tiaras optional

Mr. Yuk Is Mean, Mr. Yuk Is Green

2009-03-10T10:57:00.002Z

To really get the full impact of the story I'm about to tell you, you have to know a little about my childhood. I was raised by a mother who was deathly afraid of germs, food toxins, and generally any kind of bad thing one might accidentally ingest. While shopping, she ruthlessly examined all canned goods for any sign of a dent (botulism kills!), and she had the Poison Control hotline on speed dial. Once I inadvertently colored my tongue with a magic marker (long story). First, she washed my mouth out with soap (I am perhaps the only child in history who has had her mouth washed out with soap for reasons other than bad language). Then she got right on the line to Poison Control. Although I was only six or seven, I remember thinking that something made for kids probably wasn't toxic. That thought apparently never occurred to my mother.

Growing up in that sort of atmosphere, you can either become completely crazy and avoid anything potentially dangerous, or you can go in the opposite direction and not worry much about anything. I went in the latter direction. (This may have something to do with my father, who was pretty much the opposite of my mother and used to do things like feed me raw ground beef.*)

Anyway, fast forward many years. A few weeks ago, I offered to cook dinner for my mother and grandmother. My mother's dietary restrictions (she's pretty much only allowed to eat dew off petals**) mean that there are only two or three dinner options available, and I was bored with all of them, so I figured that I could easily cook something within her restrictions. I brought all the ingredients to her kitchen and got to work. She tried to micromanage the whole endeavor, and she forced me to overcook the chicken because she was convinced it wasn't going to be done enough not to give us salmonella. The only ingredient I got from her kitchen was a tablespoon of olive oil.

"You used the olive oil in that cabinet?" she said, in a tone that implied I had taken the olive oil off a public bathroom floor.

"Yeah." I didn't want to ask, but I did. "Why?"

"Well, it's just that it's really old."

"How old?" I said, examining the bottle.

"I don't know. Maybe a year or two."

"That's nothing," I scoffed. "It doesn't have an expiration date on the bottle. I'm sure it's fine."

"If you say so," she said, which is of course what people say when they don't believe you.

She did manage to choke the dinner down, and it wasn't terrible (although a bit overcooked, which was totally not my fault.)

A few days later, she called to thank me for cooking.

"It was really good."

"No problem. I like cooking," I said.

"So, I hope you don't mind, but I was a little worried about the olive oil," she said.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Do you remember the Poison Control hotline?"

This is a ridiculous question. OF COURSE, I remember the Poison Control hotline. The Mr. Yuk jingle starts running through my head and I try my best not to curl up on the floor in the fetal position. "Yes."

"Well, I looked them up and it turns out they're still in business," she said, sounding delighted.

"Huh. You would think most people would just look stuff up on the internet these days," I said.

"Oh no. They're a much smaller operation now, but the woman who answered the phone was so nice, and it turns out they're located just up the road."

Fascinating. "But did you feel sick after you ate the food?" I asked.

"No. We were both fine. I was just... concerned," she said.

And it turns out that, according to the nice lady at Poison Control, the olive oil probably wouldn't have killed us, although it's always possible that if it was old enough, some bacteria might have grown in it, but it would have only given us garden variety food poisoning and not actually killed us.

So, that was ok. More problematic is the fact that my mother actually thought I had tried to poison her and my grandmother. Sigh.

*So delicious.
**Courtesy of Lila.

Shopping in My Closet

2009-03-06T01:18:00.004Z

With the current economic crisis, I have been reading a lot of “helpful” advice on penny-pinching. Occasionally, it’s disgusting Depression era suggestions like boiling your dental floss and then reusing it. But since I read a lot of fashion magazines and blogs, it’s more often really obvious advice like:

Buy stuff on sale.
Actually like consider whether you really need something before you buy it.
Buy less crap.
And my personal favorite: Go shopping in your closet.

