Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Today's dilemma
So here's my dilemma for the day. First, please remember that I am about 10 years older than you are so my anti-aging concerns are a little more pressing. So, my dilemma... If I use:
I have the following questions
For more extra credit, explain why I think Tommy Lee is so freakin’ hot.
- a facial cleanser with 2% salicylic acid
- and a blemish reducer (aka pimple maker-go-awayer) with 2% salicylic acid
- and a facial scrub with apricot shells and 2% salicylic acid
- and a moisturizer with alpha hydroxy and some other acidic kinds of things I don’t understand
- and a peel-off mask with fruit acids
- and a chemical peel kit that includes a 10% acid solution...
I have the following questions
- Will my face eventually just melt off, leaving behind only my specialty-lipstick-collagen-enhanced lips?
- Will it matter after my husband kills me for spending $40 on all this crap?
- Before he kills me, will he notice my smooth skin and plump lips?
- Will Emerson inherit my mental disorder?
For more extra credit, explain why I think Tommy Lee is so freakin’ hot.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
City of Neighborly Love
(loud booming noise from below us)
Scott: The neighbors are watching that movie again.
We have a standing agreement that our neighbors downstairs either have one movie where things blow up that they watch repeatedly, or they have every movie in the world where stuff blows up. But an idea crosses my mind.
Me: I think maybe they’re watching al-Qaeda training videos.
Scott looks up, thoughtful.
Scott: But they don’t look Arab.
Me: (shrewdly) You don’t have to be Arab to be Muslim.
Scott: Ahhh-HAaaaaa....
Scott: The neighbors are watching that movie again.
We have a standing agreement that our neighbors downstairs either have one movie where things blow up that they watch repeatedly, or they have every movie in the world where stuff blows up. But an idea crosses my mind.
Me: I think maybe they’re watching al-Qaeda training videos.
Scott looks up, thoughtful.
Scott: But they don’t look Arab.
Me: (shrewdly) You don’t have to be Arab to be Muslim.
Scott: Ahhh-HAaaaaa....
Monday, October 03, 2005
As I Am Dying
The whoosh of rushing wind fills my head as the cargo bay door opens.
“I don’t want to die.” I beg the man standing in front of me.
“You’re not going to die,” he says – and pushes me out of the plane.
I am 10,000 feet over a bright green field, strapped to a man I do not know, hurtling toward a brutal, painful death. I am skydiving on a bet, a stupid bet that is going to kill me.
I never apologized to my little brother. My sister and I used to dress him in our old party clothes and call him “Susie.” He is scarred for life. This is why I am going to die.
“You are not going to die,” shouts the man strapped to my back. “We have a parachute.”
The parachute is made of silk and it will not save us. Our bodies will shatter upon the earth. Will they be able to tell us apart, or will they think that one huge person exploded in the field - perhaps while wearing a lovely silk dress? This is not the way I want to die.
“You are not going to die.”
I started a rumor in fourth grade that Kristen Gandy was really a boy. I was mad at her and I had just learned about sex-change operations. It followed her all year. This is why I am going to die.
I can almost hear him roll his eyes.
“We’re not going to die.”
My neck snaps forward. I am wrenched upward so hard that I can hear my vertebrae fracture, and suddenly I waft through the air. The sky is lit with a heavenly glow. I am dead.
“You are not dead. I pulled the ripcord. Enjoy the ride.”
I am making absurd doggie-paddling motions with my arms and legs. I will myself to cut it out and assess the situation. We are still falling, but will not die instantly. Now we will suffer.
In ninth grade, I ditched Greta Haug, a smart and sweet girl, for “cooler” friends who wore gothic clothes and listened to The Cure and Joy Division. For loving these bands alone I am going to suffer – and die.
“No one is going to die,” he shouts, and stops because shouting is no longer necessary. “Try to relax.”
“Relax,” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I bought that album. I deserve to suffer and die.
A truck waits at the edge of the field. Tiny people shade their eyes, studying our descent. Are they prepared for our mangled bodies, for the gurgling and gasping as we suffer and die? I am concerned children might be watching.
“No! It doesn’t matter, because we’re not going to die.”
The summer after high school, I scored press passes to Lollapalooza. Eddie Veddar climbed the back wall of the amphitheatre and dove off into the waiting crowd. I found myself crushed against him and kissed him, with tongue. For this assault, I deserve to suffer and die.
“Okay, get ready.”
The ground spirals up at us. I am not ready. I never returned “The Bell Jar” to that nice neighbor woman in Athens who had Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t remember I borrowed it. For sometimes thinking that’s kind of funny, I deserve to suffer and die.
The tiny people are now people-sized people running to meet us. Oh, God, they will be covered in entrails. They will never recover from the trauma. I try to wave them away. They wave back. Fools!
“Bend your knees.”
I curl into the fetal position. I dropped all of my classes one semester and used my loan money to party. I cheated on most of my boyfriends. I lied about cheating on them. They all believed me.
“Remember to go with the momentum of the landing.”
I never go to church. I don’t recycle. Sometimes I don’t walk the dog for days.
“Here we go!”
We are mere feet from the ground. I kick wildly. He shouts at me to stop. I wish my family long happy lives and brace for impact. My toes brush the ground and we are standing, back on terra firma.
“See?” he says. “We’re perfectly safe.”
A gust of wind grabs the unsettled parachute and jerks us back several yards. We land hard on our backs, me on top of him, like two stacked turtles.
“That was kind of fun,” I gasp, and gasp again, because I can. I am still breathing.
He groans. “I think you killed me.”
(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005
“I don’t want to die.” I beg the man standing in front of me.
“You’re not going to die,” he says – and pushes me out of the plane.
I am 10,000 feet over a bright green field, strapped to a man I do not know, hurtling toward a brutal, painful death. I am skydiving on a bet, a stupid bet that is going to kill me.
I never apologized to my little brother. My sister and I used to dress him in our old party clothes and call him “Susie.” He is scarred for life. This is why I am going to die.
“You are not going to die,” shouts the man strapped to my back. “We have a parachute.”
The parachute is made of silk and it will not save us. Our bodies will shatter upon the earth. Will they be able to tell us apart, or will they think that one huge person exploded in the field - perhaps while wearing a lovely silk dress? This is not the way I want to die.
“You are not going to die.”
I started a rumor in fourth grade that Kristen Gandy was really a boy. I was mad at her and I had just learned about sex-change operations. It followed her all year. This is why I am going to die.
I can almost hear him roll his eyes.
“We’re not going to die.”
My neck snaps forward. I am wrenched upward so hard that I can hear my vertebrae fracture, and suddenly I waft through the air. The sky is lit with a heavenly glow. I am dead.
“You are not dead. I pulled the ripcord. Enjoy the ride.”
I am making absurd doggie-paddling motions with my arms and legs. I will myself to cut it out and assess the situation. We are still falling, but will not die instantly. Now we will suffer.
In ninth grade, I ditched Greta Haug, a smart and sweet girl, for “cooler” friends who wore gothic clothes and listened to The Cure and Joy Division. For loving these bands alone I am going to suffer – and die.
“No one is going to die,” he shouts, and stops because shouting is no longer necessary. “Try to relax.”
“Relax,” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. I bought that album. I deserve to suffer and die.
A truck waits at the edge of the field. Tiny people shade their eyes, studying our descent. Are they prepared for our mangled bodies, for the gurgling and gasping as we suffer and die? I am concerned children might be watching.
“No! It doesn’t matter, because we’re not going to die.”
The summer after high school, I scored press passes to Lollapalooza. Eddie Veddar climbed the back wall of the amphitheatre and dove off into the waiting crowd. I found myself crushed against him and kissed him, with tongue. For this assault, I deserve to suffer and die.
“Okay, get ready.”
