Bacon or Sausage?
This morning I pondered that wonderful question that millions of diner waitresses have asked: "Do you want bacon or sausage with your eggs?". Did I treat myself to a little morning feast at IHOP? Oh no. I'm not talking about eggs on my plate. I'm talking about EGG ON MY CAR. Last night my car, along with a prelim count of about 10 other vehicles in my neighborhood, got EGGED.
Reaction #1 -
.05 seconds after egging discovery:
You little juvenile delinquent fuckers! What kind of sick joy do you get from defacing someone elses property? What the hell do you, at the ripe old age of 16ish, have to be aggressive and violent about? Oooo has the stress of GYM class driven you to the edge? PLEASE. And wasting food - don't you know people are starving and that a dozen eggs could feed a village in Namibia for 2 weeks? And let's not discount the impact that this egregious display of vandalism will have on the impressionable pre-K to 8th grade juvenile delinquents of tomorrow. This is not the kind of Head Start program ole Bushie is talking about! Ew. Now I have to clean up dried sticky eggshells. Gross.
Reaction #2 -
2.5 seconds after egging discovery:
You little juvenile delinquent fuckers*! The idea of hurling an innocent fragile egg at a hard surface, hearing the impact of the viscous goey yolk smacking into the tempered glass of a drivers side window, witnessing the chunks sliding down the door panel and ooze onto the ground in pathetic little bits? Well. THAT
could be one of the most gratifying things I can think of doing right now. Pure fucking cathartic genius.
If you guys* go out again tonight, CAN I COME WITH YOU?
SoCal Hot Sauce
This is an excerpt of an email that I received from a guy who just moved to San Diego to attend law school. Me thinks the stories will be good ones over the next 3 years:
I'll start off by saying that I made it to San Diego in one piece. It took 23 hours of taking shifts driving in a Uhaul with a tow dolly (Steve helped me move). And I'm not even going to lie about it, the drive was what I imagine to be the equivalent of childbirth: hours and hours of agony, sweat and vaginal tearing.
It wasn't that Steve and I didn't have a great bonding experience on our trek, it's just that well, I being psycho, kept freaking out about things. For example, every time we hit a bump in the road, no matter the size, I was sure that my car flipped/broke off the Uhaul and behind us was this huge 18 car pile up. At other times I kept torturing myself with the thought of us getting a flat tire. Oh, dear God! Since there are a total of about 5 people that live between Portland and Sacramento and a few rocks and stuff, cell phone service becomes nonexistent and all that there is between these two cities is a long stretch of road with miles and miles of nothingness all around.
I was sure that if our Uhaul did get a flat we would've surely died. 2 months later a highway patrolman would've found our bodies with bite marks and Jack in the Box hot sauce splattered on Steve's butt cheeks—evidence of my final and desperate attempt at survival.
Well, I live just east of Ocean Beach (about 1 mile) but technically I think my neighborhood is called Point Loma. My complex has about 55 units, a pool and a fitness center but don't start picturing some immaculate resort because it's not. The people who live here aregreat and they range from exchange students from Brazil to a 50-year-old Italian dude who does masonry work and drinks bottles and bottles of wine like it's Gatorade. Everybody in SD is super nice and really friendly. It seems like the total epiphany of a beach town surrounded by colleges. I'd have to say that the girls down here are sick to quite sick and I'm trying really hard to put "it's like I'm walking around with a full time erection down here" delicately.
Oh, and my landlord is gay. And yes, I've been doing everything that I can to get him to fall in love with me. So far it's worked to my advantage (bare with me). He's invited me to dinners several times; has let me do laundry for free (we have a coin operated laundry center); has given me a case of beer (he had a bunch of beer leftover from a party and he says he doesn't drink beer) and among other things that I haven't mentioned, he and his partner have been a great help in getting me situated. We're talking flipping out and doing karate kicks because they get so excited when I ask them if they could take me to a(n) [insert stores like ikea, bed bath and beyond, etc.]. Also I don't want to be misleading here because my landlord is older and stuff and he looks nothing like those chicks on Queer Eye...