I’ve been using the first three for years, and I sort of can’t believe they’re even offered up as advice because they seem so obvious. I’ve always had certain rules for shopping:

1. Don’t buy anything I can’t afford (i.e., I don’t charge clothes. Either I have the money or I don’t. And if I don’t, I don’t buy it).
2. Ask myself whether the item fills a need in my wardrobe.
3. If I answered no to #2, I then ask myself, is it such a fabulous bargain that I’ll be kicking myself for months if I don’t buy it?
4. Recognize when I have enough stuff and stop shopping.

These techniques work pretty well for me.

But let’s go back to the shopping in your closet advice. I’ve read this little gem of advice in a number of places. I can only assume it’s geared toward women with closets the size of a studio apartment who wander into them and say things like, “I totally forgot about this Chanel suit” or “Why don’t I ever wear these Miu Miu pumps?”

Still, it’s not the worst advice. I have a lot of clothes, and there are many pieces I forget about for months at a time. So, maybe it’s time to reassess my closet.

There’s just one problem with this: If I walked into a store that looked like my closet, I would turn around and walk right back out again.

It’s a terrible, terrible closet. It’s not even 18 inches deep. It extends two feet on either side of the door, but it’s nearly impossible to see anything that’s more than a few inches beyond the doorway. There’s a light, but it doesn’t illuminate anything. I suppose one solution would be to get rid of about half of my clothes, but that just isn’t going to happen. In my last two apartments, I had fabulous walk-in closets, both of which were really well-designed and made organizing my clothes very easy. Not so with my current closet. Sometimes I look into it, and I want to cry. We met with a realtor last week, and when he asked what our requirements were in an apartment, big closets were my only dealbreaker. Everything else is negotiable.

The only good thing about my closet is that, since it’s so hard to see things, I do occasionally come across an item of clothing I haven’t seen in months, and that can be sort of exciting. Sadly, it’s never a Prada bag that I’ve totally forgotten I own.

Back from the Dead

2009-02-10T23:48:00.006Z

As you may have noticed, this blog has been a ghosttown for many months. Lots of things have conspired to make it difficult for me to make regular updates. Lack of time is the biggest issue, but lack of motivation has been an issue as well. I’ve tried to write a few posts recently, but they never manage to see the light of day. I can’t quite seem to kill the blog entirely, and gosh darn it, I’ve still got stuff to say. But how to get back in the habit of regular posting?

When Jordan Baker posted an interview on her blog and offered to interview anyone who was “lingering in a creative void,” I jumped right on it. I thought perhaps with someone else giving me the topics, I could actually manage to pull something together. She provided some excellent questions, and the answers are below.

If anyone else is having my issues, I’d be happy to help. Here’s how it works:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. Be sure you link back to the original post.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions

And without further ado…

1. What's the strangest thing you've ever done in the hopes of combating insomnia?

Despite having chronic insomnia, I haven’t done anything that crazy to combat it. Mostly, I just lie in bed and hope for the best. Sometimes, I embrace it. About a year and a half ago, I was in the midst of a really bad, months-long bout, but I just went with it, started getting to work at the crack of dawn, and spent much of my waking time writing. It was actually pretty productive. I would still prefer the ability to sleep.

2. You're stuck in an awful place where there are only four television stations; you have to choose one to watch in perpetuity. Each station shows a different awful ongoing storyline from a different season of House--Evil Vogler; Lusting for Stacy; Evil Tritter; or Thirteen's Pretty Dying Girl Tragedy. Which one do you choose and why?

This is a really hard one. I can eliminate Evil Vogler and Evil Tritter immediately, because of my complete and utter loathing for both storylines, which were, in essence, the same storyline. I wasn’t crazy about the Stacy storyline, and I stopped watching shortly after the Tritter mess, so I haven’t seen the Pretty Dying Girl Tragedy, but everything I’ve heard about the addition of the new characters sounds exceptionally annoying. Also, the actress who plays Thirteen seems really annoying, and I have a feeling that having to watch her tragic life would make me want to throw things at my TV. So, I’ll have to go with Lusting after Stacy, because it would cause the least amount of teeth grinding on my part.

