Friday, July 29, 2005

Eighties flashback...
Mick (the GH, not the Jagger) and I had the radio on last evening whilst preparing the evening meal. "How olde-fashioned!" we exclaimed over our Kool-Aid and chicken strips. "How gleefully so!"

Before he arrived home with the green beans and sesame seeds, I was bouncing around the kitchen, singing "I Wanna Be Sedated" at the top of my lungs. Then "Hungry Like the Wolf" came on and I was sucked into a bubblegum-scented, smurf-loving, big hair-having, behind-the-gym-smoking eighties flashback in which my friend Cree and I spent the weekend in her bedroom in a Cheech & Chong haze listening to Duran Duran's Rio LP over and over. We were in that grade school crushed out on rock stars phase, which involves kissing magazine photos, having pretend weddings ("you look so lovely, MRS. LEBON"), and analyzing song lyrics until they had no meaning. "I smell like I sound, I'm lost and I'm found..." Yes, yes - we SO knew what he meant. At least, I thought we did until Cree put the bong down and, after a long contemplative silence, said the following: "Wow, he's really, really hungry, right? Like when you first wake up in the morning after a gymnastics meet. Or when you go to McD's at lunch to cut school with your friends but don't have money for your own Big Mac, so you have to watch your friends eat and your stomach is growling. That's really hungry."

Yes, Cree. He is really hungry. That's what "hungry like the wolf" means. Post-gymnastics hungry. No McD-money-having hungry. And, now that I know it well, he was probably carb-deprivation hungry too. There have been times when I felt like I could chase a bunny into the woods and come out with rabbit stew.

I snapped out of my acid flashback reverie when Mick presented his new Alternative Eighties double-CD that a friend brought him from the UK. We proceeded to Rock the Casbah like it was 1989.

Good times.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Last week by the numbers...
Erin's "Charleston by the numbers" last week inspired me to post a rundown of my own numbers (is "borrowing without asking" the same thing as "stealing?" I have no point of reference).

* The number of people who found my site by searching for “Tom Cruise”: 13

* How many found my site by searching for “smoke pot”: 3

* Number of times I almost had a nervous breakdown in a grocery store because EVERYTHING HAS CARBS: 3

* Number of times I sat in a bar wishing I could drink, watching other people drink, or daydreaming about the fun I used to have when I used to drink: 2

* Number of times I almost wet my pants because I had to wait for the bathroom to de-stinkify before being able to enter: 2

* How many times I wondered why everyone can’t train themselves to do that at home: 3

* Number of times I said, “I can’t take the freaking heat anymore”: 17

* Number of times I really felt like I was going to expire from heat exhaustion: 2

* Number of times I fell to my knees and thanked the gods for giving us air conditioning: 25

* Number of times I paused The Notebook when Erin was over because someone said “Go git Jeeter,” setting off giggling hysterics, even during the sad parts: 4

NOTE: If I thought it would be funny to anyone else, I would explain "Jeeter." But it isn't. So I won't.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

My favorite Tom Cruise blogquote of the day:
[from Sarcastic Journalist, one of my weekly reads]
When he starts going into his Scientology jargon (which we know he will) I will look him in the eye. After every blatantly wrong statement he makes, I will say one thing.

“Tom, please show me your vagina.”

I plan on borrowing the last line and using it often. As in: "Oh, you think abortion should be illegal, Mr. Bigdickman? May I see your vagina?" and "That's an interesting point you make about access to birth control, Senator Blahdeblah, but would you mind showing me your vagina?"

Thursday, July 14, 2005

It's all about the hair...
I can't stand that Bravo show, Blow Out. I really can't. Not the taut-faced, self-involved Jonathan ("dude, it's about the hair"). Not the "rocker chick" who breastfeeds her kid all over the salon ("should I let my baby STARVE???"), not the fake-boobs skank with the immobile forehead who forces her plastic surgeon to consult with everyone in the salon ("but I haven't had anything above my neck done YET"), not the 'mo who whines about the other stylists, not the assistant attached to Jonathan's ass, not the name-dropping queens, not his stupid ass girlfriend (watching her FEED HIM SOUP was repulsive), not the two women marketing his product who act like high-strung, brain-damaged chihuahuas.

No, I wasn't trapped under my sofa just out of reach of the remote during the marathon last weekend. But I'm watching it, obviously. Maybe I just like to feel superior. Maybe I'm drawn to 30-minute discussions about hair products. Maybe I like men who are crybabies after all. Or maybe something is WRONG with me.