Anyhway, the other day my landlord dropped off his vacuum for me to borrow and I exclaimed, "oh wow, it must be the work of the vacuum fairy". Admittedly, this wasn't one of my most hetero comments I've made to date but his response topped even my own: [said with some sass] "the vacuum fairy is not the only fairy around here". He followed up that comment with a wink and a smile right before he walked away. Mind you, previous to this comment it was still too early for me to determine if my landlord was gay or if he was just a really friendly, feminine guy. But that definitely confirmed mysuspicions and my first response was being mortified. I quickly felt my balls disintegrate and I fell over onto my hands and knees and started to dry heave. I've never been the same after that. To this day my only fear is that one night I will wake up, ala Wedding Crashers, but I'd be tied down and rudely awakened by him viciously fingering me. Oh well, he's invited me to his bbq this evening and I will definitely be in attendance.
Picture palm trees, 75 degree weather with a nice ocean breeze, everything from downtown to the beaches within 10 minutes away, and about 70% of the population is in their 20s and you have San Diego. But life hasn't been a non-stop party though because of this thing called law school. I'll spare you the details because I realize that talking about law school is boring. However, some of my greatest stories so far are law school related......
I'm Back, Bitches
No, I am not pretending to be on the "Jimmy's down!" Seinfeld episode. I've been gone for a while. And now I am back. This is why:Okay. So, I am guest blogging on Cat's site because she seems to have forgotten to update lately. Hopefully my weak attempt as a blogger will convince her to flip open her laptop and start typing again.
What would work best is if you post lots of anonymous comments that go a little something like: "Please come back Cat, we miss you and hate the guest blogger." Or if you want to go more of an onomatopoeia route, just a "wwaaaaahhhh" could suffice. That gets people's attention. Especially people like Cat who loathe the thought of children screaming in their ears at loud, high pitched decibels.
When I was wondering what I should write about on this site I thought about lots of things not related to what I should write about on this site. What was I going to wear to dinner tonight? What should I order at dinner tonight? I thought briefly about my boss, who has been a little difficult lately. Then I thought again about what I would order at dinner tonight.
Then I realized I was way, way off track and I made a split second decision to write about Cat. After all, it is her blog. And then, when I really thought about it, I realized it was a stroke of genius. Cat hates talking about herself. So this might be the only insight that you, the reader, get into the greatness of her personality and why you should demand her immediate return to the blogging world.
And so I introduce the top five things I can think of that make me miss Cat more than anyone and wish really, really hard that she would fly to the NYC and drink wine with me tonight. Not tomorrow night. Definitely can't wait until the night after that. TONIGHT.
1.
Cat loves wine. More than the average person. I mean, the bitch REALLY loves the stuff. And she gets this really great, fun buzz off wine. Not a person who gets sleepy. Definitely not someone who gets emotional. Sometimes red wine makes her teeth purple, but we forgive that, because she is so fun when she drinks it that she does things like
A. Ask strange people for advice on private matters. If you've never done this when drunk, you should really try it out. The answers you get will blow your fucking mind.
B. Take a freaking tornado storm of pictures. She should be the most thankful person on earth for the advent of digital cameras. Without them, she would be about a million in the hole on film and development charges.
C. Drives. Cat is a GREAT drunk driver. No, wait, No she¹s not. She is not a good drunk driver. And that¹s not even funny. DRUNK DRIVING IS NOT FUNNY. I take back C. But the other 2 are pretty straight up, solid reasons. We'll stick with those.
2.
Cat is a really good bargain shopper. And she knows what she likes. She is the last person that will ever walk into a store and let any kind of salesperson or advertisement or sale rack convince her to make an impulse purchase. When she sees what she wants, she knows. And there ain't nothin' me, you or Dolce is gonna' to talk her into that she don't want already for herself.
3.