3. You mentioned having a bunch of half started blog enteries that for one reason or another, you haven't finished. Give us a brief (1-2 sentence synopsis) of 3 of them.

a) A post about the overuse of the term “style icon” and how it’s lost its true meaning and how no matter how many times Vogue tries to tell that Sienna Miller is a style icon, I am never going to drink that Kool-Aid. It’s also a listing of my personal style icons, and it’s at a more finished state than most of my other unfinished posts, so it may actually see the light of day sometime soon.

b) A post praising guilty pleasures. I have had a lot of guilty pleasures over the years and I was trying to write about why I should stop feeling guilty about them. Sadly, most of my guilty pleasures are so guilty, I’m embarrassed to write about them. See item 4 below.

c) A post about why I’ve been neglecting the blog for so long. It’s a boring recitation of excuses that no one really wants to hear.

4. I know you would totally never watch potentially embarrassing TV shows like One Tree Hill or anything, but if you did, what would be a) your longest lasting guilty pleasure program; b) the guilty pleasure program you currently enjoy the most; and c) the one you feel guiltiest about? (You can use the same choice for more than one, but we'll need a detailed explanation of why it qualifies in each category).

a) My longest lasting guilty pleasure is Guiding Light. I’ve watched it on and off since I was 9. Sadly, a little over a year ago, Guiding Light pushed my patience to the breaking point and I had to stop watching lest I turn into a crazy lady who throws things at her TV and yells things like, “You dang writers are ruining my stories!” I still haven’t forgiven them.

b) I currently don’t have a TV guilty pleasure. This feels very strange. A couple of years ago, I stumbled up Season 4 of One Tree Hill. In the first episode I watched, a married pregnant teenage cheerleader nearly suffered a miscarriage and was then deliberately run over by a car driven by a gangster who wanted revenge on her husband for not throwing the state high school basketball championship, which he was supposed to do to pay off his debts to the gangster. Right after the hit and run, the husband’s half-brother suffered a heart attack while his brother was attempting to beat the gangster to death. It takes three or four months to achiever that kind of drama on a daytime soap. I was totally hooked and ended up watching the earlier seasons on DVD. It was very much in the “so bad it’s good” category. Sadly, season 5 was so excruciatingly awful that I gave up watching it.

So, I have no TV guilty pleasures anymore. I tried Gossip Girl, and it was ok, but it didn’t do it for me. I liked Dirty, Sexy Money, but it was actually pretty well written, so I’m not sure it really qualified as a guilty pleasure, and then it was cancelled. The few TV shows I watch currently are generally literate and well-acted. What’s a girl to do?

So, I was forced to turn to another medium for my guilty pleasures. I ended up reading all of the Twilight books and seeing the movie. And they were an excellent guilty pleasure. Sure, the books and the movie aren’t great, but it definitely fulfilled my need for fun trash and furtive pleasures.

c) I definitely feel the guiltiest about Twilight. With other guilty pleasures, I’ve sometimes claimed to be enjoying them ironically. And sometimes, I actually was. But there’s nothing ironic about Twilight. Sigh. My shame is now bared to the world. (On the plus side, Twilight introduced me a large world of vampire/demon/fairy-related fiction that I had no idea existed, so that was another guilty pleasure in the making. But that’s really the topic of its own blog post…)

5. You're a (native? long term resident?) of the DC area, so the new First Family has come to you looking for advice--how to fit in, where to eat, where to shop, and Malia needs the names of the best dive bars for future reference. However, because of security concerns, you have to tell them everything they need to know during one three minute covert interview in the back of their limo. What essential knowledge do you manage to impart during that time?