The ground spirals up at us. I am not ready. I never returned “The Bell Jar” to that nice neighbor woman in Athens who had Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t remember I borrowed it. For sometimes thinking that’s kind of funny, I deserve to suffer and die.
The tiny people are now people-sized people running to meet us. Oh, God, they will be covered in entrails. They will never recover from the trauma. I try to wave them away. They wave back. Fools!
“Bend your knees.”
I curl into the fetal position. I dropped all of my classes one semester and used my loan money to party. I cheated on most of my boyfriends. I lied about cheating on them. They all believed me.
“Remember to go with the momentum of the landing.”
I never go to church. I don’t recycle. Sometimes I don’t walk the dog for days.
“Here we go!”
We are mere feet from the ground. I kick wildly. He shouts at me to stop. I wish my family long happy lives and brace for impact. My toes brush the ground and we are standing, back on terra firma.
“See?” he says. “We’re perfectly safe.”
A gust of wind grabs the unsettled parachute and jerks us back several yards. We land hard on our backs, me on top of him, like two stacked turtles.
“That was kind of fun,” I gasp, and gasp again, because I can. I am still breathing.
He groans. “I think you killed me.”
(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
The Audubon Guidebook to Man-Watching
Forbes magazine didn’t even bother to rank Augusta in its annual study of the singles scenes in cities across the nation (Atlanta came in tenth). But 2000 U.S. Census data shows that from Thomson to Beech Island, single woman outnumbered single men by a ratio of 3:2. In addition to the already slim pickings, these numbers are quantitative, not qualitative. In other words, ladies, a good man is hard to find. Stop eyeing my husband. I married him for a reason.
Short of joining what one friend of mine called The Cynthia Nixon Revolution, what’s a girl to do to survive the dating war with a minimum of embedded shrapnel?
My advice: Know Your Enemy.
The Dittohead (aka The Angry Republican) – Happiest when he’s nodding along to Rush Limbaugh. Secretly believes that the Republican Party should be the only party and views disagreement as Anti-American. Favorite Movie: Anything where America kicks ass. Favorite Music: Toby Keith
The Band-Aid (aka Groupie) – Happiest when he’s “checking out this new band at the Earl.” Considers himself friends with area musicians who never remember his name. May write insipid song lyrics like “As I walk these dessert lands” (it’s “desert,” you moron). Favorite Movie: “Almost Famous” “Favorite Music: “I doubt you’ve heard of them.”
The Angry Democrat (aka Bushwacked) – Happiest when Bush says something stupid. Member of the ACLU, subscribes to Air America, owns more than one Al Franken book. Favorite Movie: “Fahrenheit 9/11” Favorite Music: U2
Mr. Intense (aka writer/poet/philosopher) –May encourage your creative efforts, a la John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Will be threatened if you’re better than he is. Favorite Movie: “Pollack” Favorite Music: “Imagine,” by John Lennon
The Zealot (aka The Causehead) – Passionately committed to saving whatever… for about a week. A vegetarian who cannot commit to the rigors of a vegan diet, he can’t commit to anything else, either. Favorite Movie: “Medicine Man” Favorite Music: Phish
The Coach (aka Mr. Glory Days) – Former athlete who never got over the time a major league scout came to watch him play. May ask you to act out his cheerleader fantasy. Favorite Movie: “Saturday Night Lights” Favorite Music: That song they play at football game where everybody yells “Charge!”
The Pastmaster (aka Mr. Back-in-the-Day) – Nothing in his life has ever been better than the stuff that happened in a four-year period of his life. Be it high school, college, or prison, nothing in the present can possibly compare with the past. Favorite Movie: “They don’t make good movies anymore.” Favorite Music: “They don’t make good music anymore”
The Trash Collector (aka The Hustler) – This guy has more porn in his closet than clothes. He prizes his collection of vintage Playboys. If he chooses to bring you out in public that means he thinks you’re hot. Cannot understand the concept of airbrushing. Favorite Movie: “Debbie Does Dallas.” Favorite Music: The theme from “Shaft.”
Dr. Pill (aka The Amateur Psychologist) – Uses his facile understanding of psychology to not so subtly put others down. Favorite Movie: “A Beautiful Mind” Favorite Music: Music is an expression of repressed sexuality. Is that a cigar you’re smoking?
The Gentleman Farmer (aka The Cowboy) – Envisions a quiet life of pastoral bliss. Loves apple pie. Drives a truck. Owns a big dog. Loves his mother. Favorite Movie: “Oklahoma!” Favorite Music: Tex Ritter
Tyrannosaurus X-Box (aka The Gamer) – Has a diaper bag for his game system. Won’t let you speak until he finishes this level. It’s your fault he didn’t get the golden key. Favorite Movie: “X-Men.” Favorite Music: “Soundtrack to Final Fantasy”
The Leech – He’s always broke, but he never buys anything. He may even have a job – but everything is your treat. He’s apologetic the first time. After that, he orders the lobster. Favorite Movie: “Office Space” Favorite Music: “Money” by the O’Jays
The Gearhead (aka Boy With Toys) – Guess what he’s compensating for. Favorite Movie: “2001: A Space Odyssey” Favorite Music: Anything currently playing on an Apple iPod commercial.
The Computer (aka Binary Disorder) – Is seriously considering having a USB port installed on the side of his head. Favorite Movie: “The Matrix” Favorite Music: Soundtrack to “Hackers”
The Brain (aka The Know-it-All) – Why do you even bother to question him? You can’t possibly know more than he does on any subject, not even feminine hygiene. Favorite Movie: “Real Genius” Favorite Music: Classical and obscure jazz
Quiz
Match These Men to Their Breakup Lines
1. “Oh, she’ll take the check.”
2. “I think the Nazi party had some good ideas.”
3. “I really think you need to find yourself before you can be with someone else.”
4. “You should really consider breast implants.”
5. “Man, back in the day…”
6. “I’m moving to Flint, Michigan, to campaign for Michael Moore.”
7. “You know how you wanted to spend more quality time together? Surprise! I signed you up for EverQuest!”
8. “Look, there are only 10 types of people in the world: those who understand binary code, and those who don’t.”
9. “I bought the new U2 iPod! Now I have one for every day of the week!”
10. “So we’re taking the van out to Burning Man next week. I’ll see you.”
Answers
1. The Leech
2. The Angry Republican
3. The Amateur Psychologist
4. The Trach Collector
5. The Pastmaster
6. The Angry Democrat
7. Tyrannosaurus X-Box
8. The Computer
9. The Gearhead
10. The Zealot
(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005
Short of joining what one friend of mine called The Cynthia Nixon Revolution, what’s a girl to do to survive the dating war with a minimum of embedded shrapnel?
My advice: Know Your Enemy.
The Dittohead (aka The Angry Republican) – Happiest when he’s nodding along to Rush Limbaugh. Secretly believes that the Republican Party should be the only party and views disagreement as Anti-American. Favorite Movie: Anything where America kicks ass. Favorite Music: Toby Keith
The Band-Aid (aka Groupie) – Happiest when he’s “checking out this new band at the Earl.” Considers himself friends with area musicians who never remember his name. May write insipid song lyrics like “As I walk these dessert lands” (it’s “desert,” you moron). Favorite Movie: “Almost Famous” “Favorite Music: “I doubt you’ve heard of them.”
The Angry Democrat (aka Bushwacked) – Happiest when Bush says something stupid. Member of the ACLU, subscribes to Air America, owns more than one Al Franken book. Favorite Movie: “Fahrenheit 9/11” Favorite Music: U2
Mr. Intense (aka writer/poet/philosopher) –May encourage your creative efforts, a la John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Will be threatened if you’re better than he is. Favorite Movie: “Pollack” Favorite Music: “Imagine,” by John Lennon
The Zealot (aka The Causehead) – Passionately committed to saving whatever… for about a week. A vegetarian who cannot commit to the rigors of a vegan diet, he can’t commit to anything else, either. Favorite Movie: “Medicine Man” Favorite Music: Phish
The Coach (aka Mr. Glory Days) – Former athlete who never got over the time a major league scout came to watch him play. May ask you to act out his cheerleader fantasy. Favorite Movie: “Saturday Night Lights” Favorite Music: That song they play at football game where everybody yells “Charge!”