Cat doesn't like the South. She has the best of intentions when she says that she does. And, as someone from the South, I appreciate her toleration of it and even that she lived there for a couple years. But she overestimates her ability to tolerate, um, well, CERTAIN political views that are prevalent in the southern states of this fine US of A.
If you want Cat to extrapolate on those political views, kindly send her an email and I am sure you will get an earful back on it.
Perhaps you wonder (or maybe you don't, but who really cares, I AM THE GUEST BLOGGER HERE, PEOPLE) why I think it is an endearing trait that Cat doesn't like the South when it is, at the same time, where I hail from. Simple, really. Cat is a great person to argue with. An outstanding way to spend an afternoon is attempting to convince Cat of something she doesn't agree with.
The thing is, she really listens to you. Nine times out of ten she won't change her fucking mind. But there is always that one time, the lingering possibility of the one time that she might change her mind, And the glory of that time makes all the convincing worth it.
4.
Cat hates all my ex-boyfriends. Unequivocally. It doesn't matter if she liked them when I was with them or if she even thinks they are good people. Now they are out of my life and so they are out of hers as well. Men may not understand this point, but it's a crucial one. When I send her email updates on what my most recent, least favorite ex is up to her responses often sound a little like Rosie O'Donnell.
High-speed, high-pitched missives that come screaming into my inbox. They may not always have a lot of substance (not Cat's fault, usually there isn't a lot of substance to work with), but her responses always leave you with the definite effect that you are on the winning team and life is good and that even if you are an ex-talk show host and fat and play mentally handicapped characters on TV movies THERE IS STILL TOMORROW TO LOOK FORWARD TO. Dammit. And if all you did was get broken up with some guy who was from Minneapolis anyway and wore really bad, plaid shirts....well then, it's a no-brainer that you still have tomorrow to look forward to.
5.
The fifth reason? Cat always calls me on her way into work. It's usually morning in Seattle and that means it's lunch time in New York and THAT means I have just recently crawled out from under my desk to start doing work so I am behind on emails and assignments and can't answer the phone.
She knows all this but she calls me just to let me know she's still alive all the way on the opposite ocean. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the most true thing I can say about Cat. That's just the kind of person she is.
Now that you know how great Cat is, there's no reason not to beg her to come back to her blog. Go on.
Post your comments.
Demand that she returns.
I'll start off with the first tantrum, "WWAAAHHHHH Cat, where have you gone? You are, like, so totally, such a cocktease with your blog."
-A.M.
About the guest blog author:
A.M. enjoys long romantic walks thru H&M and American Apparel, frozen yogurt with chocolate sprinkles in NOHO, and whips up a kickass tuna/ritz cracker/cream of something soup casserolle (Did you
miss the part about her being from the South??) She lives in a beautiful apartment in the East Village (NOT the fucking Upper West Side, thank you very much) that is rad.
A.M. is the co-author of
Dead Pug Walking, a hybrid biopic melding Stephen King's
Pet Cemetry with Sex And The City fabulousness with a fat dose of schadenfraude, when appropriate. It will be hitting your local bookstores SOON and that little twerp Harry Potter won't know what the hell knocked him and his formerly homeless creator out of the #1 Bestseller spot. ~cat
Not Punk'd
(NOTE: "Me" = Someone else.)
OPEN on me at my gynecologist appointment this afternoon. (I forgot to shave my legs. This wouldn't be such a big deal, except that he's hot.) I am lying on the exam table as my young and very attractive doctor asks me a few questions.
Dr. Garvey: So, anything new or exciting happening in your life these days?
Me: Well, I just bought a place.
Dr. Garvey: That's great! What neighborhood?
Me: Bucktown.
Dr. Garvey: I live in Bucktown too! Great area. What street did you move to?
Me: Well, it's on Dover but the address is 1830 N. Winslet.
Dr. Garvey: Hey, that's my building!
Me: Seriously?
Dr. Garvey: Yeah, really, I live there. So, which unit are you?
