently I have to go twice on consecutive days and get called "kiddo" in order to receive anything from the DMV.)
So after my DMV adventure--during which it started to snow!--I went to Sam's Club in Monroeville. Sam's Club annoys me. It's not that I have to play Dodge The Sample People or that they're associated with Wal-Mart or that they sell everything in ridiculously huge sizes. It's not even that every time I go there, the store has been completely rearranged, apparently by a toddler with a forklift. It's that the labels on the aisles make absolutely no sense. An aisle the length of a football field and it's labeled "sunflower seeds." Is that all there is? Ten thousand crates of sunflower seeds? Another aisle labeled "hot sauce." Perhaps "condiments" would be more fitting? We don't have "paper products" here at Sam's, but we do have several hundred tons of napkins. I was wandering the warehouse looking for the medicine--which used to be in the middle of the store, which is now occupied by some horrible holiday crap-- and going in circles until I had to ask a Sample Guy (who was apparently giving samples of some soap scum cleanser... how the fuck do you give out samples of cleanser?) where the hell it was. I don't know why I didn't check next to the meat--clearly, I have some mental deficiency.
They of course had turkeys for sale. Actually, they might have been pterodactyls, but I can't be sure. And remarkably, they were being sold on an individual basis. I was sure they'd be roped together into six-packs, or perhaps in giant Pez dispensers that gobbled each time you popped out a birdosaur. Disappointment at every turn.
This evening I went to the Southside with Mom and JK for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. Delicious. Words failed me when trying to describe how wonderful the "Bang Bang Chicken and Shrimp" truly was (which was prepared for my convenience without peanuts or bell peppers in order to let me live to see 24). JK loved his dinner, Mom loved hers, and our waiter was great. I like to kid around with... uh, everyone... and when we were ordering drinks, I spotted something called a "Flying Gorilla." It was banana everything. And while I like bananas, that didn't really appeal to me. But the name did, so I told the waiter that "I don't actually want a Flying Gorilla, I just want you to refer to whatever I get as such." Not only did he get it, but he did it. He fucking took that joke and ran with it, and I totally love him for it. We of course ordered dessert, (interestingly enough, they have more for dessert than cheesecake. Who goes to The Cheesecake Factory and doesn't get cheesecake for dessert? If you are lactose intolerant, then you can leave) and they decorated my plate with candy sprinkly things (PINK ONES) and wrote "Happy Birthday Amanda!" on the plate with chocolate sauce. They even gave me a candle and sang to me. And they sang the real Happy Birthday song, not some stupid one incorporating clapping and whistles. I hate those songs.
But really, as long as I'm not being called "kiddo," I'm good.
So I must know... what is it about the DMV that makes old men refer to me by anything BUT my actual name? When I first took the driver's test, I failed it. This was due in large part to me cussing out the tester guy (that and not using my turn signal while parallel parking between two cement barricades in a parking lot). It was his fault. He called me "kiddo" and "honey" and "kitten." Guess which one it was that sent me over the edge? Before I digress further...
The guy I was talking to to get my invisible camera card called me "kiddo." So what if I'm 23? It didn't offend me, but I did think it was odd that I've only been called "kiddo" twice in my life and both times were at the DMV. I was just happy not to have to wait in line for six hours. I was in and out in less than fifteen minutes. That has to be some kind of a record, or at least karma making up for the EIGHT HOURS (yes, really) I had to stand in line with my father when I was getting my license. (That, incidentally, was the day after I failed it. Apparently I have to go twice on consecutive days and get called "kiddo" in order to receive anything from the DMV.)
So after my DMV adventure--during which it started to snow!--I went to Sam's Club in Monroeville. Sam's Club annoys me. It's not that I have to play Dodge The Sample People or that they're associated with Wal-Mart or that they sell everything in ridiculously huge sizes. It's not even that every time I go there, the store has been completely rearranged, apparently by a toddler with a forklift. It's that the labels on the aisles make absolutely no sense. An aisle the length of a football field and it's labeled "sunflower seeds." Is that all there is? Ten thousand crates of sunflower seeds? Another aisle labeled "hot sauce." Perhaps "condiments" would be more fitting? We don't have "paper products" here at Sam's, but we do have several hundred tons of napkins. I was wandering the warehouse looking for the medicine--which used to be in the middle of the store, which is now occupied by some horrible holiday crap-- and going in circles until I had to ask a Sample Guy (who was apparently giving samples of some soap scum cleanser... how the fuck do you give out samples of cleanser?) where the hell it was. I don't know why I didn't check next to the meat--clearly, I have some mental deficiency.
They of course had turkeys for sale. Actually, they might have been pterodactyls, but I can't be sure. And remarkably, they were being sold on an individual basis. I was sure they'd be roped together into six-packs, or perhaps in giant Pez dispensers that gobbled each time you popped out a birdosaur. Disappointment at every turn.
