Good Housekeeping
This morning, at a most inopportune time, I discovered that there is a complete and total absence of anything even resembling a paper product in my house.
There is not one single shred of paper napkin, paper towel, kleenex, or toilet paper square in the whole place.
Needless to say that despite it being Friday, I was
relieved to get to work this morning.
Just The Way It Is
Last night at the Woodland Park Zoo we saw
Bruce Hornsby. I wasn't sure what to expect as I would never have categorized myself as a Bruce Hornsby fan. Ever. In fact, I might have made a little bit of fun of him. Sorry Bruce. You are one cool (albeit middle-aged) rocker and I'm really glad we went to see you.
I like the way it is...
...Beautiful in Seattle in the summertime with perfect crytal clear skies and the nights like this one where the sun is still so strong that I feel like I am getting sunburnt on the back of my neck and it is
7:45 pm. ...Honest for 'ole Bruce to admit to selling out to the man when he liscensed one of his songs to Lowe's Home Improvement Store.
...Mesmerizing to zone out to really good music where you're thinking about everything at once and nothing at all while the bass player gets crazy while covering Comfortably Numb.
...Totally fucking righteous that the whole crowd stood up in solidarity when a woman in the front row 5 feet away from us was ALMOST THROWN OUT FOR DANCING. Yes, we were all in
Bomont for a brief moment. She danced beyond the sacred orange cone, pompous Boss Hogg cop radio-ed for back-up (no joke) and she was brusquely accosted by 2 police officers and about to be escorted out FOR DANCING AT A BRUCE HORNSBY CONCERT. C'mon now...mosh pit, this was not. Appalled and about to get rowdy, the entire lawn stood up, started to dance and jump around and ignore the silly men in uniform and their silly pointless rules. And
then Bruce called HER, the dancing witch who almost burned at the stake, up on stage. Who knew that at a
Bruce Hornsby concert, NWA would come to mind and I would merrily yell
this?
... STILL naughty and fun to sneak in alcohol to outdoor concerts, to surreptitiously pour the rose wine out of my Nalgene water bottle into a paper cup 10 feet away from Boss Hogg cop, and to know that
that's just the way it is, I guess some things will never change because I was doing the same damn thing 13 years ago.
Powered By
I will be the owner of a t-shirt that says this:
Powered By Sausage! Food For The Weiner In You.
If I do this:
http://www.trifreak.com/index.htm
I think the pain
just might be worth it.
Lunch At The DMZ
Today Adam and I went to
Keechelus Lake where he went kayaking and I went for a run around the lake with the dog. It was a beautiful, sunny, crystal clear day. During my run, I fell down. It was a glorious fall, rivaled only by the beauty of the the sparkling green-blue water of the lake or
maybe by the grand bald eagle that smugly sat in regal judgement, looking down his beak at the foolish clumsy mammal beneath his perch.
The clay earth around the lake's edge was dry in some parts but mushy and muddy in most parts so I decided to keep things interesting and run nice and close to the waters edge, in the mushy parts. Mid-stride my foot sunk 8 inches into a slick slimy sinkhole of brown clay muck, momentum pushed my body forward, shoved my foot deeper, and everything slowed down and stopped. It's as if
I was competing in a long jump competition, but instead of landing in the fluffy sand, the pit was filled with mud.After washing the mud from my armpits and inner ear canal and after putting the kayak back up on the car, we decided to get some lunch. There was a place in North Bend called Gordy's Barbeque where we could sit outside and since we had Luna with us and Gordy's had casual picnic tables overlooking the 9th hole of a golf course, it fit the bill.
The hostess seated us outside at one of the 22 picnic tables that were open and empty. The table was fine but piled beside it were
7 huge white coolers that were gigantic. I have no idea who owns these things in real life or how they are transported or what
the hell you need that many cans or bottles of beer for because at that volume we all know it's a wiser investment to just buy a keg. Anyway. Rather than sit in the shadow of The Great Wall of White Coolers, I was drawn to a seat two tables over that afforded views of things other than the side of white coolers. The new table was right behind the 9th hole, so while I ate lunch I could be a spectator of The Great Game of White Men: Golf. I picked up our menus, silverware and condiment caddy, and we moved.