I’ve lived in the area since age 4, so I can give some good advice. But I also have decided prejudices against some of the newer elements in DC, so my advice is more about what to avoid.

a) Skip Georgetown entirely for food since it’s mostly overrated and overpriced. For shopping, there are a few smaller boutiques in Georgetown, but don’t bother with anything else. They’re chain stores you can find in any suburban mall. Shop the smaller stores that are located all over the city and keep them in business. DC doesn’t need to be another Times Square.

b) Don’t ever read Washingtonian magazine. If you do, do the opposite of whatever they suggest. It appears to be written by and for people who believe that chain restaurants serve the best breakfast food in the area. Sigh.

c) Avoid any place that has a line. People are sheep and just because everyone is going there doesn’t mean it’s any good.

d) DC does dive bars well. Check out [redacted], [redacted], and [redacted]*. The dirtier the bar, the more awesome it is in my opinion. Anywhere too clean and you get the khaki and striped shirt douchebag crowd. The stickier the bathroom floor, the more likely they are to stay away.

*Redacted for security reasons (i.e., there are enough douchebags overrunning DC’s bars and I don’t want to advertise anywhere they haven’t invaded yet).

Two Post in Two Days?!

2008-04-25T12:20:00.001+01:00

Ok, so that last post wasn’t perhaps the triumphant return it could have been, seeing as it’s only my second post this year. But things are really quite dull lately. And you should see the topics I considered but didn’t write about:

1. How this season of One Tree Hill totally sucks. Yes, the previous seasons also sucked, but in a compelling can’t look away sort of way, not in a do they really expect me to watch this crap kind of way.
2. How I have recently developed an allergy to cats. And I how I am totally bitter about this because I love kittiez.
3. How I cleaned out over 1000 unread messages from one of my email accounts, forcing me to confront the fact that I am (a) lazy as all get out and (b) possibly addicted to shopping since the bulk of the messages were store notifications. That actually could have been a good post, but like so many addicts, I’m not yet willing to admit I have a problem.
4. How I am still number one on Google for shrinking breasts. Actually, I would be hard-pressed to write an entire post about this, but I just couldn’t help sharing (much like the original post).
5. How I’m thinking of breaking the no white until Memorial Day and getting a little crazy.

Consider yourself lucky.

In the fall, I started a new job, and I work a lot. I have a firm “no blogging about work” policy, so this leaves me with not much to write about being that other than work. I suppose my life is a bit dull. And lately, I’ve actually been sleeping reasonably well, so I don’t even have my insomnia posts to fall back on. I have thought about just giving up the blog entirely, but I can't quite bring myself to do it, so I guess it’s just not time yet. But if I’m not going to let it die, I really need to make an effort to post now and then. So, I should be back now and then.

What Is It with Me and Birds?

2008-04-23T12:36:00.000+01:00

Sometimes, the week just starts off badly. Having jury duty on a rainy Monday certainly qualifies as the bad. Coming thisclose to being on a jury but getting off at the last minute counts as the very good. I was hoping that was going to be the theme for the rest of the week.

Sadly, my hopes were quickly dashed. Yesterday, I left the office for lunch for the first time in months. I figured, lovely day, why not? I should really have learned by now to ignore my occasional fits of optimism. On the way back from lunch, a bird shat on me. And it was so efficient at doing its business that said business landed on my hand, my bottle of lemonade, and inside my jacket pocket. Inside my pocket. That bird had some aim.

I would pass this off as an unfortunate occurrence, but it’s the fifth time this has happened to me in the last 10 years or so. They say that a bird crapping on you is good luck, but isn’t it supremely bad luck if it keeps happening? I don’t do well with birds in general. In addition to voiding themselves on me, I have other issues. A pigeon once flew straight into my head. I’m not sure which of us was more shocked. I promptly ran home and scrubbed my head for a half-hour because, euww gross, pigeons.

At this rate, I’m expecting my life to turn into a scene from The Birds any day now. Except with scarier and more realistic looking birds. (If I can have Tippi Hedren’s wardrobe, I might be able to live with this.)

I Have Always Depended on the Kindness of Strangers

2008-02-14T01:14:00.001Z

Every now and then, I come down from the cloud of misanthropy I usually reside in and admit that people may not be all that bad*. Some of them actually manage to not suck, especially when one is having a slightly Blanche Dubois moment.