Me: (shifting awkwardly in my paper gown) Uh, 314. Top floor, middle building, overlooks the courtyard.
Dr. Garvey: I'm unit 306! You know...I think I actually saw you the other day.
Me: Whoa.
Dr. Garvey: Yeah, yeah. You're balcony faces west, right?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Dr. Garvey: Were you out there the other night reading a cardboard box or something?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Dr. Garvey: That's so funny! What are the chances? My kitchen window looks right out onto your balcony! Hey, can you do me a favor?
Me: Um, okay.
Dr. Garvey: Can you scoot down a few inches and put your feet in these stirrups now?
And the room fades to black AS MY NEIGHBOR GIVES ME A PAP SMEAR.
Mazel Tov
I have broken the glass. Many times.
How could a shiksa like me do such a thing? By:
Smashing a bottle of rose wine in the Whole Foods express check out aisle. Hey. At least I saved the chocolate mousse cake in my hands. (sorry people behind me in line!)
Swinging my purse into a pint of Stella at The Central.
Smacking a plate of tamales into the side of my margarita at La Carta de Oaxaca.
Tipping over my blue water glass at Anna's. (sorry Anna!)
So, if you ever dare to invite me to your home please serve me my Sapphire and tonic in a sippy cup. My $230 Italian wedge sandals THAT HAVE BEEN ON MY FEET FOR EVERY SINGLE SPILL, CRACK, BREAK AND SPLASH LISTED ABOVE AND ARE SLOWLY GETTING RUINED BY MY CLUMSINESS thank you.
Mazel Tov!!!
Stuck Sucks
When you get stuck, is it better to go forward or go back to get unstuck?
It sucks driving over a curb. I'm not talking about the edge of a sidewalk curb - that happens all the time. I'm talking about those annoying individual 5 foot wide concrete parking space divider curbs that are engineered to HIDE from your line of site when you get back in the car. Not only do they hide. They lurk they do oh yes they lie in wait.
It sucks because when you hear the screech of the metal undercarriage of the car being dragged over the cement log, there is no one to pin blame on other than yourself. It's all you. You got in the car. You stepped on the gas. And now you are stuck. Over a goddamn curb.
The ensuing moments of quiet stillness hang in the air and mock your oblivious bravado. You are left to agonize the lesser of two jarring options: DRIVE or REVERSE. Do I slam on the gas and go forward, power over this fucker and risk ripping the muffler off right now? Or do I throw it into reverse, double the damage to the already scraped underbelly and accept the fact that there is now a 98% chance that the engine will begin to ooze black slimey shit all over the floor of your garage?
So: forward or back.
Ah curbs. Like life, they afford the opportunity for reflection.
I guess you sit there for a while, look around to see who has witnessed your dumbass move, mull things over, panic a little and then just pick one. My vote is for forward.
Guilty As Charged
I was talking with a British friend about our weekends.
Her's was a good one.
Me:
How was your yard sale?
Her (in clipped English accent) :
It was great. I stopped a cop.
Me:
Stopped a cop? You got pulled over?
Her (in clipped English accent) :
No. I was at the yard sale pricing things. My eyes were all puffy from going out Friday night. I had on workabout shorts. From the corner of my eye I saw the police car pull up and I think "Great. What have we done wrong?"
He officiously strides over and asks where I am from. I instantly think "Oh crap, I don't have my passport." I tell him that my mother is American and my father is British. I tell him that I have a Visa and everything is legit.
Then he was asking about how many individuals were selling items at the yard sale and I instantly think "Oh crap, we don't have a permit and we are going to get fined."
But then came the shocker. He asked for my number. A cop in uniform pulled up to my yardsale and asked me out. I couldn't bloody well believe it. (no joke, she really talks this way.)
Me:
Well well. Mister Policeman had to take down your information? It looks like your only crime was being cute.
Most Excellent Team
It would be a fun job to be a namer. The power to make the mundane sexy, the basic luxe, the dorky cool. Misrepresentation could abound! Smoke and mirrors baby.