5 Minutes at new table. Water arrives.
10 Minutes.
15 Minutes. We, and the new table, have become invisible.
20 Minutes. The hostess who originally sat us came out and proceeded to say one of the most assanine things that I have heard in a long time:
"We have a problem. I'm sorry. But the server doesn't come to this table. She will only come to those 2 tables" and proceeded to point to our previous table which was 8, maybe 10, feet away.
I was ready for the punchline. Silence.
"But," I stammered. "But this table is only 10 feet from that table and that table is behind a wall of coolers and this table is in the sun."
"I'm sorry. But the server doesn't come to this table. She will only come to those 2 tables."
"But the water arrived. Someone was physically able to bring us water.... See? Look! We have water."
"Oh. That's just the busboy. He just doesn't
understand."
Understand? Understand what? That walking an extra 4 paces from that table to this table is NO BIG DEAL? No, I think the mere peon of a busboy that you speak of with that holier-than-thou patronizing tone, Ms. Hostess, understands all too well.
Had we crossed the 38th parallel? Was the server afraid of getting gunned down if she dared cross the de-militarized zone? Did she have on one of those dog collars where the pup gets zapped when they cross the invisible boundary of their own backyard? All signs point to Yes. The "Because I
said so!" answer has always been a lame ass response to give to a kid when the parent was asked "Why did X happen? or Why do I have to do Y?". That retort is a desperate attempt to save face when there exist no logic or fact to support one's position. The Because I Said So Mandate must die and it must die at the hands of the freedom fighter in us all who requires an explanation to hold some semblance of sense.
Under the stern gaze of Fraulein Gordy Hostess, my muddy and hungry freedom fighter self gave up. I picked up our menus, silverware and condiment caddy, and moved back to the original table. Even Luna's tail hung lower due to her fallen human's will to take this one on.
If only I could have been there moments after we left.
Server, thinking to herself:
"Why'd I get such a shitty tip from those people?"
Me, sending telepathic messages to server:
"Because you were too lazy to walk 8 extra feet. Because you made us move and sit behind coolers for no good reason. And Because Gordy's can suck it because I'm not coming back. Those are the facts. But, actually, the real reason you got a shitty tip is BECAUSE I
SAID SO."
Host Organism
Does it freak you out when a person tells you "We're trying."?
As in, "We're trying to get pregnant."
Cause it freaks me out. It's like they're saying, "We're having A LOT of sex these days. Like really frequent, institutional style, no candles no music no foreplay, straight-up evolutionary caveman SEX." And then, invariably, I visualize said person with mate, naked and doing IT. I don't
mean too. It just happens. I am a visual person and the images are just right there in my head and ewwwww! Please please, I don't want to know that. More importantly, I don't want to picture it.
I have been around a lot of babies lately. Well, perhaps that is an exaggeration. I've been around ONE baby. Once. On Tuesday. For 2 hours. Jackie's little 9 month old girl Elsa - she is so cute. So cute. Being around her for those 120 minutes made me realize 2 things:
High Level Realization:
There really is some hormonal female thing that kicked in around her and her wide-eyed gaze, chubby cheeks, and powder fresh smelling hair that made my heart melt. Mother Nature is no fool.
Day-To-Day Level Realization:
I have no idea what I am doing around a baby. No clue. She cried, I panicked. I gave her back to Jackie and got myself another Dos Equis out of the fridge.
I have a new friend named Claire and the other day she said told me she was pregnant.
"Just so you know, I am only going to be getting fatter from this point forward."
"Oh yeah. I know. We are all skinniest in our 20's. We are all only going downhill at this point in life."
"No. I mean, I'm 3 months pregnant and will start to show soon..."
"Whoa. Congrats! Pregnancy is one big bad science experiment to me. Freaky and fascinating and really neat how it's like an alien inside you just like Sigourney Weaver in Aliens. Rad."
"I know. I am now a host organism. A host organism. I just never thought I'd be a host organism and now I am one."
Happy Birthday
I read
this today on dooce.com. The author reminisced about her wonderful birthday last year and apparently Mason Jennings came to mind. The post was titled "
The Past Is Beautiful Like The Darkness Between The Fireflies."It's such a beautiful thought. And to everything there is an opposite. Yin. Yang. At least that's what I learned in yoga.