The Pastmaster (aka Mr. Back-in-the-Day) – Nothing in his life has ever been better than the stuff that happened in a four-year period of his life. Be it high school, college, or prison, nothing in the present can possibly compare with the past. Favorite Movie: “They don’t make good movies anymore.” Favorite Music: “They don’t make good music anymore”
The Trash Collector (aka The Hustler) – This guy has more porn in his closet than clothes. He prizes his collection of vintage Playboys. If he chooses to bring you out in public that means he thinks you’re hot. Cannot understand the concept of airbrushing. Favorite Movie: “Debbie Does Dallas.” Favorite Music: The theme from “Shaft.”
Dr. Pill (aka The Amateur Psychologist) – Uses his facile understanding of psychology to not so subtly put others down. Favorite Movie: “A Beautiful Mind” Favorite Music: Music is an expression of repressed sexuality. Is that a cigar you’re smoking?
The Gentleman Farmer (aka The Cowboy) – Envisions a quiet life of pastoral bliss. Loves apple pie. Drives a truck. Owns a big dog. Loves his mother. Favorite Movie: “Oklahoma!” Favorite Music: Tex Ritter
Tyrannosaurus X-Box (aka The Gamer) – Has a diaper bag for his game system. Won’t let you speak until he finishes this level. It’s your fault he didn’t get the golden key. Favorite Movie: “X-Men.” Favorite Music: “Soundtrack to Final Fantasy”
The Leech – He’s always broke, but he never buys anything. He may even have a job – but everything is your treat. He’s apologetic the first time. After that, he orders the lobster. Favorite Movie: “Office Space” Favorite Music: “Money” by the O’Jays
The Gearhead (aka Boy With Toys) – Guess what he’s compensating for. Favorite Movie: “2001: A Space Odyssey” Favorite Music: Anything currently playing on an Apple iPod commercial.
The Computer (aka Binary Disorder) – Is seriously considering having a USB port installed on the side of his head. Favorite Movie: “The Matrix” Favorite Music: Soundtrack to “Hackers”
The Brain (aka The Know-it-All) – Why do you even bother to question him? You can’t possibly know more than he does on any subject, not even feminine hygiene. Favorite Movie: “Real Genius” Favorite Music: Classical and obscure jazz
Match These Men to Their Breakup Lines
1. “Oh, she’ll take the check.”
2. “I think the Nazi party had some good ideas.”
3. “I really think you need to find yourself before you can be with someone else.”
4. “You should really consider breast implants.”
5. “Man, back in the day…”
6. “I’m moving to Flint, Michigan, to campaign for Michael Moore.”
7. “You know how you wanted to spend more quality time together? Surprise! I signed you up for EverQuest!”
8. “Look, there are only 10 types of people in the world: those who understand binary code, and those who don’t.”
9. “I bought the new U2 iPod! Now I have one for every day of the week!”
10. “So we’re taking the van out to Burning Man next week. I’ll see you.”
1. The Leech
2. The Angry Republican
3. The Amateur Psychologist
4. The Trach Collector
5. The Pastmaster
6. The Angry Democrat
7. Tyrannosaurus X-Box
8. The Computer
9. The Gearhead
10. The Zealot
(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
The Job Interview Junkie
I am a babbling idiot. Drool dangles from my lip. I sit slack-jawed in front of the man who would be my boss – if anything would come out of my mouth. He has asked me a question, the answer to which I practiced in the car on the way here, and yet I have no idea what to say. In fact, I have forgotten what he asked. If it were possible for human beings to will themselves into oblivion, I would. I am trying. But he’s still waiting for an answer and I still don’t have one.
“What can you bring to the position?”
I know this one! Oh… err…
I am dressed to the nines in my expensive-looking grey suit and black shell, faux pearl earrings, black leather shoes, matching belt, subtle makeup, and most hairs in place. Booger check – did I do a booger check? I did. I sit with my hands folded to hide the chewed-off stubs of what were fingernails when I had a job, and try to sound like I know something about the sporting event in which he will play for charity. It seems to work.
“Oh, do you golf?” he asked.
“Well… no, not really.”
“Oh.”
“I did shoot a 77 once, but it was on the front nine.”
“I see.”
Lie. I should learn to lie.
This is the recipe for disaster I’ve cooked up. Poorly choosing my last employer resulted in being laid-off when they restructured. Now I’m back in the wilds of the job market, stalking my prey, and finding hunting more difficult than I remembered. I no longer lull with my confidence and kill with my wit and style. I am a blundering fool.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
Who? Me?
I have all the right tools: a college degree with a decent GPA, solid references, a strong portfolio, a first-rate resume, and a vast network of contacts – which is how I came to be at this interview today, one of only two candidates, the other an intern with no writing experience. And I am blowing it.
“So how did you hear about this position?”
Oh, I’ve known her for years… Can’t seem to remember her name, but dark hair, brown eyes… you know, the one I was talking to when you came out of your office.
“Valerie?”
“Um, I think so.”
“Uh-huh.”
In college I won awards for impromptu public speaking. I’ve led committees, taught classes, given seminars, presented papers at academic conferences. I have given radio interviews, acted as an extra in several movies, worked as a disc jockey, and trained in front of a camera. My mother used to call me “The Mouth of the South.” I am not known for my silence.
“Should I rephrase the question?”
Question? What question?
I’ve answered these questions in front of the mirror, with my husband, in my head. I’ve met this man before. We sat on a panel together. I worked with his nephew, who works for the same company. The other two employees in the office are lobbying for me. He doesn’t even care for the other candidate. I have everything going for me - but nothing is going right.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Probably still sitting here.
I don’t know how many interviews I’ve gone on in the last two months, but we’re well into double digits by now. I’ve done telephone interviews, in-person interviews, and even email interviews. I’m like the Cal Ripkin, Jr., of interviews – without ever having stepped foot on home plate.
“Okay, well, we’ll let you know by Monday.”
Damn.
(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005
“What can you bring to the position?”
I know this one! Oh… err…
I am dressed to the nines in my expensive-looking grey suit and black shell, faux pearl earrings, black leather shoes, matching belt, subtle makeup, and most hairs in place. Booger check – did I do a booger check? I did. I sit with my hands folded to hide the chewed-off stubs of what were fingernails when I had a job, and try to sound like I know something about the sporting event in which he will play for charity. It seems to work.
“Oh, do you golf?” he asked.
“Well… no, not really.”
“Oh.”
“I did shoot a 77 once, but it was on the front nine.”
“I see.”
Lie. I should learn to lie.
This is the recipe for disaster I’ve cooked up. Poorly choosing my last employer resulted in being laid-off when they restructured. Now I’m back in the wilds of the job market, stalking my prey, and finding hunting more difficult than I remembered. I no longer lull with my confidence and kill with my wit and style. I am a blundering fool.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
Who? Me?
I have all the right tools: a college degree with a decent GPA, solid references, a strong portfolio, a first-rate resume, and a vast network of contacts – which is how I came to be at this interview today, one of only two candidates, the other an intern with no writing experience. And I am blowing it.
“So how did you hear about this position?”
Oh, I’ve known her for years… Can’t seem to remember her name, but dark hair, brown eyes… you know, the one I was talking to when you came out of your office.
“Valerie?”
“Um, I think so.”
“Uh-huh.”
In college I won awards for impromptu public speaking. I’ve led committees, taught classes, given seminars, presented papers at academic conferences. I have given radio interviews, acted as an extra in several movies, worked as a disc jockey, and trained in front of a camera. My mother used to call me “The Mouth of the South.” I am not known for my silence.