What's in a name?
Of cars.
The Yukon. Did anyone realize that is a
potato.
Of furniture.
The Bradford Sofa? NO you can't actually sit on it. You cover it in plastic, like the lampshades, and you NEVER go in that room silly.
Of lipstick colors. Like the one I'm wearing
now! Metal Garnet. Kiss me, I'm bullet proof.
Of nail polish colors.
Jailbait. Trailer Trash. I will wear it to the 8 Mile II premeire.
Of interior wall paint colors. Honeytone vs. Peach Nectar? Lucious Moss vs. Secret Garden? Soft Wine vs. Sugar Sweet Kiss? Forget love letters...take me Home (Depot) and whisper sweet paintchips in my ear.
When standing in front of that great rainbow of multicolored bookmarks, I find that I just want to take one of each of them. I am so glad they cost nothing because I would steal them if I had to pay for the sample color cards. Greed takes over. Like a squirrel hordes her nuts, I love those paint chips. I pick up colors that normally I would never even consider if I wasn't standing at The Alter of The Church of Home Improvement: the paint chip display.
Since there are only so many rooms one can paint in one's own residence, I enjoy helping friends pick paint and was talking about paint options with Mer the other day.
She went on to say she appreciated my paint color advice. Something about trendiness and being ahead of curves and then she said:
"I on the other hand tend to be slightly more waspy and conservative. With porn accents, of course. We are a most excellent team."
Thanksgiving
Today went from being one of the darkest and saddest days I've had to being one of the happiest and most hopeful. "It had to be heard." And it was.
I am grateful beyond words for the women who listen and care and make me laugh.
Thank you so much.
Zillah, My Good Friend
A big tree brings shade
Friends drink rose as sweat fades
Tastebuds smile wide
Undergarments sweat
Cannonballs and water slides
Coolness spreads inside
Wood panels, prime rib
Cowboys sing with heart and soul
Zillah, my good friend
- Kerry Clayman
Other reflections on the trip:
Despite being corrected a dozen times, in my mind there is still no geographical, sociological or topographical distinction between Cle Ellum, Enumclaw and Yakima. I confuse them repeatedly and relentlessly and probably always will.
Our judgement was truly a little off when we thought offering an 18-year-old boy, who happened to pick up the phone when were actually calling for his Mom, a sizable wad of cash to be our chauffeur for the evening was a good idea. We called for his Mom. She wasn't in. He was. If he
had (smart boy, screening his calls) answered when we called back, there is a 98% chance that we would be missing right now.
Rocking horses made from real horse hair and horse skin are scary little fuckers, especially when the moonlight hits the shiney plastic eye just right.
A tiara worn at anything less than a 30 degree off-center tilt is simply unacceptable. If it was on straight, it just wouldn't be Sideways now would it?
Falling asleep out in the grass looking up at the stars is cool, but waking up BEFORE the sprinklers went on at 5 am is even cooler.
Sideways: PacNW Style
I received this email
two days ago:
Greetings ladies!
I have booked a coach for Saturday morning at 11am to chauffeur our butts to wineries.
I received this email
one day ago:
Friday Cocktails: For everyone that is driving to Zillah on Friday night, please meet at my place in Eastlake for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres before we hit the road.
I have these ingredients in the trunk of my car
right now:
Bottle of El Tesora tequila
Half bottle of Jim Beam
3/4th's bottle of Patron
Giant plastic jug of vodka
Cooler of 17 cans of PBR and 4 cans of Coke - ON ICE
2 bags of Smartfood popcorn
Plums
Donut peaches
Blueberries
Sunscreen SPF 4
Sunscreen SPF 15 for face
Sunscreen SPF 15 for body
Sunscreen SPF 30
Sunscreen SPF 45
I think I see a trend establishing itself for this weekend. Oh and for the record, we are NOT above drinking Merlot. Clink!
IM Gross
A post lunch IM check-in with Mer reveals that I am gross:
Mer says:
I just ate a bag of m&m's. Yum.