Did anyone every write a song about how:
"The Past Is
UGLY Like The ________ Between The ________. ?"
Maybe it could go a little something like this:
1. Hollow spaces / Yellow Austin Powers teeth that you think are funny
2. Moldy soapscum / Tiles in a frat house shower
3. Permanent fat / Upper inner thighs
4. Vacuous space / Ears of an Arizona State co-ed
5. Glock / Mattress and boxspring
6. Jealously / Planned-birth sibling and the byproduct-of-a-drunken-one-night-stand-sibling
7. Memory of finding you / Sheets with Daisy the Nanny (Jude Law's poor kid...)
8. Serious scene in Coyote Ugly / Stripper pole dancing scenes in Coyote Ugly
9. Faded eagle tattoo / Boobs of a 43-year-old biker chick
10. Hair / Hairy-er butt cheeks of your ass
Birthdays are weird and only a select few (Okay, one...) has been beautiful like the darkness between the fireflies. I have a mix of greats, goods, okays, and one big fat shitty one that took the cake (Oh. Wait. There was no cake. Reason #47 why that birthday sucked.) when it comes to fueling the "Fuck stupid birthdays, it's just another day and I am getting too old to celebrate me being one day closer to dying" theory.
My fabulous friend Anna in the nyc had her birthday on Wednesday and said that she was going to use the occasion to quietly celebrate closing the door on the year that's past. I love that idea. Anna, you've gone through amazing change and have come out the other side smarter, stronger, and totally HOTTER than you were before. You listen, you really really listen to me. You're not afraid to say the hard things to me. You are an amazing friend to me. Thank you. I love you and happy birthday, Bling-bling.
People say "look forward" and "move ahead" and "onward and upward". But really the idea of taking a day to look back and pay homage to the past is honest and deserved. Now, one could argue that that is what New Years Eve is for, but we all know it's really more about the confetti and champagne and making out at midnight, right? I like the idea of looking back and giving props to the good, the bad and the ugly of the last year. While you can't drive a car looking in the rear view mirror, you sure as hell can use it to put your lipstick on and make sure your hair looks okay.
I think at my next birthday I will look back. Maybe I will see that the past is beautiful like the darkness between the fireflies. Or, since I am a girl from hot and humid New Jersey, maybe I will see the darkness between the mosquitos or green flies. Either way, I hope it will be nice.
Salisbury Steak
A little stress and excitement has been known to cause rumblings in the best of us. Someone has decided to use Craigs List as an outlet for their much deserved frustration at their boss. Craig, I like your list.
FROM CRAIGSLIST:
craigslist.org >
rants & raves > last modified: Wed Jul 06 09:45:49 2005
email this posting to a friendTo my farty boss and his bowels.
Reply to:
anon-82753196@craigslist.orgDate: Wed Jul 20 09:45:25 2005
To my farty boss and his bowels.I hear you.
I hear you in there.
I hear you farting. Shifting in your leather chair. Trying to muffle your bodily noises in your vibrating chair pad (which is creepy enough).
Worse: I smell you.
The first day you did this, I thought someone had burned a Lean Cuisine Salisbury Steak in the microwave. The second day, I stupidly asked you if you smelled "that vile odor".
You blushed and said, "I have this little problem when I am stressed, excited, or eat a lot of protein in the mornings..." and thus began the Awkward Relationship I Have With Your Bowels.
Man, I am your assistant. I can help with the stress factor, that's sort of my purpose. But listen, can't you lay off the protein bars and egg whites and ostrich sausage in the mornings? Can you eat them, say, at lunch or at night, and torture your family and pets with the resulting stench?
I am tired of burning candles in my office like I'm some kind of fucked up Wiccan trying to ward off the Samhain Fart Satyr. I dread bringing you files because I don't ALWAYS hear you and sometimes am very unpleasantly surprised by the greasy cloud that surrounds your work area.
I really like you. You're a great boss. You take great care of me. But this has to stop before I burst a blood vessel in my eye from holding my breath when I come close to you. See a gastroenterological specialist already; I'll even make the appointment!
