Cha Cha Cha

The Healing Properties of a Good Veg.

In examining a recently-purchased package of Dove soap (or "beauty bar" as they market it), I've come to realize my tattoo resembles the logo. And now I feel a little sick.

Tell me the truth...do you see it?

oh god.

Well it looks like I'm going to have to come to terms with being a walking product endorsement. If this beauty bar does all the name implies, perhaps it won't have to become an "ironic" endorsement.

Today is the first day I've spent at home in a while. By "at home" I mean I went to brunch earlier, but have decided not to go anywhere else. Except to the store to get taquitos. I have an unnatural love for the damn things. Anyway, this decision stems from all of the below:

1. I somehow managed to end up at the Portland Brewers' Fest TWICE this weekend, first Friday night and then Saturday afternoon. I don't know if any of you have ever been to such an event, but let me tell you...they are filled with visors and polo shirts. Woohooing for no reason. Sausages. Cargo shorts. Girls named 'Jenna'. Long-ass lines. But you deal with it for the incredible beer. Yes, I said incredible. This from the girl who scours the city for bars that sell Rolling Rock, I know. Still...beer buzzes only extend the ability to tolerate such surroundings for a short time before feeling the urge to hide in the corner of the public library clutching a Victor Hugo novel and rocking back and forth.

2. I've gone to brunch twice this weekend. Both times I ate 90% of what was on my plate. Both meals included potatoes and cream of some sort. Such gluttony can only be curbed by staying somewhere where the cupboards have nothing in them but Pop-tarts and a couple family-sized cans of Spaghettios.

3. Last night I got dragged to a dance club where there were an unlikely number of Asian people dippin' it low to raunchy hip hop in cowboy hats. I do not exaggerate. It was some sort of tequila promotion party and they were handing out the cowboy hats at the door. Rather than smiling, nodding, accepting and tossing aside, most opted for donning. It was an unfortunate decision. I couldn't stay long. The place smelled like unclean.

4. I had 5 piles of laundry in my bedroom. Some of the piles were clean. Some of the piles were dirty. All of them were unsightly.

5. I count 7 pairs of shoes, 2 belts and 3 cardigans strewn about this shared living space. They're all mine. Perhaps I should clean up a little.

And there you have it. Do with it what you will.

In the meantime, let me just say...Ticketmaster is a bunch of bitches. I know everyone and their grandmother has gone on this rant before, but they've hit a new low with me. No, I'm not even talking about the $2.50 they charge you to print out your tickets on your home printer. Dickwads. I'm looking up tickets to Beck for the Waif and Ty's birthdays. And this makes me see red:

Section/Row/Seats/Description
GEN ADM
GA9 171 - 174
PRICE LEVEL 1
SEATING ON LAWN AREA - NO CHAIRS

Type: 4 ADULT FULL PRICE TICKET
Ticket Price: US $38.00 x 4
Convenience Charge: US $8.30 x 4
Building Facility Charge: US $4.00 x 4

$16 extra fucking dollars for a Building Facility Charge when the seating is on a LAWN. What!? The!? Fuck?! I hate these people. And this is before I actually purchase the tickets and pay the randomly additional $3/ticket service charge (yeah, learned about that one from buying tickets for Sub-Pop) and then, yes, the above stated $2.50 to print the tickets out on your own printer using your own paper and your own ink. These people are the Enron of the entertainment world. I hope they all die of the clap.

I'm Going To Get So Much Hate Mail

Shut up, Waif...you don't tell me.

K, sibling spat resolved.

Given that it's the middle of summer and I have a Slip 'n' Slide party coming up, it's time to talk about bathing suits.

All the women reading this just involuntarily shuddered.

Having never ever ever never been skinny, the topic of bathing suits is a sensitive one. I've owned a small number of two-pieces in my lifetime and they were only ever worn around people who I knew wouldn't judge (the way I like to judge everyone else...you know). My most recent one had little silver skulls that clinked. So cute!

Ok, I just slapped myself. Well...mentally.

My more recent swimsuits have been one pieces. With the vintage stylistic comeback in full force, it's much easier to find things to flatter my unfortunate body type while getting to rock some styles I love. I have two in my summer rotation. A brightly colored early 1960s romper type thing and a 1920s/30s rouched number with a skirt. Yes, I just said "romper" AND "rouched". Suck it. Both swimsuits allow me to eat a pizza and run around rocky enclaves in perfect, and stylish, comfort. They are also what one might call "modest". Yes. Modest.