This evening I went to the Southside with Mom and JK for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. Delicious. Words failed me when trying to describe how wonderful the "Bang Bang Chicken and Shrimp" truly was (which was prepared for my convenience without peanuts or bell peppers in order to let me live to see 24). JK loved his dinner, Mom loved hers, and our waiter was great. I like to kid around with... uh, everyone... and when we were ordering drinks, I spotted something called a "Flying Gorilla." It was banana everything. And while I like bananas, that didn't really appeal to me. But the name did, so I told the waiter that "I don't actually want a Flying Gorilla, I just want you to refer to whatever I get as such." Not only did he get it, but he did it. He fucking took that joke and ran with it, and I totally love him for it. We of course ordered dessert, (interestingly enough, they have more for dessert than cheesecake. Who goes to The Cheesecake Factory and doesn't get cheesecake for dessert? If you are lactose intolerant, then you can leave) and they decorated my plate with candy sprinkly things (PINK ONES) and wrote "Happy Birthday Amanda!" on the plate with chocolate sauce. They even gave me a candle and sang to me. And they sang the real Happy Birthday song, not some stupid one incorporating clapping and whistles. I hate those songs.
But really, as long as I'm not being called "kiddo," I'm good.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
she went to the blog and the blog was bare
My adoring public bitches me out when I don't write. Here's a random assortment of the things that happen in the situation comedy that is my life.
I caught a mouse last week. In a shoebox. When I released him (because I have nothing against tiny shivering field mice) he wouldn't leave. I felt bad for him, but I explained that Mom would set a trap for him and eventually, she'd get to him before I did. I hope he was an English-speaking mouse. Later, Mom was discussing my rodent catch-and-release program with one of her sisters. Said sister has a cat who likes to catch birds and small animals, eat their heads, and then bring the filet inside to parade around. Usually when they have company, and the company is eating something. So when Mom said "Guess who caught a mouse today? Amanda!" my aunt immediately started laughing so hard I could hear her through the phone (I wasn't even in the same ROOM as the phone) because she envisioned me with a little tail sticking out of my mouth. I'm not sure if I was purring in her mental image or not. I should ask.
I went on a Fantastic Voyage to Alexandria to get my grandmother, Mo, for a visit. I always enjoy spending time with her, and we've been having a good time. However, she must have been talking with one of my uncles (who suspects that I am gay because of my tendency to display nude women and giant flowers in the art I hang up... which is a rather astute assessment on his part) because she's brought up the topic of homosexuality five times since I arrived at her apartment. (She is not homophobic in the least, so don't get the wrong idea.) Here are a few things she's said to me. Bear in mind that these were completely non-sequitur. I'd be talking about grapefruit and then she'd come out with one of these:
"I worked with a lot of gay men at the State Department and at GSA, but to my knowledge I never knew a lesbian at work."
"Two of my neighbors--in fact, the men who lived on either side of me, at one point--were gay and they couldn't have been nicer. I remember once the one man told me that if I ever needed a ride anywhere, no matter the hour, to call him and he'd be happy to come get me. I always thought that was so considerate. A straight man would never offer that to his old lady neighbor."
(Emily is one of my aunts/my grandmother's youngest daughter. Emily's 12-yr-old daughter is Rachel. They have a dog walking service that they run together, and occasionally their wealthier clients have Emily and Rachel house-and-dog-sit while they're out of town.)
"The couple whose dog Emily is watching now have the most beautiful home. Actually, they're a lesbian couple. One worked for the government and I forget what the other one did, but they're striking women. And very nice. They travel a lot now that they're both retired. Emily stays over in their house the whole time they're gone."
"A friend of mine once asked me if I'd ever get married again, and I told her I'd sooner have a wife than a husband. Someone to cook and clean and go shopping and pay the bills--that'd just be lovely."
(Tony is my uncle/her son-in-law.)
"Tony once mentioned to me that in all the artwork in my house, if there is a human subject, it's a woman or girl. There isn't one painting of a man or boy anywhere. And I never noticed that before, but he's absolutely right."
And I said, "I guess that's just what appeals to you."
She said, "Well, I don't like women in that way, but yes, that's about right. I do like men. I just don't want to be married to one."
Either my grandma is a closet lesbian, or she and Tony have compared notes. (Interesting that we call her Mo...)
I visited my darling wife, Cindy, before I went to Alexandria to pick up Mo. We had a fabulous time--ate some good food, drank some good Guinness and cider, read a horrible thesis... we had plenty of laughs and a few exasperated sighs. I'm going to start sending things to publishers--I'm disgusted enough with what happened that rejection isn't going to hurt me. I actually feel better now that I've read it. Because now I know, and I'm that much more convinced that I am ready to publish.
In the movie "Big Fish" the father character often says that the only way to catch an uncatchable woman is to offer her a wedding ring. Just a reminder--that movie is a fantasy. I am not for sale.