Oh No You Didn't
No you did NOT just sit next to me on the bus. Oh no oh NO you didn't.
It's Monday. It's cold. I have a new Vanity Fair and I want to read it. Dread of going to work is at all time high levels. And what do you do? You plop down in the empty seat that was meant to hold my bag or maybe just air and pitch us both into the smothering pergatory of polite bullshit chit chat about nothing. NOTHING. I don't care what you did this weekend. And I highly doubt you care what I did. But we go there - oh boy do we go there - and trade disinterested banter back forth the way workers at McDonalds say "Have a nice day": they don't mean it. Yes, we are aquainted
sort of, but not well and certainly not personally. THERE IS A REASON FOR THAT.
When there is an empty seat on a bus or a train or a plane or at a food court or in a book store beside a person with whom one is aquainted
but not at "friend" level status, I think it is all of our own responsibility to exercise restraint. Practice the fly by. Smile and keep on walkin'. Refraining from the walk-over-sit-down-make-yourself-at-home interaction is a sign of true social awareness and really deserves a shout out. Walking by someone you just barely know and have nothing in common with is NOT exhibiting bitchiness...it's merely a sign of mercy, of saying "Let's just not waste 3 minutes of our life that we will never get back again, shall we?"
Duck behind that tall guy at the newstand. Hide behind the mountain of apples at Whole Foods. Hang a sharp left down Aisle 9, even if it's the parrot food aisle and you don't have a parrot. Or just go to the damn bathroom but do what you have to do to avoid becoming the roadkill that gets scraped off the pavement after Overly-Friendly and Oblivious crash into one another head on. Don't be that guy. Flee. And fast.
I Wish
I wish I was little bit taller
I wish I was a baller
I wish I had a girl who looked good
I would call her
I wish I had a rabbit in a hat with a bat and a '64 Impala
- Skee-Lo
In the words of the inimitable Skee-Lo,
I WISH I HAD VIDEO FOOTAGE OF THIS. This just in from Little Miss Deep Dish:
In my last life I used to do my own bikini waxes, mostly out of cost and convenience. It goes without saying that it takes a very daring woman to rip hair from her own crotch - and I am just that sort of girl. Imagine removing a band aid but turn up that pain about a zillion times. Now you're getting close. Mind you these self-inflicted waxes weren't nearly as invasive as a Brazilian, but still, you need a good grip and a sturdy stick to bite down on.
So, one evening when I was between roommates I was waxing my bikini area and I guess I got a little bit "rough" with myself. 'Cause it killed. Not having any ice packs, peas or even an old Lean Cuisine in the freezer, I decided that it was time for desperate measures. I grabbed for an ice cold can of beer to hold between my legs while I sat on the couch, watching TV and waiting for the pain to subside.
Well, the crotch is a warm area. One of the warmest on the body in fact. So it wasn't long before that beer got warm and was no longer an effective cold compress on my burning, throbbing loins. So I took another ice cold brewski from the fridge, placed it in my crotch and drank the luke warm beer.
This went on for awhile, apparently, because the next thing I knew it was 7:30 in the morning. I woke up on the couch naked from the waist down, lights and TV still on with about 6 empty beer cans littered about the couch. And I was late for work. God only knows what could happen now that I'm living alone again...
Sounds to me like there are a few lessons to be learned. Here's how I see 'em:
1. You are my hero. You deserve a fucking Medal Of Honor for even considering waxing yourself. Courage? Bravery? Strength in the Face (Groin) of Pain? Check check and check. You are the wind beneath my wings. The only thing I can think of that
might rival this could be tweezing a rogue nose hair while extracting a splinter while digging out an ingrown toenail...and self-inflicted waxing STILL wins in that pain game.
2.
Koozie technology needs an update. It’s 2005, for gods sake. Just like many other
products that were invented with only men in mind, the koozie needs an overhaul. Something to insulate in the front and allow ice pack functionality in the back. A Koochie Koozie? Patent it. You'll be a hundred-airre.
3. You would fit in down South. Not anatomically. Geographically. In the southern states. You're in sister. Daughters of the Revolution, not so much. But Bo and Luke Duke (the ORIGINALS, thank you very much, not this
lame new crew) dream of women like you. The booziness. The naked from waist down-ness. The passed out and I have no idea what happened-ness. You can curtsey, can't you?