“Should I rephrase the question?”
Question? What question?
I’ve answered these questions in front of the mirror, with my husband, in my head. I’ve met this man before. We sat on a panel together. I worked with his nephew, who works for the same company. The other two employees in the office are lobbying for me. He doesn’t even care for the other candidate. I have everything going for me - but nothing is going right.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Probably still sitting here.
I don’t know how many interviews I’ve gone on in the last two months, but we’re well into double digits by now. I’ve done telephone interviews, in-person interviews, and even email interviews. I’m like the Cal Ripkin, Jr., of interviews – without ever having stepped foot on home plate.
“Okay, well, we’ll let you know by Monday.”
Damn.
(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Confessions of a Cheapskate
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the wood floor of our living room.
“It’s a penny,” my husband answered, unconcerned.
I sighed, picked it up off the floor, and put it in a can with its long-lost relatives. I confess: I’m a cheapskate. If there’s a penny, I pinch it. If there’s a dollar, I demand it from my husband’s wallet.
“What do you need it for?”
“I don’t know… Maybe I’ll get a newspaper later?”
Hmph. He can read it online for free.
There wasn’t a lot of money for extras when I was growing up. We wore off-brand clothes when Gloria Vanderbilt and Pumas were two of only seven or eight brands allowed. Other kids weren’t fooled.
“Kangaroos?” said another fifth-grader, incredulously. “Who wears Kangaroos?”
I did – Purple tennis shoes to match my purple faux Member’s Only jacket.
Although some people refuse to wear anything without one of a certain class of logo on their clothes, we feed, clothe, and furnish our family without credit cards on an income of you-can’t-imagine-how-little-freelance-writing-pays.
Here’s how:
Calculate the real cost – Compare prices by number, weight, and volume. Cut coupons selectively because they are usually for brands that cost more to purchase with a coupon than store brands do without. Upon occasion, I stumble across a deal like name-brand two-liters of soda on sale for 79 cents with a coupon for $1 off a purchase of three two-liters – on double coupon day. Each bottle was 13 cents.
Refuse retail – Membership wholesalers have everything: clothes, pet food, jewelry, software, electronics, and furniture. Don’t buy a membership. Find someone else who already has one and add on to his or hers for half the price.
Everything is negotiable – When looking for a larger apartment, we got $50 off the monthly rent because we promised to sign a two-year lease. Make some concessions that benefit the business. Promise a certain number of referrals within your contract period. Look into a longer partnership than is customary. Make capital improvements. Never take the first interest rate, insurance premium, or installation fee quoted.
Know your needs and network – Work the yard sale and flea market circuits, go to Goodwill early Saturday afternoons, keep up with “Iwanta” (free online at www.iwanta.net), and join www.freecycle.org. Gather up your unused stuff and offer it to other cheapskates. You never know what people desire. I found other freecyclers frenzied over a Star Trek book I had never read, a half-pack of diapers my daughter had outgrown, and a set of sheets that didn’t fit our bed.
Unmask marketing – Most brands are very similar and what they’re actually selling you is style or security. Tylenol and store-brand acetaminophen are identical and one costs $3 less than the other. Because the Food and Drug Administration controls the composition of infant formula, I buy a store brand formula that is not only 1/3 cheaper than brand name but is also easier on my daughter’s sensitive digestive system. When in doubt, read the ingredients and their ratios to determine any real differences.
Prevent pernicious purse-snatchers - convenience stores, vending machines, restaurants, and peak-time entertainment. Plan meals ahead so that you don’t have to stop at convenience stores, cook at home, bring snacks with you, and attend matinee shows.
Examples of My Thrifty Rewards:
“It’s a penny,” my husband answered, unconcerned.
I sighed, picked it up off the floor, and put it in a can with its long-lost relatives. I confess: I’m a cheapskate. If there’s a penny, I pinch it. If there’s a dollar, I demand it from my husband’s wallet.
“What do you need it for?”
“I don’t know… Maybe I’ll get a newspaper later?”
Hmph. He can read it online for free.
There wasn’t a lot of money for extras when I was growing up. We wore off-brand clothes when Gloria Vanderbilt and Pumas were two of only seven or eight brands allowed. Other kids weren’t fooled.
“Kangaroos?” said another fifth-grader, incredulously. “Who wears Kangaroos?”
I did – Purple tennis shoes to match my purple faux Member’s Only jacket.
Although some people refuse to wear anything without one of a certain class of logo on their clothes, we feed, clothe, and furnish our family without credit cards on an income of you-can’t-imagine-how-little-freelance-writing-pays.
Here’s how:
Calculate the real cost – Compare prices by number, weight, and volume. Cut coupons selectively because they are usually for brands that cost more to purchase with a coupon than store brands do without. Upon occasion, I stumble across a deal like name-brand two-liters of soda on sale for 79 cents with a coupon for $1 off a purchase of three two-liters – on double coupon day. Each bottle was 13 cents.
Refuse retail – Membership wholesalers have everything: clothes, pet food, jewelry, software, electronics, and furniture. Don’t buy a membership. Find someone else who already has one and add on to his or hers for half the price.
Everything is negotiable – When looking for a larger apartment, we got $50 off the monthly rent because we promised to sign a two-year lease. Make some concessions that benefit the business. Promise a certain number of referrals within your contract period. Look into a longer partnership than is customary. Make capital improvements. Never take the first interest rate, insurance premium, or installation fee quoted.
Know your needs and network – Work the yard sale and flea market circuits, go to Goodwill early Saturday afternoons, keep up with “Iwanta” (free online at www.iwanta.net), and join www.freecycle.org. Gather up your unused stuff and offer it to other cheapskates. You never know what people desire. I found other freecyclers frenzied over a Star Trek book I had never read, a half-pack of diapers my daughter had outgrown, and a set of sheets that didn’t fit our bed.
Unmask marketing – Most brands are very similar and what they’re actually selling you is style or security. Tylenol and store-brand acetaminophen are identical and one costs $3 less than the other. Because the Food and Drug Administration controls the composition of infant formula, I buy a store brand formula that is not only 1/3 cheaper than brand name but is also easier on my daughter’s sensitive digestive system. When in doubt, read the ingredients and their ratios to determine any real differences.
Prevent pernicious purse-snatchers - convenience stores, vending machines, restaurants, and peak-time entertainment. Plan meals ahead so that you don’t have to stop at convenience stores, cook at home, bring snacks with you, and attend matinee shows.
Examples of My Thrifty Rewards:
- Kitchen Hutch
Retail: $200
Cost: paint
Source: Freecycle.org - Desk and Hutch
Retail: $300
Cost: $50
Source: Goodwill - Couch and Wingback Chair
Retail: $1,500
Cost: $200
Source: Iwanta.net - Digital Camera
Retail: $250
Cost: $50
Source: Pawn Shop - Dresser
Retail: $300
Cost: $30 + paint
Source: Goodwill - Computer Printer
Retail: $75
Cost: $20
Source: Flyer on university bulletin board - Timberland Shoes
Retail: $75
Cost: $1
Source: Yard Sale - Swing/High Chair
Retail: $150
Cost: $20 (with a side table thrown in)
Source: Yard Sale - Baby Clothes (for her first two years)
Retail: several hundred dollars
Cost: About $40
Source: Hand-me-downs, yard sales, freecycle.org, and Sam’s Club (outfit: freecycle.org)
(c) originally published in Sass Magazine, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
Job Hunter/Gatherer
You know, I’m a nice girl. I’m also a nice employee. I work hard. I try to keep my mouth shut. I am a team player. Most importantly, I am honest and ethical (can’t say that for my last employers, who I hear are being investigated by the GBI. Thank god I’m out of there).