Like yesterday, when I managed to fall not once but twice on my walk home from work. The first time, I fell down, woman came running over to ask if I was all right (and made me feel much better by telling me that she had fallen twice), and a man helped me up. I thanked them both profusely and continued on my way. Fifteen minutes later, I was on my ass again, and things were looking a bit more dire this time. There wasn’t anyone nearby, and I could.not.get.up. I put a hand out to push myself up and I slid. I put a foot out and I slid. It was just a sheet of ice. I was lying there liked a beached whale trying to figure out how I was going to get out of this predicament. Then a man appeared and asked if I was ok. I told him I was, and he helped me up and said that he had just spoken to a friend who had also fallen. Which made me feel slightly better. As did the fact that I had fallen twice and managed to not injure myself.

Sadly, my newfound good feelings for humanity were soon drummed out by the following thoughts:

Curse you, J. Crew and your shoddily made, overpriced crap. Waterproof Wellingtons, my ass**.
Seriously, college campuses and historic homes of DC, would it be so hard to put out a little salt.
Is it really necessary for three cars in a row to try to run me over?

Sigh. It was nice while it lasted.

*Lord Kissington and I both subscribe to following maxim: “Sure, I like people in theory. Just not so much in practice.”
**I am still trying to figure out how something that appears to be made from one giant piece of rubber that doesn’t have any holes can leak.

Wardrobe Missteps

2007-11-09T12:24:00.000Z

Usually, I complain about what everyone else in wearing (seriously, anyone who doesn’t have superskinny calves and wears flat boots that only come halfway up the calf needs to have their hands examined; it’s incredibly unflattering), but I do realize that if I’m going to insult the rest of the world, I should be able to criticize myself. And I really needed to yesterday.

In an effort to be more organized and get out the door in a timely manner in the morning, I pick out my work clothes the night before. I usually pull them out of the closet, but last night, I picked out the outfit (dark pink flowered silk chiffon dress, not as dressy as it sounds, and a black velvet jacket, and black boots) in my mind but left it in the closet. This was a big mistake. When I pulled the velvet jacket out this morning, I realized that it had spent months hanging next to a white angora sweater. It looked like a white cat had rolled all over it. I attacked it with a lint roller, but it was taking too long, so I switched to a different jacket. And pondered why on earth I still have that stupid angora sweater, which I never wear because (a) it itches like crazy and (b) I hate angora.

I put on boots and skipped tights because it’s usually pretty warm at work. Sadly, skipping the tights was another mistake, since the silk dress didn’t exactly protect me from the insanely-cold-for-November weather, and I had a bracing wind tunnel effect going on under my dress all the way to work.

I got to work and figured, well, at least the outfit looks good. Until I looked down at one point and realized that, oops, the dress is kind of see-through. I’m not sure why I never noticed this all the other times I’ve worn it. Like a couple of weeks back when I wore it to church to become a godmother. That’s right. I wore a sorta see-through dress to church. Classy.

Anatomy of an Insomnia Attack

2007-11-07T11:57:00.000Z

After the spring/summer insomnia trifecta of horror (trouble falling asleep, frequent waking up in the middle of the night, and waking up early), my sleep patterns had sort of returned to normal. Although normal for me would probably be considered severe sleep deprivation for most people (I just read about a study suggesting that chronic sleep deprivation can lead to emotional problems. That’s not exactly rocket science.).

Last night, I was totally exhausted, so I was in bed before 10 (yes, very punk rock, I know). I fell asleep pretty quickly, but I woke up around 1:15. My main insomnia issue is that my brain doesn’t seem to have an off switch. When I wake up, if I can just keeping my brain from thinking too much, I can go back to sleep. But last night, my brain started working overtime.

1. First, I started to think about work, which is always a big mistake. I started to worry that there were things I had forgotten to do yesterday. Then I worried about all the stuff I have to do tomorrow. And I agonized over whether I’m doing well at the job. Then I thought about how tomorrow was going to be really awful if I couldn’t get some sleep.

2. From there, I moved on to existential-crisis-type thoughts. Am I doing enough with my life? Am I really achieving anything? Will I have enough money for retirement? Should I have a baby? Can I even still have a baby, what with my aging ovaries and all? What kind of mother would I be, considering that babies kind of give me the creeps?

