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Is that not the scootinest scooter that ever scooted the earth? You bet it is. Except it's not mine. But I will have one exactly like it...and soon...as soon as I learn how to drive it. I know I look all professional and shit there, but don't be fooled. It took me a long time to go forward.
It's Friday, 75 degrees and I have 9 days til I leave for Morocco and Law Student is coming up for the weekend, I had a good taco salad for lunch, the work day is slowing down and I'm rocking out to A.C. Newman on the ol' iTunes. These are good things.
Wait. Who is this positive person? I don't know her. And her head looks like a bubble in that helmet. She really shouldn't wear hats. Maybe someone needs to tell her these things. You know, someone objective and fashion savvy.
I want a scooter.
At one o'clock in this AM I received this phone call, hastily transcribed for you here (read as one long sentence for optimal understanding of drunkardness level):Law Student: Kaaaara...it's [Law Student]...I want to talk to you so badly but you know, I was playing around with the voicemail so it may not get to you, uhhhh, but at any rate I was thinking about comin' up from Friday and leaving on Sunday, so...uhhh...you should give me a call back uhhh, as you can hear [pause - lots of people noise in background] there's excitement all around...I'm excited to see you...we're all excited to see you, uhhh, so, at any rate give me a call back becauuuuse, you're beauuuuutiful, uh...yeah, I'll talk to you later, ok, bye.Yeah, this is funny/sad for three reasons:
1. "we're all excited to see you" is odd because I don't know any of his friends...and as far as I know, none of them are coming up.
2. The message that I left for him last Saturday at 2 in the AM, when I was painfully vodka-laden at Devon and Kendra's Housewarming, had to have been ten times worse...but I can't remember it.
3. These middle of the night drunk dials are pretty much our only conversations when we don't actually see each other. And it amuses us both greatly. (In our own defense...they're usually conversations...not just voicemails)
So that's what it's like when we're apart. When we're together, it's flowers, and day trips and brunch like any other normal relationship (well, normal for other women...it's like a relationship spa to me). But then again...I don't even know if it's fair to call it a relationship. We haven't had "the talk". I know, I know, it's been months, shut up. We both kind of refuse to have it. You can do things like that when you live two hours apart.
In other news, Tokyo Rose died at the age of 90 in Chicago. They cleared her of the treason charge in the 70s, but the fact that the headline called her "Tokyo Rose" proves that stigma can literally follow you til you die. Remember that next time you call that smelly kid from the playground "Smelly Kid".
Anyway, I'm including the link to the article because people (especially people too young to know) should know that even the "greatest generation" was filled with a bunch of assholes. And it's pretty profound knowing that little has changed.
The story of Tokyo Rose.
I got up at 5 AM and raced to the hospital, hair unwashed, night goggles on, clothes not matching...and then sat and did the Times crossword puzzle for 3 hours...and then HE arrived!
Look at that face! Look at it! Have you ever seen such a face? I don't think you have! That face came out of my sister and has been dubbed Beckett.
He's so flippin' cute. And I've already gotten him Jolly Roger t-shirts and shoes...so he'll be the coolest and most intimidating kid in baby yoga...and later...THE world!
That being said...childbirth is disgusting and I'm going to adopt.
I have a pair of Harry Potter slipper socks. I've had them since college and I adore them. If you are not familiar with either Harry Potter nor slipper socks, you need to just end it all now because you're pathetic. Or for a less melodramatic alternative...google them.
Last night was chilly and rainy...those elements together indicate that it is indeed time to bring out and put upon my person said slipper socks. I haven't worn them all summer. I went to wake them from their hibernation, but alas...I could only find one. The other has disappeared. What good is one Gryffindor insignia'd slipper sock without its mate? I do not prefer one foot over the other. Therefore, choosing which one to warm would be akin to Sophie's Choice (oy, will I get flack for that one), and it's not one I was prepared to make. Not then...not ever.
So I tore the apartment apart looking for it (don't worry, it was pretty bad already...you know...seasonal clothing change), but I couldn't find it. Not anywhere. I had to wear other socks. Normal socks. And then, in the night, I had this dream:
I'm sitting on the plane, getting ready to head to Morocco. Amy S. is late. They're gonna close the gate. Suddenly she sits down next to me. And we take off.
Me: Where were you? I thought you were gonna miss the plane!
Amy: I had some last minute things to do.
......pause.......
Me: Ohmigod, I forgot pants!
Amy: What?
Me: I forgot to pack pants, I don't remember packing any pants! I don't have any pants!!!!
Amy: You have pants. I packed them for you.
Me: Oh...are you sure?
Amy: Yes
.......pause........
Me: Ohmigod...I didn't pack any clothes at all! I don't remember packing any clothes! I don't even think I have a bag!
Amy: Yes you do.
Me: I don't remember! I don't think I have any clothes!
Amy: Yes you do, I packed them for you.
Me: Oh. No wonder you were late.