But it’s like I’m standing on the sidelines, watching employees at the Christmas party, but no one is asking me to dance. It’s like dating through the personals. I respond to someone’s ad and I hope that my resume and letter are attractive. I go on a date/interview. Most of the time lately it’s been an awful big waste of time, like the telephone interview that ended up being a sales pitch for a pyramid scheme. But on occasion, my date/interviewer and I really seem to hit it off, as in the cases with Columbia County and MCG.
Then, weeks go by and the phone doesn’t ring. I know they had a good time, too, so why haven’t they called? Maybe they lost my number! Should I call? If I call, will that make me look desperate? I AM desperate. Or maybe it just lets them know I’m interested. I AM interested! Maybe they’re busy. Maybe they met someone else they liked better. Maybe they're married! Maybe they were in a horrible accident and have amnesia.
I’ve lost jobs to so many less qualified people this summer that I’m beginning to think I have some weird mental illness where I THINK I say something smart, witty, and appealing on the date/interview, but it really comes out like, “Og. Like your tits.” In which case, I wouldn’t call me either.
I know that if I were able to relocate right now, I’d have a job already. I just don’t seem to have the right contacts here. I get through second interviews and then get rejection letters. (sigh) Clearly, I’m doing something right. But just as clearly, I’m doing something wrong. I’m so paranoid I do like 12 booger checks before an interview.
At least I know it’s not that.
But it’s like I’m standing on the sidelines, watching employees at the Christmas party, but no one is asking me to dance. It’s like dating through the personals. I respond to someone’s ad and I hope that my resume and letter are attractive. I go on a date/interview. Most of the time lately it’s been an awful big waste of time, like the telephone interview that ended up being a sales pitch for a pyramid scheme. But on occasion, my date/interviewer and I really seem to hit it off, as in the cases with Columbia County and MCG.
Then, weeks go by and the phone doesn’t ring. I know they had a good time, too, so why haven’t they called? Maybe they lost my number! Should I call? If I call, will that make me look desperate? I AM desperate. Or maybe it just lets them know I’m interested. I AM interested! Maybe they’re busy. Maybe they met someone else they liked better. Maybe they're married! Maybe they were in a horrible accident and have amnesia.
I’ve lost jobs to so many less qualified people this summer that I’m beginning to think I have some weird mental illness where I THINK I say something smart, witty, and appealing on the date/interview, but it really comes out like, “Og. Like your tits.” In which case, I wouldn’t call me either.
I know that if I were able to relocate right now, I’d have a job already. I just don’t seem to have the right contacts here. I get through second interviews and then get rejection letters. (sigh) Clearly, I’m doing something right. But just as clearly, I’m doing something wrong. I’m so paranoid I do like 12 booger checks before an interview.
At least I know it’s not that.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Church of Eternal Crap
Scott and I have been ordained as ministers through the Universal Life Church. We are discussing what to call our ministry.
Scott: “Universal Augusta.”
Me: “Sounds like a movie company.”
Scott: “Eternity International.”
Me: “Too corporate.”
Scott: “Souls R Us.”
Me: “That sounds like we’re in the business of selling souls... to the devil... for commission.”
We settled on Church of Eternal Love. Nebulous. Noncommittal. Nondenominational. Perfect.
Coming Soon: Elvis Weddings!
Scott: “Universal Augusta.”
Me: “Sounds like a movie company.”
Scott: “Eternity International.”
Me: “Too corporate.”
Scott: “Souls R Us.”
Me: “That sounds like we’re in the business of selling souls... to the devil... for commission.”
We settled on Church of Eternal Love. Nebulous. Noncommittal. Nondenominational. Perfect.
Coming Soon: Elvis Weddings!
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Funny Dog
Scrabble has decided that Emerson is a person - and as a person, she has an inherent duty to play with him. This means that he spends a lot of time trying to engage a six-month-old who generally plays with something by either a: eating it, or b: yanking on it. She does have some fine motor skills (she turns her mobile on and off by herself with very specific finger movements), but they’re still in development and generally are forgotten once she gets excited.
But yesterday was the best play session yet. Sctabble had been taunting her for a little while - circling her, licking her face, pawing at whatever was in her hands - until suddenly he jumped up, barked, and ran out of the room. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn he barked “Eureka!” Emerson shrieked at his exit, and tried to turn around to locate him. He came galloping, thundering, back into the room with his red rubber Kong ball. He pranced around the room with it in his mouth before dropping it in front of her. She looked at it for a long minute, then patted it, and grasped it in her tiny hands. “Ruff! Scrabble barked, and gently took it from her. He pranced around again, tossing the ball and running after it, before dropping it in front of her again. She grinned, and tried to pick it up - ohhh, too slow! Scrabble snatched it again and gave a pplayful growl, butt hiked in the air and tail wagging furiously. Emerson cackled with laughter, and Scrabble dropped the ball again and looked away. Oh! Fooled you! He snatched the ball again with a mighty growl when Emerson tried to pick it up. This went on for a good ten minutes before I could no longer hold in my laughter.
Oh, it was SO CUTE!
But yesterday was the best play session yet. Sctabble had been taunting her for a little while - circling her, licking her face, pawing at whatever was in her hands - until suddenly he jumped up, barked, and ran out of the room. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn he barked “Eureka!” Emerson shrieked at his exit, and tried to turn around to locate him. He came galloping, thundering, back into the room with his red rubber Kong ball. He pranced around the room with it in his mouth before dropping it in front of her. She looked at it for a long minute, then patted it, and grasped it in her tiny hands. “Ruff! Scrabble barked, and gently took it from her. He pranced around again, tossing the ball and running after it, before dropping it in front of her again. She grinned, and tried to pick it up - ohhh, too slow! Scrabble snatched it again and gave a pplayful growl, butt hiked in the air and tail wagging furiously. Emerson cackled with laughter, and Scrabble dropped the ball again and looked away. Oh! Fooled you! He snatched the ball again with a mighty growl when Emerson tried to pick it up. This went on for a good ten minutes before I could no longer hold in my laughter.
Oh, it was SO CUTE!
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Freakboy in da HOWSE!
Again with the crazy talk in the middle of the night. I stay up to get some cleaning done, and when I come to bed he pats me on the shoulder. I think he’s awake. I am, as usual, dead wrong.
“Honey, what time do you have to get up?”
“mmmmmffff....”
(pause)
“Okay, what time do you have to be at work?”
“mmmmm.... “
“What time do you have to be at work?”
“‘ess...”
“What? Ten?”
“Nest.”
(pause)
“Um, what time is that?”
“Nest.”
(giggle. snort.)
“What time?”
He takes his face out of the pillow to better enunciate and says very clearly: “NEST.”
(snort. chuckle.)
“Okay. Well, I don’t know what time that is.”
“NEST.”
“Where is that on the clock?”
“55 across.”
I’m trying not to wake him seriously, but I’m laughing so hard that my spit is out of control.
“What did you say?”
“55 across. Nest.”
He sits up. I can’t control my volume anymore.
“Nest!” I cackle. ”Nest!”
He looks at me guffawing, sprawled out across the bed, and grins sleepily at me.
“I’m glad you find me so amusing.”
“Honey, do you have any idea what you’re talking about.”
He pauses and considers this. Then picks up his hand and pokes me in the forehead with his forefinger.”
“Meps,” he says.
“What?”
He does it again.
“Meps.”
“What’s meps?”
“Like the aliens.”
“Aliens?”
“Yeah. You know.”
No. I don’t know. What I do know is that my husband is a freak.
“Honey, what time do you have to get up?”
“mmmmmffff....”
(pause)
“Okay, what time do you have to be at work?”
“mmmmm.... “
“What time do you have to be at work?”
“‘ess...”
“What? Ten?”
“Nest.”
(pause)
“Um, what time is that?”
“Nest.”
(giggle. snort.)
“What time?”
He takes his face out of the pillow to better enunciate and says very clearly: “NEST.”
(snort. chuckle.)
“Okay. Well, I don’t know what time that is.”