3. I tried to distract myself from the crazy thoughts with a little harmless fantasizing about what shoes I would buy if money were no object. Unfortunately, I got into an argument with my brain about the relative merits of certain pairs of Miu Miu pumps (Brain: The navy/gray/green ones are more practical. Me: But the pink/red/tan ones are so cute.), and that defeated the whole purpose of a supposedly relaxing fantasy.

4. I had now been lying in bed awake for almost an hour and a half, so it was time to consider getting up. I pondered the idea of watching a DVD, but I didn’t want to start a movie, since that would seem like admitting that there wasn’t going to be any sleep tonight. A TV show seemed like a better idea, but I was having a lot of trouble deciding what the watch (apparently, we own a lot of TV shows on DVD). I considered Veronica Mars, but so far (admittedly, I’m only two episodes in), season 3 is really annoying me. That led to 15 minutes of pondering the downhill trajectory of VM. And wondering why why why the cancer-stricken sorority house mother would have to grow a pot FOREST in the basement when she lives on a college campus, presumably a place with abundant access to pot? And wouldn’t the penalty for being caught buying pot be a lot less harsh than that for being caught growing massive amounts of it? And what college would actually allow a bunch of 18-year-olds to participate in a super-controversial psychological experiment? This extremely productive chain of thought gave me a headache.

5. I decided to get up and read for a while. I’m not actually reading anything at the moment, so I thought maybe about re-reading an old favorite. I was in the mood for some Frances Hodgson Burnett, but I couldn’t locate my copies of The Little Princess and The Secret Garden, and I was just too tired to do a major search. I considered going with Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time, but I’ve read it so many times during bouts of insomnia that I’m afraid I’m going to start associating it with sleep deprivation.

6. So, I gave up on reading and decided to write this instead. If it doesn’t make sense, don’t blame me. Blame my stupid brain.

Do I Have a Problem?

2007-11-06T12:14:00.000Z

Lately I’ve been wondering if I have a shoe problem. I’ve thrown out a lot of shoes recently, approximately 8 pairs. Which sounds pretty good, except that I’ve bought almost as many. So, last week, I counted my shoes, and I own 45 pairs (which has since increased to 47). I tried to figure out if this is good or bad. I mentioned it to my mother, and she called me “Imelda,” which is totally unfair since Imelda Marcos had like 10,000 pairs of shoes and I’m sure she never even wore most of them, so the comparison is way off.

Yes, 45 may seem like a lot of shoes. But it’s all relative. So, I surveyed a few girlfriends. June estimates that she has between 80 and 100 pairs. She couldn’t do a more accurate count, because she’s moving and most of them were packed. But she made me feel much better. BB has 55 pairs, but she’s in the process of culling. Baby only has 20, which surprised me, since it seems on the low side. Mary Ann estimates that she has 25 pairs, of which 99% are black and 60% are Mary Janes. Schadenfreude has 12 to 15 pairs, but felt she would have more if she worked in an office and didn’t live in a country where shoes are really expensive. Also, she’s the complete opposite of a packrat and gets rid of everything*. The Redhead has about 25 pairs, but she has bought very few shoes in recent years since moving to a region where shoes in her (perfectly normal) size are hard to come by.

So, out of the six I polled (a fairly representative sample, spanning several fields of employ and three continents), two have more shoes than I do. Clearly, I don’t have a problem. Or maybe I do. Because when I took a good long look at my shoes, I realized something: They’re all pretty similar. For example, I own five pairs of black Mary Janes. But they’re all unique and essential to my shoe collection. One is a half patent/half regular leather spectator MJ with a walkable 2.5-inch heel. They’re my “everyday” MJs. Then there are the 4-inch heel ones with an ivory rosette on the buckle. They’re adorable, but the rosette makes them less versatile, so I don’t wear them as much. The third pair is patent leather wedge platforms. I can’t really walk in them, and they nearly led to my being hit by a car, but I can’t seem to give them up. The fourth pair are patent leather peep toes. They’re the closest I could find in my price range to this pair of Louboutins I’d been eyeing, and I lurve them. Then are the most recent arrivals, suede platforms with bows on the straps. They’re adorable, and I haven’t exactly gotten around to wearing them yet. But I totally will.