I was trying to explain the styles to someone and made the mistake of googling "modest swimwear". Except it didn't turn out to be a mistake because I found this site:

http://www.modest-swimwear.net

If you know what's god (typo, and it's stayin') for you, you'll go to this site and read/see the testimonials. I've never seen such homely people in all my life. But, you know, I just like to know that they're out there...takin' it easy for all mankind (sorry...some Lebowski slipped in there).

Now, I know you'll think me overly harsh when you see that the homely people I'm referring to are mostly children. Yes, this is mean.

But... look. Genetics are already giving these kids a swift kick in the tukus. Do they really need to exacerbate things with such a lycra ensemble? Actually...I don't think it's lycra. What are swimsuits made out of anyway? Doesn't matter. These are the lookers of the group.









Obviously there's an audience for the modest swimsuit. An audience that sounds like this:
"Dear [lazy attempt at preserving anonymity],
First of all I want to thankyou so much for what you have done. Thankyou for listening to the Lord. My three daughters and I just wore your swimsuits and had so much fun. I was able to swim with them and teach them how to swim without feeling torn between dressing modestly and spending time with my family in the water."

1. This woman thinks that "thank you" is one word. That wasn't just a typo, she did it twice.
2. To her, learning to swim is only allowed if one is modestly dressed. If modest attire doesn't present itself in the form of a hideous swimsuit...then the little brats can just drown. At least they'll reach the baby Jesus knowing it was for the right reasons.
3. She thinks the Lord is trying to talk to people regarding their swim wear. Like he doesn't have enough to do.


I imagine the author of the above testimonial looks something like this woman. That hair says "sister wife" to me. You be the judge.











Speaking of "judge" + "ment", look at these two. That's all. Just look.





You know you're all thinking it.

Luckier Than You Are

I was going to tell you all about my weekend and how much better it was than yours (I guarantee it) but I just don't have TIME! Work has been a goddamn marketing sweatshop and tonight is Wolf Parade and there's JUST NO TIME.

So I leave you with a montage of my open mouth and some other people. Seriously...what IS my problem.

Happy Birthday Sup-Pop! Without you, the Seattle grunge movement would never have inspired me to stunt my budding pre-teen sexuality by wearing flannel shirts and baggy men's jean shorts, thinkin' I looked all sorts of hot.

We celebrate you with beers.

One never really needs to get this close to amy g.

Devon tried to kill me on his motorcycle. By "try" I mean scare me to death by driving fast with me on the back of it.

So I shot him.

Marie's there too...but you know how she feels about pictures of her own face.

Oh wait, now just wait a minute here. What might this be? Might this be a picture of ME AND DAVID CROSS? Yes, I think it might. You know how I feel about the man...not only is it written plainly upon my face, but it's also here.

And last but not least...Jemaine and Brett of Flight of the Conchords. We've been a little bit obsessed with them since the HBO still lived with me and we could have Conchords-watching parties. I believe here they're singing Business Time. And I am most likely singing too. Because it is, you know. It always is. And I'm probably drunk.

I'd also like to add that the gleaming white skin you see me sporting in these pictures stayed that way, despite direct sunlight and temperatures in the scalding 90s (oh Seattle, you're so cute). Wanna know why? Because amy g. had sunblock that was SPF 70. I didn't even know such a thing existed. I applied three times throughout the day, so that means at one point I had on SPF 210. Uh huh. You can tell in that pic with Tobias Funke up there. Grease monkey. Grease monkey and about 6 beers in. I've seen a few celebrities in my day (was in The Vegas when Oceans 11 was filmed...you do the maths) and can generally keep my cool around them...but it was not to be with DC. I was pretty much the farthest thing from cool you could get (both literally and figuratively) with some blubbering and stuttering and an unintentional use of the word "douchey". However, he was still nice to me, so I very much heart him. Even if he does look like the unibomber with that beard.

That really is all I have time for. Except for that. I really didn't have time to write that bit. I promise the next post will be less journalish and more something else. Sometimes I even keep promises.