“NEST.”
“Where is that on the clock?”
“55 across.”
I’m trying not to wake him seriously, but I’m laughing so hard that my spit is out of control.
“What did you say?”
“55 across. Nest.”
He sits up. I can’t control my volume anymore.
“Nest!” I cackle. ”Nest!”
He looks at me guffawing, sprawled out across the bed, and grins sleepily at me.
“I’m glad you find me so amusing.”
“Honey, do you have any idea what you’re talking about.”
He pauses and considers this. Then picks up his hand and pokes me in the forehead with his forefinger.”
“Meps,” he says.
“What?”
He does it again.
“Meps.”
“What’s meps?”
“Like the aliens.”
“Aliens?”
“Yeah. You know.”
No. I don’t know. What I do know is that my husband is a freak.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Sleepwalking
Scott is a heavy sleeper. No, you don’t understand. I would mistake Scott’s sleeping for a coma if it weren’t for the fact that he occassionally wakes me up to have confusing conversations at 4 a.m. Like, take the other night...
Scott sits up in bed very suddenly, startling me out of sleep.
“Honey? What’s wrong?”
I pat his back with my eyes closing.
“You can apply for the peppers and onions at HM if I don’t ever wake up.
pause. My eyes open.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The peppers and onions.”
I roll my eyes. Jeez. Here we go. He is looking at me, expectantly.
“What good will that do me?”
“They’re 50 cents.”
“Uh-huh, and I have to apply for this?”
“Go for it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about at 4 a.m.?!” I smack him in the arm.
“Please don’t do that.”
He said it so forcefully I thought that he must be awake.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’d rather you just took the peppers and onions instead of making a goddamn scene about it.”
(groan)
I decide he can talk to himself, roll over, and try to go back to sleep. He gets up to pee. Well, of course now I have to, too. Damn. I come back to bed. He’s asleep. I lay down and close my eyes...
“I want my C-H-E-S back and then I’ll let Patrick off the hook.”
(goddammit!)
“What’s C-H-E-S?”
(he scoffs)Cheese.”
“What?”
He sits up and glares at me: “WHAT do you want?”
“What?”
“”What do you WANT?”
“Hey, you woke me up!”
“Okay, I’m quickly going from angry to livid. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
“YOU woke ME up! What do YOU want?!”
He sighs exasperatedly, puts his head down and closes his eyes.
“I want cheese on my goddamn salad.”
Wow, does the couch look comfy right now, or what?
Scott sits up in bed very suddenly, startling me out of sleep.
“Honey? What’s wrong?”
I pat his back with my eyes closing.
“You can apply for the peppers and onions at HM if I don’t ever wake up.
pause. My eyes open.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The peppers and onions.”
I roll my eyes. Jeez. Here we go. He is looking at me, expectantly.
“What good will that do me?”
“They’re 50 cents.”
“Uh-huh, and I have to apply for this?”
“Go for it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about at 4 a.m.?!” I smack him in the arm.
“Please don’t do that.”
He said it so forcefully I thought that he must be awake.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’d rather you just took the peppers and onions instead of making a goddamn scene about it.”
(groan)
I decide he can talk to himself, roll over, and try to go back to sleep. He gets up to pee. Well, of course now I have to, too. Damn. I come back to bed. He’s asleep. I lay down and close my eyes...
“I want my C-H-E-S back and then I’ll let Patrick off the hook.”
(goddammit!)
“What’s C-H-E-S?”
(he scoffs)Cheese.”
“What?”
He sits up and glares at me: “WHAT do you want?”
“What?”
“”What do you WANT?”
“Hey, you woke me up!”
“Okay, I’m quickly going from angry to livid. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
“YOU woke ME up! What do YOU want?!”
He sighs exasperatedly, puts his head down and closes his eyes.
“I want cheese on my goddamn salad.”
Wow, does the couch look comfy right now, or what?
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Enough with the blogthings
So I’m aware that all my postings are stupid quizzes. Not too interesting, I know. But it’s all I’ve had time for and don’t go pretending that you give a crap about my life! Sycophants!
Anyway, my days have been like this:
-wake up - daughter whining
-feed daughter - daughter whining
-play with daughter - daughter laughing
-put daughter down to go pee - daughter crying
-come back (did I wipe?) - daughter whining
-put daughter in swing to check email and get started on 60-page freelance job I took writing about property law as it related to squatter’s rights (what the fuck was I thinking?!) - daughter whining
-dangle succession of toys in front of her - daughter squirmy happy
-turn back to computer after picking one that makes her happy - daughter whiny
-give up after an hour of repeating the last two and try to make something to eat - daughter screamy
-bang head against wall - daughter laughing
-give up trying to get something to eat and pour a big glass of Diet Coke (aaaahhhh. breakfast of champions)
-play with daughter some more - daughter laughing
-continue until daughter begins rubbing her eyes, try to put her down for a nap.
and basically I repeat this until she goes to sleep, and I use those times do frantic document searches online. My first deadline is tonight, and I’m blogging instead, because I’m SO NOT GOING TO MEET IT ANYWAY!
If I don’t get a regular job soon, I’m going to cry.
Anyway, my days have been like this:
-wake up - daughter whining
-feed daughter - daughter whining
-play with daughter - daughter laughing
-put daughter down to go pee - daughter crying
-come back (did I wipe?) - daughter whining
-put daughter in swing to check email and get started on 60-page freelance job I took writing about property law as it related to squatter’s rights (what the fuck was I thinking?!) - daughter whining
-dangle succession of toys in front of her - daughter squirmy happy
-turn back to computer after picking one that makes her happy - daughter whiny
-give up after an hour of repeating the last two and try to make something to eat - daughter screamy
-bang head against wall - daughter laughing
-give up trying to get something to eat and pour a big glass of Diet Coke (aaaahhhh. breakfast of champions)
-play with daughter some more - daughter laughing
-continue until daughter begins rubbing her eyes, try to put her down for a nap.
and basically I repeat this until she goes to sleep, and I use those times do frantic document searches online. My first deadline is tonight, and I’m blogging instead, because I’m SO NOT GOING TO MEET IT ANYWAY!
If I don’t get a regular job soon, I’m going to cry.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Should have known
I bought Emerson a Baby Einstein book. She loved it so much in the store that she cried when I took it away from her to put it back on the shelf. I was going to get her a rattle, but she liked the book better.
Swinging in her swing/high chair contraption, I hear her shriek with laughter. She’s holding the book! I wonder what it is that so amuses her:
the bright colors?
the photographs of animals?
the different languages?
the crackly material?
the squeaker?
the teething strips on the edges?
I lean in quietly and peer over her shoulder as she guffaws again and kicks her legs.
It’s the tag.
Swinging in her swing/high chair contraption, I hear her shriek with laughter. She’s holding the book! I wonder what it is that so amuses her:
the bright colors?
the photographs of animals?
the different languages?
the crackly material?
the squeaker?
the teething strips on the edges?
I lean in quietly and peer over her shoulder as she guffaws again and kicks her legs.
It’s the tag.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Dorkilicious
There’s always a checklist to follow when I go anywhere with the baby. Tonight, we were getting out of the car at Famous Dave’s - BBQ, yum! - and I was going through it...
windows up?
check.
sunroof closed?
check.
purse?
check.
bank card in my wallet?
check.
diaper bag?
check.
baby?
check. Trust me, I double check every time I leave the car.
husband?
check.
keys?
... keys?
...
fuck, where are the keys?
I’m rummaging through my purse, pissed with myself because I ALWAYS lose the keys. Scott, waiting by the car with the baby in her carrier, says, “Honey, are you going to cut the car off?”
“As soon as I find the keys,” I mutter irritably, and continue rummaging.
...
oh, crap.
windows up?
check.
sunroof closed?
check.
purse?
check.
bank card in my wallet?
check.
diaper bag?
check.
baby?
check. Trust me, I double check every time I leave the car.
husband?
check.
keys?