Rug v. Wade
There is a wonderful beautiful funny woman (and she makes me laaaaaaugh) who just bought a condo in a city known for it's deep dish pizza. She's acquired some great new furniture and home accessories in the last few months and is really enjoying being a homeowner. I can't wait to visit her and see her new digs.
I just received a frantic call from
her. (Identities have been altered to protect the innocent and hairless.)
Transcript of our call:
Her: "Cat! I don't need a cigarette. I don't need a sip of whiskey. I
need a fucking dose of Demerol."
Me: "Why...what's wrong...are you okay? Did you hurt yourself moving furniture?"
Her: "Yes. I mean no. Yes. I got the one thing that's worse than a brazilian...a total and complete removal of all hair DOWN THERE. I was lying there, sweating and shuddering at the mercy of the Russian woman with wax and now I'm all flustered. It's throbbing. I'm trying to walk it off...I'm at Nordstroms."
Me: "
ALL hair??"
Her: "ALL hair."
Me: "Holy shit. Put some frozen peas on it. That's what I did when I had a crink in my neck."
Her: "I'm thinking if I just do something to distract myself it will hurt less so I'm shopping."
Me: "Go to the lingerie section. Buy something hot to show off what you don't got."
Her: "It’s like I have that warm feeling where I have to look down and make sure I didn’t wet myself. You know?"
Me: "..."
Her: “Cat, my rug looks so good."
Me: "What? I thought you said it's totally GONE?!?!"
Her: "No. No. My
RUG....At my new place. It looks so good in my living room."
BOOYAH
This is an email I received today that is written by a person that is ~287 degrees of separation from anyone I even remotely might call a friend.
Nevertheless...Check it:
ok some of you know my friend lindsay... anyway, her cousin works in pr out in LA. this is the cousin who said brad and angelina were having the affair 2 months before the tabloids. the cousin's best friend is a publicist or something like that. aaaaanyway, thought you all might enjoy a good piece of hollywood gossip. you may not care, but thought it was worth passing on... take it for what it's worth:
from linds:
alright, i can't sleep, so i figured i'd do some reporting. barker and i received some major gossip this eve thanks to my LA workin fool of a cousin of mine.
ok, we all know tom is gay. that's a given. but the reason good old tom and katie's relationship escalated so fast? he was caught in bed with none other than ROB THOMAS OF MATCHBOX 20 WHO IS ALSO "HAPPILY MARRIED." right. they were basically like, "you get a girlfriend,and you get one now." katie's old publicist is a good friend of my cousin's cause they sit next to each other at work, and she said there was a period of like two weeks when no one could find or contact katie, and everyone was like what the hell where is she, and it turns out she was being "interviewed" by tom (also in the running-jessica alba and kate bosworth)--she comes back, fires her publicist, signs with tom's, changes her cell phone so none of her friends can contact her, and it's a done deal.
my cousin said it's pretty much a contract marriage--5 million for 5 years or something? my sister asked about his previous relationships--penelope was the same as katie, completelymade up--but with nicole it was different--they really care for each other as friends, but it was obvious even then that he was gay, which is why they adopted their kids. so now katie is in a cult, and the cult's slogan is "hey. hey you. come take a cruiseline into tommy's world of creepy people who shut themselves off from friends and family just so they can fake marriage to a gay person to up their status in hollywood BOOYAH." i figured you needed to know this. i think barker and i were going to spontaneously combust with disbelief. freaky deaky scientologist man. but goooooooooooooo rob thomas!
Shake It Like A Polaroid Picture
http://polaroidonizer.nl.eu.org/(You need to have a flickr acct or similar...)
No Repeating
I watched Sex And The City's last episode tonight. Again. For the third time. (Thank you for lending me the DVD's Steph!) The girls talk about NYC being the fifth lady of the show. I get that. But I've always thought that one of the most significant characters in the show were the CLOTHES. The shoes the coats the dresses the purses. Yum!
Patricia Field is the series stylist and she is amazing. She is interviewed in the bonus materials on the dvd and was explaining how she adamantly prevents any repeating of outfits or accessories. If it's worn once, it won't be seen again. Final. She said if the stories don't repeat, WHY should the clothes. "No repeating...I mean, why would I
do that?"