Now leave me alone, damnit...I'm busy.

Easiest Post I've Ever Written

Because I didn't write it.

Ladies, gentlemen and trailer trash...I give you...the Waif:

Hello, gentle readers. Waif, here. I’m sure you’ll remember me from such gems of comments to previous Condi’s Hair posts as,

“Those Charleston Chew thingies are tasty,” and,

“Scalp burns are the worst cause you can't put sunscreen on your part or else your hair gets all greasy and hats are just annoying, your head gets overheated,”

and “shut UP.”

Yes, of course we remember you, but what the eff are you doing posting on your sister’s blog, you ask? I’ll tell you exactly what the eff I’m doing here—classing it up, that’s what.

Here’s the deal: I’ve decided two things. Firstly, I’m lazy. Far too lazy to upkeep a blog of my own. I mean, I can do once a month, but once or twice fortnightly? Come ON. Nextly, this is just plain more fun. That is to say, posting what I like, as infrequently as I like, and getting to make fun of my sister’s posts on her very own blog? Yeah. It’s gonna be great, people.

Anyway, this is just a friendly how-dee-do to let you all know that you’ll be seeing more of me around here. So everyone thank Kara for her fabulous decision to feature me on her blog and be sure to check back again real soon for the next edition of…The Waif Chafes.

Oh, and Gary Oldman has a hairy butt face.

Reason # 812 Why I Should Never Be A Parent

It's a rare and beautiful thing for 4th of July to fall on a Friday. One is almost duty-bound to leave town on such an occasion...even if weather.com states that the coast will be anything but sunny and warm. Some of us aren't very good listeners.

I had fun, though. 8 of us stuffed into a home built for 4 (tops). There was much carousing and yelling of obscenities. Also a concerning amount of hip hop was played. You'll all be pleased to know I still remember every lyric to I Like Big Butts. And "they" said I couldn't be taught. Fie on "they".

Yes there are pictures. No I haven't decided if I will post them. Some of us are shy.

Sunday evening the Missus and I arrive home full of various forms of meats and even more various forms of drink thanks to the 72 hour Festival of Gluttony. We are tired and anxious to get back to our internets. He pushes open the door and we both carry armloads of whatnot inside.

And that's when I say:

"Hey where's the caaa....oh FUCK!"

I run to my bedroom door behind which I sequestered Tallulah on Friday so that I could leave the front door open for the purpose of loading. But I had forgotten to let her back out again. I piled up her food, filled her water and cleaned out her litter box only to lock her in my room without any of those things for 3. FULL. DAYS.

I am the worst pet parent ever. I should have PETA called on me immediately. I should have my dominant species classification taken away. The poor thing was shaking. It's a good thing I keep her so fat because she would've probably eaten my shoes, which I would've deserved but not appreciated. I could see the dent on the bed where she spent the weekend sleeping...trying not to think about food or the people who had abandoned her. The little angel didn't even use the pile of clean clothes on my bed as a kitty bathroom. She held it in ALL weekend like the furball of a champ that she is. If there was a chance for her to compete in the Olympic Trials for keeping it in...she'd set a world record and be off to Bejing in no time...where she'd probably become the main ingredient in some General Tsao. Let's not think about that.

Anyway, this negligent act is still haunting me two days later. I keep whispering apologies to her and letting her get away with naughty things I normally wouldn't stand for. I'm letting the guilt overrule the fact that she's perfectly fine...if not a skosh more svelte. But the whole ordeal scared me. When I was teaching pre-school my aide forgot one of the kids outside for a bit and it took me forever to notice. By 'forever' I mean about 2 minutes...but that's a decade to a 3 year-old. She didn't have food or water or a bathroom either. You see where this is going. I shall begin the sterilization process immediately.

Watch; the Missus is going to tell me to stop dwelling.

The Sterilization Process includes:
- Drink exactly 1 gallon of Ovary Burn (1 part bottom shelf tequila and 2 parts Clorox bleach)
- Attend both a punk rock AND a death metal show in the same evening making sure to stand at front of the pit where hips continually come into contact with the metal barrier
- Lean into the front of the microwave during the heating up of all food and beverage items
- Jump from a chair onto concrete or cement twice a day for 4 consecutive days

Sounds like it might work, right? No?