... keys?
...
fuck, where are the keys?
I’m rummaging through my purse, pissed with myself because I ALWAYS lose the keys. Scott, waiting by the car with the baby in her carrier, says, “Honey, are you going to cut the car off?”
“As soon as I find the keys,” I mutter irritably, and continue rummaging.
...
oh, crap.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Theory of Music
I developed a theory of music after playing a game years ago with geek friends of mine who would quiz each other on music knowledge. We would have “name as many bands as you can that...” category quizzes. One of them was place names, and the theory I developed goes like this: “A band’s lack of suckiness is inversely proportional to the size of the place it is named for.” The smaller the place, the better the band is. The bigger the place, the worse it is. Large name = huge sucking sound. Big suck. Much suckage.
Supporting Data
Portishead - Really, really good. Named after a small English town near Bristol, UK.
Boston - “Don’t Look Back” is a good song. Not the best song ever, but good. Didn’t Clinton use this on his campaign tour?
Kansas - I love “Dust in the Wind,” but not a whole lot else... the list of good songs gets really short around the state-sized band names.
America - I doubt they’ve ever really been through the desert on a horse with no name. Not only do they suck, but they are liars. Saved from an opinion lower than this by LSD. Don’t ask.
Europe - “The Final Countdown”... ‘nuff said. Only saved from being the worst band on this list by the industry hair-band frenzy that got them signed so unfortunately in the first place along with Winger. Similar modern situation: Ashley Simpson. Two Simpsons are not better than one - one is bad enough.
Asia - “Heat of the Moment”... are you kidding? Sucky harmonies. Dated style. Cliched phrases in their song-writing.
If there is ever a band named “Earth” it would be almost the worst band ever. But not as band as a band named Jupiter... or Galaxy... God forbid some group would name themselves Universe. Anyone who heard them would go into convulsions. They’d be like the Vogon poets in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
So the way out of the curse is to name your band after somewhere small. Podunk. Bumblefuck. A.O.W. (Armpit of the World) I think the best band name would simply be “Here.” As in: “Here, tonight!” and “Hear Here!”
Aw, let’s face it: Most people are better off naming their band “Free Beer and Pizza.”
Supporting Data
Portishead - Really, really good. Named after a small English town near Bristol, UK.
Boston - “Don’t Look Back” is a good song. Not the best song ever, but good. Didn’t Clinton use this on his campaign tour?
Kansas - I love “Dust in the Wind,” but not a whole lot else... the list of good songs gets really short around the state-sized band names.
America - I doubt they’ve ever really been through the desert on a horse with no name. Not only do they suck, but they are liars. Saved from an opinion lower than this by LSD. Don’t ask.
Europe - “The Final Countdown”... ‘nuff said. Only saved from being the worst band on this list by the industry hair-band frenzy that got them signed so unfortunately in the first place along with Winger. Similar modern situation: Ashley Simpson. Two Simpsons are not better than one - one is bad enough.
Asia - “Heat of the Moment”... are you kidding? Sucky harmonies. Dated style. Cliched phrases in their song-writing.
If there is ever a band named “Earth” it would be almost the worst band ever. But not as band as a band named Jupiter... or Galaxy... God forbid some group would name themselves Universe. Anyone who heard them would go into convulsions. They’d be like the Vogon poets in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
So the way out of the curse is to name your band after somewhere small. Podunk. Bumblefuck. A.O.W. (Armpit of the World) I think the best band name would simply be “Here.” As in: “Here, tonight!” and “Hear Here!”
Aw, let’s face it: Most people are better off naming their band “Free Beer and Pizza.”
Monday, June 20, 2005
Monday, June 13, 2005
Wooden Acting
I have a splinter in my ass. I must have gotten it when sitting on the deck stairs watching the dog run around like mad. Scott offered to get it out for me, and I know he’s my husband, but I just can’t let him.
Is that weird?
Is that weird?
Driver's Ed
Scott got off work last night at 11:30. I was tired, okay? I was TIRED! We’re driving home, and I stop at a red light on Milledge Avenue. We’re still chatting away and after a couple of minutes Scott gets impatient.
Scott: “So, are you just going to sit here?”
Me: “What? Well, we’re at a red light.”
I gesture to it. I freeze. My eyes follow the length of my arm to the red light... which is flashing. I smile at Scott and laugh.
Me: “I guess we can go now.”
Reminds me of a joke:
What goes “vroom - screech! vroom - screech! vroom - screech!?”
A blonde at a flashing red light.
Or, just me.
Scott: “So, are you just going to sit here?”
Me: “What? Well, we’re at a red light.”
I gesture to it. I freeze. My eyes follow the length of my arm to the red light... which is flashing. I smile at Scott and laugh.
Me: “I guess we can go now.”
Reminds me of a joke:
What goes “vroom - screech! vroom - screech! vroom - screech!?”
A blonde at a flashing red light.
Or, just me.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Monkey Brains
Scott and I are writing the summary of his book to submit to Harbor House Publishing. We’re writing it in the form of a news story (my idea), and I’m writing it because Scott doesn’t know how to do this. He’s frustrating THE HELL OUT OF ME because - well, here’s an example of how the conversation goes every time I ask him a question.
Me: Okay, how old is this guy?
Scott: He’s... wait, do [the newspapers] have to have his age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style.
Scott: Okay, he’s 67.
Me: And what does he do?
Scott: He’s a retired professor.
Me: Cool. And this guy? How old is he?
Scott: Do they have to have everyone’s age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style
.... ad nauseam until I’m flapping my arms and saying: “YES! IT’S PART OF THE THREE IDENTIFIERS REQUIRED BY AP STYLE! WHY DO YOU KEEP ARGUING WITH ME!”
Actually, AP style just requires that you identify people with three separate identifiers and that you be consistent about it. Age is just an easy choice. Anyway, so then he apologizes and we go on. I try not to ask anyone’s age. Instead, I ask a name.
Scott: Do they have to have her name?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Scott: The newspaper in this town would never print her name.
Me: Yes, they would... or they wouldn’t mention her.
Scott: No, they would have been instructed not to.
Me: Okay, it’s not a real town. It’s fiction! It’s doesn’t exist. You asked me to write this as a news story. I have to have names. Why do you keep arguing with me?
Scott: Okay! I’m sorry. Ask me a question.
Me: I DID! WHAT! IS! HER! NAME!
You’d think it would get better, but no. Finally, I get fed up. It’s like trying to play basketball with chimpanzees.
Me: Scott, SERIOUSLY, get out of character.
He laughs.
Scott: But you don’t understand! They would never print this in the Cularville newspaper.
Me: Okay, you need to get real. This is not a real place. This is marketing yourself to a publishing company. Get with the program.
Scott (with dramatic hand gestures): I’m sorry. You married an artiste!
Me: No, I married someone who calls themselves an “artiste”, which is worse than just marrying one.
By the way, he’s the one who came up with “basketball with chimpanzees.”
Me: Honey, what’s hard to do with chimpanzees?
Scott (without even a split second of hesitation): Basketball.
Me (amused): Why basketball?
Scott: Because they’re short.
Not because they’re fucking CHIMPANZEES, and everything is difficult with them?
Me: Okay, how old is this guy?
Scott: He’s... wait, do [the newspapers] have to have his age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style.
Scott: Okay, he’s 67.
Me: And what does he do?
Scott: He’s a retired professor.
Me: Cool. And this guy? How old is he?
Scott: Do they have to have everyone’s age?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the three identifiers required by AP Style
.... ad nauseam until I’m flapping my arms and saying: “YES! IT’S PART OF THE THREE IDENTIFIERS REQUIRED BY AP STYLE! WHY DO YOU KEEP ARGUING WITH ME!”