The night before the elections last week, the Democratic candidate for Mayor of the city of Pittsburgh (for those of you who are not Pgh natives, there's the city, and then there are ten thousand little towns and boroughs that are separate from the city, and yet still considered to be ostensibly part of the city in a more theoretical sense) helped chase down a purse-snatcher. A Republican candidate for another position (it wasn't nearly as important as the mayor of the city--something like a city council seat, or mayor of a small borough. I don't care enough to look it up) spent the night in jail after he threatened his neighbors with a gun. Doesn't that warm your heart?
I hope you all feel updated--I'll let you know if I catch Mo watching Logo while she's here. Right now she's watching women's tennis. I'll allow you to draw your own conclusions from that.
I caught a mouse last week. In a shoebox. When I released him (because I have nothing against tiny shivering field mice) he wouldn't leave. I felt bad for him, but I explained that Mom would set a trap for him and eventually, she'd get to him before I did. I hope he was an English-speaking mouse. Later, Mom was discussing my rodent catch-and-release program with one of her sisters. Said sister has a cat who likes to catch birds and small animals, eat their heads, and then bring the filet inside to parade around. Usually when they have company, and the company is eating something. So when Mom said "Guess who caught a mouse today? Amanda!" my aunt immediately started laughing so hard I could hear her through the phone (I wasn't even in the same ROOM as the phone) because she envisioned me with a little tail sticking out of my mouth. I'm not sure if I was purring in her mental image or not. I should ask.
I went on a Fantastic Voyage to Alexandria to get my grandmother, Mo, for a visit. I always enjoy spending time with her, and we've been having a good time. However, she must have been talking with one of my uncles (who suspects that I am gay because of my tendency to display nude women and giant flowers in the art I hang up... which is a rather astute assessment on his part) because she's brought up the topic of homosexuality five times since I arrived at her apartment. (She is not homophobic in the least, so don't get the wrong idea.) Here are a few things she's said to me. Bear in mind that these were completely non-sequitur. I'd be talking about grapefruit and then she'd come out with one of these:
"I worked with a lot of gay men at the State Department and at GSA, but to my knowledge I never knew a lesbian at work."
"Two of my neighbors--in fact, the men who lived on either side of me, at one point--were gay and they couldn't have been nicer. I remember once the one man told me that if I ever needed a ride anywhere, no matter the hour, to call him and he'd be happy to come get me. I always thought that was so considerate. A straight man would never offer that to his old lady neighbor."
(Emily is one of my aunts/my grandmother's youngest daughter. Emily's 12-yr-old daughter is Rachel. They have a dog walking service that they run together, and occasionally their wealthier clients have Emily and Rachel house-and-dog-sit while they're out of town.)
"The couple whose dog Emily is watching now have the most beautiful home. Actually, they're a lesbian couple. One worked for the government and I forget what the other one did, but they're striking women. And very nice. They travel a lot now that they're both retired. Emily stays over in their house the whole time they're gone."
"A friend of mine once asked me if I'd ever get married again, and I told her I'd sooner have a wife than a husband. Someone to cook and clean and go shopping and pay the bills--that'd just be lovely."
(Tony is my uncle/her son-in-law.)
"Tony once mentioned to me that in all the artwork in my house, if there is a human subject, it's a woman or girl. There isn't one painting of a man or boy anywhere. And I never noticed that before, but he's absolutely right."
And I said, "I guess that's just what appeals to you."
She said, "Well, I don't like women in that way, but yes, that's about right. I do like men. I just don't want to be married to one."
Either my grandma is a closet lesbian, or she and Tony have compared notes. (Interesting that we call her Mo...)
I visited my darling wife, Cindy, before I went to Alexandria to pick up Mo. We had a fabulous time--ate some good food, drank some good Guinness and cider, read a horrible thesis... we had plenty of laughs and a few exasperated sighs. I'm going to start sending things to publishers--I'm disgusted enough with what happened that rejection isn't going to hurt me. I actually feel better now that I've read it. Because now I know, and I'm that much more convinced that I am ready to publish.
In the movie "Big Fish" the father character often says that the only way to catch an uncatchable woman is to offer her a wedding ring. Just a reminder--that movie is a fantasy. I am not for sale.
The night before the elections last week, the Democratic candidate for Mayor of the city of Pittsburgh (for those of you who are not Pgh natives, there's the city, and then there are ten thousand little towns and boroughs that are separate from the city, and yet still considered to be ostensibly part of the city in a more theoretical sense) helped chase down a purse-snatcher. A Republican candidate for another position (it wasn't nearly as important as the mayor of the city--something like a city council seat, or mayor of a small borough. I don't care enough to look it up) spent the night in jail after he threatened his neighbors with a gun. Doesn't that warm your heart?
I hope you all feel updated--I'll let you know if I catch Mo watching Logo while she's here. Right now she's watching women's tennis. I'll allow you to draw your own conclusions from that.
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