Seriously, I almost bought the Jonathan hair products on Sephora last weekend. I caught myself talking about the show in the office on Monday. Consider this my plea for help. Somebody stop me, for crying out loud, before I get extensions and an upper lip implant. Make it go away so I can stop being alternately repulsed by the show and disgusted with myself. I am weak and cannot summon the will to turn it off. Damn Bravo and their TV transmission mind control. Damn them to hell.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Huh? What? Didja say something?
I, apparently, am hard of hearing. It was confirmed by my just-as-good-as-an-MD friend Michael. Fact: I listen to the television too loud. Fact: Sometimes I don't hear him when he's talking to me. It must have been difficult to break the news...these things always are.

Michael thinks it has something to do with a combination of experimental drugs, heavy metal music, and bad hair. I did some research, and deafness isn't listed as a side effect of bad hair...but that doesn't mean he isn't right. My own theory is close to his. From around age 15 to 25, I spent an awful lot of time in front row pits at preposterously loud heavy metal and rock shows. In fact, the way I remember it, I may have had my ear pressed against the gargantuan bajillion-decibel 30-foot amp at the edge of the stage. Often. And once, during a Ramones show in 1996, I think I lost hearing in my "amp ear" for about a week. And am pretty sure it gradually came back, but who knows?

Then there's the Ear Candling Incident of 2002. I've recovered sufficiently from the trauma to be near open flame/burning wax/stick a q-tip in my ear again. But this too might have something to do with why people shout at me ("are ya DEEF or somethin'??"). Very unpleasant.

I'm already on my way to overcoming my disability and achieving independence, according to Erin. She thinks I have developed a bastardized version of sign language to compensate for my deafness. It doesn't translate well here, but suffice it to say I have no trouble communicating without actual words.

Kids, let this be a warning to ye: Keep your heads away from the amps, never stick anything in your ear that's on fire, and watch the spray direction of your economy size can of Aqua Net. Oh yeah, and don't do drugs. Right, no drugs. END PSA.

Friday, July 08, 2005

Bad boys, bad boys...
In my twenties, I dated the rowdy types. Musicians, roadies, bikers, unemployed “writers”, high school dropouts, unemployed small-time criminals, ad infinitum. As much as I wanted to resist and go out with nice boy who would walk me to my front door after a date instead of spending an hour parked down the street trying to get my bra off, I still fell for the hooligans. Good boys never appreciated my ability to hold my liquor, throw a temper tantrum, make a scene, handle my drugs, get into bar fights, or play poker.

That's all in the past now. I'm a changed woman. At some point before I turned 30, I started kicking the bad boys out of my bed at 2 a.m. instead of the other way around. But though I likes my mens with jobs and haircuts now, I've never been able to shake the Pavlovian response I have to the sound of a revving motorcycle engine. Whenever I hear a twin cam engine after midnight, my first thought is, "yay, the sex has arrived." And I can't even count the times I've had near-misses in traffic trying to see what the tall, skinny guy on the Low Rider looked like.

You know how it is though. I'm a typical hypocritical sexist female: I want my guy to be a go-getter in business and in the bedroom. In the kitchen would be nice too. Cooking, I mean. Dinner. For me.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Nothing else has worked...
but this might be the thing that makes me finally quit smoking.

My mother used to chant the following whenever one of my sisters or I lit up: "Tobacco is a filthy weed, that from the devil does proceed, stains your fingers, burns your clothes, and makes a chimney of your nose."

Since I don't have rug monsters of my own, I really don't know what it is about giving birth that turns you into the boss of me FOREVER AND EVER.

Monday, July 04, 2005

Yay America...
I don't celebrate the 4th of July because, as with many other holidays, the meaning of the whole thing has been sucked into an American void of consumerism and 50% off sales. Plus it's too damn hot to be outside eatin' grilled meat products, drinkin' PBR, and trying to stay out of the way of people setting things on fire.

I was pretty patriotic as a kid in a general like-to-watch-the-parade way. In my 20s, I couldn't have cared less. Now, I have a hard time conjuring up any patriotic feelings that aren't wrapped in pity or sadness. I'm sorry for what my government is doing around the world in the name of my country. I am glad I live here and not another place that is on the opposing side, though I don't necessarily feel safer here.

Fourth of July feels like a drunken frat party with the biggest case of little man inferiority sitting in the grand poobah chair. I can hear the "whoo-hoos" from here.
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