Cat says:
I just ate some really great mongolian beef at Chinoise. Those mongols know their cow. I could use some dessert.
Mer says:
Sorry. I ate all the m&m's. And in record time I might add. I literally stopped in the hall on the way back from the vending machine and poured half the bag straight into my mouth.
15 minutes go by and we do a little actual work
Mer says:
Holy crap! I just found a rouge M&M! Bonus!!!!
Cat says:
I LOVE when that happens. The other day I found a Cheetoh under my desk like 5 minutes after I was done eating a little bag of them and was so excited.
Mer says:
No, it was still in the bag that was on my desk
Cat says:
Oh.
Play Hard, Play Hard
I have a proven track record for committing to athletic endeavors and then backing out. The Danskin Triathalon in Chicago. The Tri-Freak in Federal Way. Runs around Greenlake. Sometimes I even tell Luna I will take her for a walk, and then change my mind. Despicable, I know.
In an effort to quell the self-loathing that breeds in this kind of I Am Kidding Myself Repeatedly environment, I have decided to refocus my energies on a different kind of training regime: vacationing! I really need to up my frequency of vacation, the duration of vacation sessions, and I think I'd particularly like to hone the intensity with which I do nothing on vacation. (Hmm...how to handle tapering? Must discuss with Anna and/or trainer.)
Have I
no self-discipline? Surely I can do this. I can do this! I have a formidable, if not unbeatable, opponent in this race. He is a better vacationer than perhaps anyone in this fair land. I have been inspired to make this major life change by none other than our POTUS.
According to the Boston Globe:
Bush Poised To Set Vacationing Record -
Visits to Crawford Outpacing Reagan
President Bush is getting the kind of break most Americans can only dream of -- 33 days away from the office, loaded with vacation time.
The president departed yesterday for his longest stretch away from the White House, arriving at his Crawford ranch in the evening for five weeks of clearing brush, visiting with family and friends, and tending to some outside-the-Beltway politics.
By historical standards, it is the longest presidential retreat in at least 36 years. The August getaway is Bush's 49th trip to his cherished ranch since taking office and the 319th day that Bush has spent, entirely or partially, in Crawford -- nearly 20 percent of his presidency to date.
45% My Ass
On the radio last week, I heard a dj cite the statistic that 45% of people lie to their doctors about their health status and lifestyle choices. (Since when did
John Tesh, the creepy man with huge forehead who is synonymous with the formative years of trashy gossipy 'magazine' television, become a dj on lame late night talk radio? The more worrisome part of this: Why am I listening to late night talk radio?)
I sat in my personal trainer's office last nite, feeling fairly fit and badass after being forced to do some hard things with heavy weights, and answered some questions he had for me. I'm thinking: Phew! Hard work over, let's sit back and chat. WRONG.
"Do you eat well?"
"Yes!" (Confidently proud.)
"Do you eat fried foods?"
"Rarely, if ever." (Giving my best No-way-man-not-me-who-would-do-
that head shake. I now fear where this conversation is headed.)
"What kinds of foods are your favorite....?"
"Oh, I really like carrots. And peanut butter. Oh and I really like bok choy. Steamed, of course. And every now and then I'll have some like lowfat yogurt or something if I'm stressed out." (Pinocchio-esque, my nose grew so far so fast that it torpedoed my water bottle and would have punctured his lung were it not for the rock solid trainer-required pectoral muscle.)
A mere 30 minutes after those words left my mouth, I was guilt freely ingesting (Exhibit A) tortilla chips with (Exhibit B) creamy sundried tomato feta cheese spread and chased that tasty app down with a mondo slice of (Exhibit C, D, and E because boy was it greasy) eggplant and goat cheese pizza.
Verdict: John Tesch needs a new fact checker. I'm willing to bet one Dick's double cheeseburger that trainer stats blow doctor stats out of the water in the They Look Me In The Eye And Shamelessly Lie department.