.......in-flight movie begins......
I wake up.
Connection?
But sadly, none of you are in my office, so you can't see them. Well, Jen can...but they came from Jen so wuppity-freakin'-do to her seeing them.
I also made coffee cake for the second time in my life last night. Of course I fucked it up. "Teaspoon" shouldn't sound so fucking much like "Tablespoon". It should be "Teaspoon" and "Biggerspoon" or something. But I somehow saved it with a crapload of sugar in the end everyone liked it, so the world is safe once more.
I go through phases with my music tastes. I'm sure most people do. Usually during the summer I get all in the mood for my classic rock favorites...and to quote my father, "Or, as my generation likes to call it...'rock'" (I love that)...so when 75 degrees hits I drag out all my Floyd, Zepplin, Doors, Who...and most importantly...THE STONES. And then, as the weather cools, I tend to revert to my melancholy tastes...Radiohead, Portishead (you know...all the 'heads'), Elliot Smith, Leonard Cohen, Waits...you get the idea. Well, hold onto your socks, 'cause I've discovered The Raconteurs, Jack White's side project.
Now, I've been a HUGE White Stripes fan since day one (though I refused to pay $50 to see them when they came this year...SHAME ON THEM...don't they know how poor I am??). So of course I was digging the Steady as She Goes song on ze radio like all other red blooded American girls, but I could tell it would get old in time. But then...then I heard Broken Boy Soldier. If you've never heard it, you can do so here. It's so reminscent of golden era Led Zepplin that it's breath catching. In fact, much of the album has a classic rock sound to it, a la Allman Bros, etc...but with the glorious hard ass Jack White bit o' pizzaz!
Obviously I'm no sort of music critic. Everyone and their grandmother probably heard this album before I did. But this song...oh this song...it is elongating my summer. It makes me want to jump around with my hair flying and my arms above my head. And once I am in possession of said song...I may do just that.
Word.
I want to barricade myself in a closet with a $50 bottle of scotch.
Ballet kicked my ass last night...KICKED MY ASS. My leg muscles keep randomly spasming. Just thought I'd share.
So I have tidbits of nonsense to impart. One concerning myself, and the other not. Which one do you want first? Well, none of you get to decide so too bad.
First, I was flipping through channels, willing myself to become sleepy, when I landed on the tail end of Dancing With The Stars. Worst show ever...HOWEVER...they were listing the three bottom duos. The bottomest of the bottom was some chick and TUCKER CARLSON. For those of you who do not know who that is...he's the former Crossfire host and current conservative blowhole host of something on CNN...the one that Jon Stewart verbally skewered a year or so back on national television...the one that wears a stupid bow tie. Anyway, he's apparently such a shitty dancer, he's doing worse than that Joey guy from Blossom. For some reason, this gives me pleasure.
Onto me...I can't shake off this creepy actor guy. Literally. Myspace seems to have worked for a lot of my friends, so I thought I'd try it once...so I told actor guy I'd meet him. I went out with him ONCE...realized he was a freak...then told him it wouldn't be happening again. This was over a month ago. Since then he's been emailing, myspacing, calling, and text messaging. I have answered NONE of them and that doesn't seem to be fazing him at all. Last night it was a "whatcha doin'?" kind of text message. WHAT THE FUCK??? Question...if someone tells you they don't want to see you again...and then doesn't answer any attempts at communication for a MONTH...wouldn't YOU get the fucking clue?
I'm not quite sure what to do. If I answer him in any way, even to say "fuck off", he might take that as interest. I could keep ignoring him...but the fact is, everytime I hear from him, I get a little more creeped out. Laura says I can block his number on my phone, but if he tries to text me "I'm coming for you, you ignoring bitch", I kind of want the notice. Anway...what was my point? Oh yes. I fucking hate dating.
I spent last night lying awake with the M*A*S*H theme, helicopter sounds and all, running through my head...the show, not the movie. Would you believe I've never seen the movie? And I call myself a Robert Altman fan...I know, I know...for shame.
Anyway, I'd had the world's shittiest day...well, couldn't really call it a day since I never left my desk, but still, you get the idea. And despite the fact that I needed to get up at the crack of dawn this morning...I could NOT get the melody to stop going around and around. And if you've ever heard the song (if not, go here), you'd know how melancholy it sounds. So I start focusing on all the bad things in the world. Of course, it doesn't help that the title is "Suicide is Painless" (which, consequently, is the most ironic theme title to a syndicated television dramady ever. Ever!).
So around and around it goes...late into the night...I try listening to BBC World News, even more depressing...I try listening to Coast to Coast, alien abductions turn out to be even more depressing, I poke my cat for a while (if I can't sleep, why should she), I try to finish Crime and Punishment...yeah, combined with the internal soundtrack...well, let's just say Prozac wouldn't have made a dent at that point.
