Monday, November 22

Brain Monster

I can’t think of a person more well-versed in guilt than I am. Mine is the all-pervasive breed that crawls up your leg in a dark movie theater, and lodges itself in a pocket.

Eventually, though, mine crawled much farther, and planted itself it my mouth, so that every other phrase out of it is “I’m sorry.”

Lately it has occupied more space throughout my brain, (but of course it doesn’t feel bad for taking up that prime real estate) which is why I’ve been missing lately. Bogged down in a sea of guilt about ten or twelve different things, I have not written anything for this many days. I’M SORRY.


In other news, people create entire blogs, not just entries, in the personas of their pets.

Saturday, November 20

Oh, that old thing? It’s just my cholesterol.

The number THREE HUNDRED TWENTY ONE had never been so frightening as the day my doctor put it in the context of my cholesterol. For those of you unfamiliar with ordinary cholesterol levels, 321 is 141 points too high.

How old am I, you ask? Under three decades. I have nothing to do with that dude who supersized himself, I don’t eat ridiculous amounts of cheese or fried stuff anymore, and I’m not seventy-nine. Hmmm.

What I have plenty of to make up for all those deficits, however, is stress. Stress and Guilt and Not Enough Exercise make a very unhappy, clogged Punch.

So everyone’s heard of some remedy, way to live, things to eat as substitutes, ways to exercise, methods of relaxation. Let’s hear them (and thanks).


Tuesday, November 16

Fluff and Make Up

The fluff level of the bathroom mat has always been an issue for me. Isn’t it a sign of weakness when the mat’s cotton loops are all downtrodden? I thought so. Anyway, when The Boy does something to make me angry,



this is how he fixes it.



In the Blinc of an Eye

I’m becoming increasingly no-fuss about the pretty situation. I’ve gone from completely obsessed with wearing makeup at all times (years ago), to dangerously disinterested in spending more than three minutes making myself look presentable.

The disinterest has grown especially dangerous within the last few months. It’s refreshing, but not in a messy-chic or an I-don’t-brush-my-hair-or-change-the-sweatpants-I-slept-in-last-night way. (Of course, I don some new sweats; a girl’s got to be clean.) It’s just about unadulterated laziness, which makes this one item indispensable in my house. I can apply the stuff within thirty seconds, and get rid of it even faster. NO MORE COLD CREAM. Ever.

What's your one item?

Monday, November 15

Covered

We were fortunate enough to leave the house for like 8 whole hours on Saturday. (With that, you’d think The Boy and I had kids, but no, we don’t even have dogs.) Since coming out to LA, we’ve become accustomed to playing Scrabble for entertainment [read: saving money] while we develop those burgeoning careers.

But The Boy’s aunt and uncle have escaped Chicago (and the adorable kid they’re usually attached to) for a week at their lovely timeshare in Palm Springs. And since they’re awesome, they invited us to dinner.

They have the sweetest, most easy-going baby in the world. And after some wine was consumed, they told us some very loud stories about Baby Montgomery.

It turns out that Monty will often just hang out in his stand-up-baby-bouncer-walker thing in utter joy and amazement at the things he can do by himself. One night his parents were otherwise occupied for ten minutes, and when his father came to inspect happy Monty, he found him COVERED IN POOP. All kids find their places to go, and the stand-up-baby-bouncer-walker thing doubles as his toilet.

This is how no-fuss he is. Montgomery will just hang out in his stand-up-baby-bouncer-walker thing forever whilst he covers himself in poop, without so much as yelping for the attention of mom or dad. What an awesome kid.


Friday, November 12

Assault on Gums

Today I discovered, by way of being informed, that I have been brushing my teeth THE WRONG WAY my entire life.

Apparently, in all the years that The Boy has been present while I brush my teeth, he hasn’t noticed the atrocity that is my brushing style.

As usual, I was trying to conduct a conversation with a toothbrush in my mouth, and in the middle of a sentence (in which I was pestering him about helping me with the code for my upcoming redesign) he shouts, “What are you doing?”

Who knew that you’re not supposed to use all the force your arm can exert?

When I learned to brush my teeth, I probably had some “dirty-dirty” complex in my head. Out, damn plaque. Since then, I’ve been brushing happily, slowly scrubbing away my gums. I remember pleasing my hygienist with the lack of buildup on every dentist visit. And she may have mentioned once or twice that I seemed to brush very hard, but maybe she should have mentioned that if I kept it up, I would end up in the periodontist’s chair having a tiny piece of SOMEONE ELSE’S SKIN grafted onto my little cuspid.

The dentist failed me, but Boy, why didn’t you notice my brushing habits BEFORE last year?

Thursday, November 11

“...There's maybe some meat on that chicken."

How awesome is Governor Schwarzenegger? Only awesome enough to use his sway with the Japanese to bring in some extra money for California trade offices.




Wednesday, November 10

Freedom is ground cloves on a non-holiday.