Actually, AP style just requires that you identify people with three separate identifiers and that you be consistent about it. Age is just an easy choice. Anyway, so then he apologizes and we go on. I try not to ask anyone’s age. Instead, I ask a name.
Scott: Do they have to have her name?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Scott: The newspaper in this town would never print her name.
Me: Yes, they would... or they wouldn’t mention her.
Scott: No, they would have been instructed not to.
Me: Okay, it’s not a real town. It’s fiction! It’s doesn’t exist. You asked me to write this as a news story. I have to have names. Why do you keep arguing with me?
Scott: Okay! I’m sorry. Ask me a question.
Me: I DID! WHAT! IS! HER! NAME!
You’d think it would get better, but no. Finally, I get fed up. It’s like trying to play basketball with chimpanzees.
Me: Scott, SERIOUSLY, get out of character.
He laughs.
Scott: But you don’t understand! They would never print this in the Cularville newspaper.
Me: Okay, you need to get real. This is not a real place. This is marketing yourself to a publishing company. Get with the program.
Scott (with dramatic hand gestures): I’m sorry. You married an artiste!
Me: No, I married someone who calls themselves an “artiste”, which is worse than just marrying one.
By the way, he’s the one who came up with “basketball with chimpanzees.”
Me: Honey, what’s hard to do with chimpanzees?
Scott (without even a split second of hesitation): Basketball.
Me (amused): Why basketball?
Scott: Because they’re short.
Not because they’re fucking CHIMPANZEES, and everything is difficult with them?
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Twenty Steps to Mommy Success
My friend Jennifer wrote recently: “It sounds like Mommydom is treating you just fine even though children can so easily turn into 'howling balls of fury.' I was talking to Catherine this morning about her Emerson. She’s teething and trying to crawl. Basically this means that she’s scooting around on the floor leaving a trail of spittle on everything in her wake that she can wrap her gums around. I don’t know how you guys do it.”
How do moms do it? I’ll tell you exactly how. But it will look funny because I don’t know how to format indentations:
1) You kind of have no choice. You might think of selling your screaming child to a passing band of gypsies, but
a) those passing bands are few and far between
b) that’s why nature invented Mommy Guilt
c) You really do love your screaming child
2) You cut corners where you can
a) screw the housecleaning (until today, when my sister will be here)
b) screw the environment (use paper plates and plastic utensils)
c) screw cooking (those new box mix dinners are really not bad, especially the ones in the Asian foods section)
d) Right now, she’s sitting in her car seat with her bottle balanced on a blanket in her lap because I’m tired of feeding her. Is it a recommended feeding method? No. Is she quiet, safe, and is she eating? Yes.
3) You pick your battles
a) the dog is licking the baby’s face. She likes it. I let it go. Plus it conveniently cleans the formula off her.
b) is it worth Scott stomping around the house all morning after you make him get up with the baby at 4 a.m., or can you manage it yourself and take a nap later to avoid the drama?
c) The crib sheets still aren’t dry, and it’s time for her to go to bed. Does she really need sheets? She doesn’t even know what sheets are. Check that off your list of concerns and put a big towel down.
4) You figure out what works for your child. This takes time, but unless you completely ignore your baby all day, it’s inevitable.
5) You sing. A lot.
6) Babies are funny. It’s like having a free comedy show every day.
a) Emerson can roll over onto her tummy, but she can’t get back yet. It frustrates her to no end. That’s funny.
b) She has little baby-talk conversations with her toys. I don’t know what they say to her, but she finds it fascinating... and then she tries to eat them.
c) she tries to sing, but she only knows one note and no words unless you count “ayayayaya” and “nnngah”
d) we have probably $500 worth of toys in her room, but nothing entertains her more than a good old Sharpie pen or a crumpled piece of newspaper.
e) She’s still learning how her hands and mouth work, and she spends a lot of time with a hand in her mouth, biting it and feeling her tongue. Sometimes she gets excited about some new hand/mouth realization, shoves her hand too far into her mouth, and gags herself. Then she takes her hand out and looks at it in surprise.
f) She dreams. She laughs, smiles, cries, and makes sucking noises in her sleep. I always wonder what it’s about. Probably a beautiful land where the sky rains formula, and there are lakes, rivers, and oceans of formula.
g) She tries to eat my nose.
h) She hasn't grown much hair yet on her big ol' round punkin' head, and she bears a striking resmblance to Mr. Magoo.
7) Baths. Baths soothe almost any hysterical, crying baby.
8) Each new thing makes the old, annoying things worth any amount of trouble.
a) at my parents’ house this week, she held her arms up to me for the first time.
b) she hates hats, and when I put one on her at my nephew’s rather sunny baseball game, she tore it off her head (in a rare display of complete manual control), threw it on the ground, and screamed, “Yaaaaaaa!” before smiling sweetly at me and laughing.
9) Naptime
10) Grandparents
11 - 20 are also grandparents.
And that’s how it’s done.
How do moms do it? I’ll tell you exactly how. But it will look funny because I don’t know how to format indentations:
1) You kind of have no choice. You might think of selling your screaming child to a passing band of gypsies, but
a) those passing bands are few and far between
b) that’s why nature invented Mommy Guilt
c) You really do love your screaming child
2) You cut corners where you can
a) screw the housecleaning (until today, when my sister will be here)
b) screw the environment (use paper plates and plastic utensils)
c) screw cooking (those new box mix dinners are really not bad, especially the ones in the Asian foods section)
d) Right now, she’s sitting in her car seat with her bottle balanced on a blanket in her lap because I’m tired of feeding her. Is it a recommended feeding method? No. Is she quiet, safe, and is she eating? Yes.
3) You pick your battles
a) the dog is licking the baby’s face. She likes it. I let it go. Plus it conveniently cleans the formula off her.
b) is it worth Scott stomping around the house all morning after you make him get up with the baby at 4 a.m., or can you manage it yourself and take a nap later to avoid the drama?
c) The crib sheets still aren’t dry, and it’s time for her to go to bed. Does she really need sheets? She doesn’t even know what sheets are. Check that off your list of concerns and put a big towel down.
4) You figure out what works for your child. This takes time, but unless you completely ignore your baby all day, it’s inevitable.
5) You sing. A lot.
6) Babies are funny. It’s like having a free comedy show every day.
a) Emerson can roll over onto her tummy, but she can’t get back yet. It frustrates her to no end. That’s funny.
b) She has little baby-talk conversations with her toys. I don’t know what they say to her, but she finds it fascinating... and then she tries to eat them.
c) she tries to sing, but she only knows one note and no words unless you count “ayayayaya” and “nnngah”
d) we have probably $500 worth of toys in her room, but nothing entertains her more than a good old Sharpie pen or a crumpled piece of newspaper.
e) She’s still learning how her hands and mouth work, and she spends a lot of time with a hand in her mouth, biting it and feeling her tongue. Sometimes she gets excited about some new hand/mouth realization, shoves her hand too far into her mouth, and gags herself. Then she takes her hand out and looks at it in surprise.
f) She dreams. She laughs, smiles, cries, and makes sucking noises in her sleep. I always wonder what it’s about. Probably a beautiful land where the sky rains formula, and there are lakes, rivers, and oceans of formula.
g) She tries to eat my nose.
h) She hasn't grown much hair yet on her big ol' round punkin' head, and she bears a striking resmblance to Mr. Magoo.
7) Baths. Baths soothe almost any hysterical, crying baby.
8) Each new thing makes the old, annoying things worth any amount of trouble.
a) at my parents’ house this week, she held her arms up to me for the first time.
b) she hates hats, and when I put one on her at my nephew’s rather sunny baseball game, she tore it off her head (in a rare display of complete manual control), threw it on the ground, and screamed, “Yaaaaaaa!” before smiling sweetly at me and laughing.
9) Naptime
10) Grandparents
11 - 20 are also grandparents.
And that’s how it’s done.