And so...I got up in the wee hours and made hashbrowns. Potatoes are like chocolate to me. I don't know what it is about carbohydrates...starches, specifically...they're magical. No wonder Irish people are the happiest people on earth. All those potatoes. What? That's not true? Screw you...it is TOO! Ok, maybe it's not...but it should be. Rest was mine at last.
So kids...the lesson here is...hashbrowns are really the only way to battle the M*A*S*H theme. Words to live by. The end.
I can't post what I wanted to post because I can't upload the picture. And so instead, dear friends, I'm going to tell you the tale of the love affair between Hagar and I. Pictured to your left is me...after several pints of pansy girl beer.
That hot stud I'm trying to make out with is Hagar. Hagar was only in my life for one night which is fairly standard behavior for a pirate (which he is) AND a fake tattoo (which he also is).
I met Hagar in a dining room. He gave me this rakish grin and I couldn't say or do anything but invite him out for the night. I was going to the Rock Bottom Brewery anyway to play wingman to my friend. We were there to see hotjosh perform. Normally we'd never go to such a place...the polo shirts and hair streaks are out in full force in that place...it's scary...but we needed to hear hotjosh play so my friend could decide whether or not she should sing with him...or do him. He turned out to be fucktardjosh so she'll do neither.
Anyway, Hagar and I were just disgusting to behold. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. It was so unlike me to be so hung up on a guy that wingman #2 decided to immortalize our love with her picture phone.
Now it's all I have left of him. When I woke up the next morning...and not thinking...took a shower...he was gone.
Yo ho.
I got flowers from a boy yesterday. I've never gotten flowers from the boy. No, I refuse to count the grocery store carnations that my prom date took out of the trunk as he dropped me off at the end of the evening. I'm fairly certain his mom bought those.
They were from the law student. They were on my bed when I got home from work. And the bed was made. I certainly hadn't made it. It must've been him. It's all about presentation when it comes to flowers. So they say.
This is a true conundrum. I don't get to use that word very often. Normally I'd be excited about having an opportunity to use it. But not this time...because of the conundrum, itself. Ooh, look, I got to use it twice. I'm extraordinarily torn. I can't like this guy too much. The situation is too volatile. But then, how the fuck am I supposed to deal with pretty pink flowers? I've already agreed to public transport myself down to Eugene once...but I can't do that too often. The hippies might get me. I don't have a cricket bat to beat their heads in with. I'll be helpless. A sitting duck. But the flowers, oh the flowers. Pretty pretty flowers. What do I do?
I'm burned once again, despite using SPF 45 sunblock. Stupid natural ingredients. I don't know what else to do besides wrap myself in a tarp before leaving the confines of the indoors. I mean, some people would suggest that I just wear a hat, but I'll shoot that suggestion down with two ironclad points: 1. I look stupid in hats. Every couple of years I try them again to see if anything has improved. It hasn't. 2. You can't swim in a hat...be reasonable.
Ok, so you can't swim in a tarp either, but I could make a tarp suit and I'd be in business. Though if I wore a tarp suit I wouldn't be able to wear my cool bikini with the silver clinking skulls. I love my skulls. The clinking ones. I don't have any human ones in my basement or anything. I don't have a basement.
Anyway, I believe the Fun Noodle to be the most perfect invention of the 20th century. I think they've been around that long. You put one under your head and one under your knees and you don't even have to MOVE...you float like a feather...like the lyrics of a Radiohead song. It all appealed greatly to my belief that no labor should be done at all on Labor Day. Not even treading water.
But enough about me. I'm going to take a moment to shamelessly plug another blog. The blog of someone who seems to think he deserves more blog love than he's getting. Someone who is slightly jealous of my recent award. So rather than lord it over him, my usual inclination, I'm going to be the giver that I know I am deep down inside and say...this is 'd'. 'D' needs blog love. Please give 'd' some commenty blog love. I think it will ease his blog-related pain.
Thus my good deed for the year has been done. Now it's back to shouting mean things at old people, pouring my tea in the office plants and judging everyone else by their footwear. Hurray!
Oh my gosh. I don't know what to say...I don't have a speech prepared.
Figures this would happen on a day where my most recent post was about sex toys.
There's so many people to thank. My sister for forcing me to blog almost daily at gunpoint. My neighbor the vampire, for keeping me up at night with his pacing (all literary brilliance comes from being overtired, didn't you know). God, just in case he DOES exist and I need something to fall back on. My tarty red shoes, 'cause I'm wearing them today. Oh, and ms. INAMINI because I KNOW it was YOU!
What the hell am I talking about??? I'm talking about THIS, my friends...I won an award for the Blog of the Day. Now I'm gonna get a swelled head and have diva fits if people's comments are too banal. I can see it all now.
Is that not the scootinest scooter that ever scooted the earth? You bet it is. Except it's not mine. But I will have one exactly like it...and soon...as soon as I learn how to drive it. I know I look all professional and shit there, but don't be fooled. It took me a long time to go forward.