I repeat: "No repeating...I mean, why would I
do that?"
It made me think about things, things that have nothing to do with clothes or how many times a week I wear my favorite jeans to work (average: twice). It made me think about how many times do I repeat the same behavior over and over and for some reason expect a different outcome? Order the same mediocre sandwich from the same lame deli? Say hello to the bitchy girl who just never says HI back? Converse with a person that I know will cut me off? Again. And again.
I mean, why would I
do that? Why DO I do that?
My dad says: "Life is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived." It would be so awesome to have just a fraction of the cool clothes that the SATC ladies do. Since that will never happen, maybe I should consider adopting the code by which the clothes live.
No repeating. And I think this time I'm only going to say it once.
Yuppies Gone Wild
July 4th is one of those holidays for which I feel no real excitement or exhilaration.
Until July 3rd.
This year was great. We were in Eastlake at Jon and Amanda's place with Wanda Steph Jason John Kerry Anna Michael Sami Karl and Sedea. Visual interpretation of the fireworks yeilded comments that ranged from the geometric to the un-pc. We saw:
Cubes!!!!, A Clown afro, Bleeding hearts, Green swimming sperm, Queen Anne's Lace flower (?), A cold shower, A weeping willow tree, Cubes!!!!, A smiley face, A Downs Syndrome smiley face, Cubes!!!!
Earlier in the evening, as we sat on the deck looking out at Lake Union before the show started, we could not help but notice a super bright spotlight pointed right at us. It was BRIGHT. Like, wear sunglasses at nighttime like everyone does in LA bright.
At 9 pm, naive and believing that the sole purpose of the light was to annoy us, we hypothesized reasons why the light was on us. Sami came up with a bulletproof theory. It went something like this:
We have been targeted to be the stars of a new dvd/video series:
Yuppies Gone Wild. There we were, in our trendy summer garb and designer sunglasses, sipping Corona with Lime, Fat Tire and chilled Sauvignon Blanc spritzers. Scandalous. Commentary by the spotlight operators/camera crew would go something like this: "Check out the babe who just put his glass on the coffee table. WITHOUT A COASTER! Fucking crazy!! And...would you just LOOK at her. She's eating
another piece of prociutto wrapped cantelope, that WHORE. Oh and c'mere you Izod clad hottie grilling up those rosemary herb bratwurst on toasted ciabatta bread, flexing with every flip of the burger. Dockers never looked so hot, I wanna undo your leather braided belt with my teeth."
At 10 pm, we found out that the spotlight was there to illuminate an army helicopter that would fly in holding an unfurled American flag. Oh well. We can all dream.
Happy July 4th.
I Would Like A Refund
In a rare marketing ploy, the No. 2 U.S. movie theater chain, AMC Entertainment, is offering a money-back guarantee for boxing picture "Cinderella Man," hoping to boost interest in the struggling film amid a record box-office slump.
I probably won't ever g0 see Cinderalla Man. Renee Zellweger and her squinty eyed, no tooth smile annoy me. Russell Crowe's Aussie tough guy act is a little hard to stomach since he stopped wearing those thigh candy gladiator skirts. But those (squinty eyed) LA movie execs are onto something with this little money back carrot the have dangled out there.
I saw War Of The Worlds on Saturday night. I'd like my money back. Here's why:
1. Tom Cruise is crazy. Not new news, I know. But I was optimistically hoping that his performance in WOTW would be strong enough to overshadow the cookoo bird persona he has built and cultivated in what has been a remarkably short period of time. TomKat was too strong, it was futile to resist. I couldn't stop seeing a wide eyed, frothy-mouthed monkey man jumping on Oprah's buttercup yellow couch. That image far eclipsed any wow-factor impact the badass special effects were supposed to have on me.
2. The woman who sat behind us is crazy. She does not get out much. At all. You can tell instantly by the way that she laughed her loud hi-pitched horsey laugh on cue at every unfunny, lame one-liner that is aimed at the lowest common denominator of human. She ate loud, she talked loud, she even managed to make sitting still be loud.