Occasionally, I try to be extra sweet to The Boy, and in line with that sweetness, I will prepare for him some devilish baked good, continued proof that food is better than emotions.

Yesterday was one of these extra sweet days, so in the midst of our back-to-back working-typing-bullshitting, I stopped to pass him a note with the offer.

After some deliberation, he chose the pumpkin devil, and I escaped the home office to Ralph’s (cleanest grocery store ever) to purchase some ground cloves and pumpkin (because, no, I’m not about to bake and mash the damn thing myself. I said I try to be “sweet” not “slave” to him.)



(Yes, we really ate a quarter of this pie last night.)

Anyway, as I’m preparing the pumpkin goo, it occurred to me that this was not something that would ever have occurred in my house as a kid. Baked goods were for holidays, especially revered ones like pumpkin pie. It felt like sacrilege to be making such a dessert without a turkey in the freezer, but I swear, it still tastes the same.

Tuesday, November 9

Real CNN News

Arkansas debates the important stuff.

A Floridian does the smart thing. (Murder does have a way of making a guy rich, right?)

Somebody tell that cabbie that this is how you make money.

A New Yorker whose “whole world is about manifesting [...] decide[s] to manifest children” (at 57).

And finally, Jim Belushi is a leaf-blowing voyeur? (I love Hollywood.)

Hospitality Weekend Siteseeing (Hollywood Sign)

Saturday, November 6

On Hospitality

Back in the forties, two people starting having kids. Four girls were born (let’s call them Alice, Brunhilda, Cathy, and Dana).

Alice gets married, has two boys, gets divorced, and hasn’t seen either of her boys in years.

Brunhilda gets married, has my cousin Dan, moves from the Island to Jersey, has George, and eventually gets divorced.

Cathy is my mother, who I think is awesome. She gets married, has one girl (me), gets divorced, and that’s it.

Dana becomes a nurse, gets married, has one girl (now sixteen), then a boy, then another girl (who, at age seven, has a better throwing arm than I do).

Dan is two years older than I am. When we were young and everyone lived in the same little part of the same little Isle de Staten, we were together nearly all the time, because there were no other cousins in our age range.

When George was born, I remember thinking how awesome it would be to have someone younger than me around. Then their family promptly moved to Jersey and I never got to know George in the way I had Dan.

After Brunhilda’s divorce, she and my ex-uncle had manymany problems regarding the kids. Daniel and George were in a bad position and eventually, due to Brunhilda’s love of ultimatums, they chose their dad. From here on, we (the rest of the family) never saw Dan or George.

During this time, George got into a bunch of trouble with drugs and The Law (stay in school, kids!), but the only story ever heard from Brunhilda was how much it all hurt her. (This is the woman who used to feed her kids Dimetapp if they got too excited.)

So Dan gets George out of the rehab-that-isn’t-working and into Naval boot camp.

I got in touch with Dan about six months ago, which was great. And then I moved. A week ago, I’m genuinely excited when Dan informs me that George has graduated and will be assigned to a ship off the coast of San Diego.

On Thursday I called George to say hello and good luck, and it was one of those nice-but-weird conversations you have with family you haven’t spoken to in six years. SIX YEARS.

Then he called again yesterday. To ask if he could spend. the. weekend. with. us. before his ship came in on Monday. The old cold me shivered when the new warm me blurted, “of course!” The Boy and I drove out to the Greyhound station in the middle of nowhere last night to retrieve George.

It was good to see him alive and stuff. And I wanted things to be instantly like old times, so I talked and talked and talked (and missed our exit and kept us in the car MUCH longer than we needed to be).

I went to bed exhausted after four hours of forced conversation, and this morning, all I could think was, “Dear god, I have a day and a half left.” Seriously, I’m running out of questions about the Navy, and I’m not even considering, “So, how was rehab?”

But I’m going to wake up the Navy man now, and force him to have some Cheerios. “EAT, GODDAMMIT!” That’s hospitality, right?




Tuesday, November 2

Preg Porn

This evening I stopped at Sav-On to pick up a prescription. And as I approached the counter, I noticed a woman wearing those stupid maternity jeans with the stretchy top (which were actually pretty cute). I thought maternity jeans were intended to cover the expanding belly, but these must have been the fashionably low-cut style, because between them and the Ashley-Olsen-sized-but-stretched-out-like-Fat-Albert yellow t-shirt she was wearing, I could see a fleshy belt of skin. (And not a small one.)

I figured that this sort of thing must come with the territory. Occasional lower belly showing must just happen. How many maternity clothes can you buy?

But then she PICKED UP her shirt, as if to invite the entire drugstore to gawk as she rubbed her giant, child-bearing stomach. “Look, everyone, I’m having a baby, but I still think I’m really hot.”

I don’t purport to know anything about carrying a growing thing in my stomach, nor do I yet understand the feelings that go along with such an endeavor, but I am not under the impression that public naked belly rubbing is acceptable pregnant behavior.

How is this different from me lifting up my shirt and caressing my own stomach right there?

No pregnant porn for me, thank you.