And I wear a lot of my shoes regularly. Since starting my new job, I’ve worn 12 different pairs of shoes to work. Which means I’ve worn more than 25% of my shoe collection, which is an excellent number.

Why I think I may have a problem is this: the idea that somehow a pair of shoes is going to change my life. Recently, I was at the new Zara downtown. I saw a pair of ivory patent leather peep toes. I looked at them for a minute, said “eh,” and then put them back on the shelf. By the next morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I was utterly convinced that a pair of ivory patent leather shoes was going to change my life. They would work with all the outfits that don’t seem to work with anything else. So, I rushed back there that night. They still had the shoe in my size, so I excitedly tried them on. And they were awful. They did nothing for my legs. They were extremely uncomfortable. And they apparently weren’t going to change my life. I was totally bitter.

But now I do think that the perfect pair of ivory patent leather shoes is sorely needed, even if that wasn’t the pair. And, really, I’ve been trying to cut back. Although cutting back for me somehow means that in the last three months, I’ve filled all the spots on my Loehmann’s frequent shoe shopper card and my next pair is 50% off.

Of course, cutting back doesn’t exactly mean cold turkey for me. When it was raining nonstop recently, I realized that I need a pair of rainboots so as not to ruin my precious shoe collection in inclement weather. So, I found a cute pair of rainboots, and then I just had to check out all the other shoes on the site, and I found this one really cute pair that I liked, and they were on sale, and they were named after me. I figured that was a sign from God. I mean really, how often do you find Lady Tiara peep toes?

Sadly, the Lady Tiara shoes arrived and they didn’t quite fit, and it seemed like the next size up would be too big, so they’re going back. But that’s ok. I have my eye on these adorable Mary Janes…

*I admire this sort of minimalism, and I wish I could emulate it. Instead, I hang onto shoes that I’ve had for years and hardly ever wear just because they match one thing I own.

My Phobias Are Keeping Me Thin

2007-11-03T22:47:00.000Z

I have some phobias. They’re all pretty normal phobias, the kind that lots of people have, so I’m like, you know, not so far from normal. (I also have one really out there phobia, but it’s so out there that it’s not something I’m confronted with on a regular basis, so it’s not particularly debilitating.)

My big phobias are claustrophobia and elevator phobia, which is actually sort of just an extension of the claustrophobia. (I’m also deathly afraid of fire, but I don’t really think of that as a phobia, since my apartment burned down when I was 19 and I was left homeless at college for the last few weeks of the semester. It’s not actually a phobia if your fear is based in reality, right?)

The claustrophobia is something I have an issue with, but can stand if I have to. I just really hate being trapped in small spaces. It’s been bad on and off since the time I almost got pushed onto the tracks at a Metro station on Fourth of July because apparently Metro officials don’t understand the idea of fucking crowd control. I avoid the Metro during rush hour if at all possible.

The elevator phobia was born when I was 19 (it was a bad year), and I got stuck in an elevator with three other people for an hour. It was a pretty decent sized elevator, so it really shouldn’t have been that bad, but two of the other people got into a screaming match over whose fault it was that the elevator got stuck in the first place. The one guy blamed the woman who shoved on to the elevator just as it was closing, and the woman blamed the guy for not holding the door for her. It was awesome. By the time the workmen pried the door open, I was crouched in the corner in a cold sweat. Then I had to climb out of the elevator since it was stuck between two floors. I was wearing a miniskirt.

Another time I got stuck in an elevator in a hotel in London. We were only stuck for a few minutes, but it was a standard European elevator, which means it was miniscule, and it was filled with standard Europeans, which apparently means they have no issue with personal space and feel that it’s ok to cram 10 people into an elevator the size of a small bathtub. I’d tell you more of the story, but just typing about it is giving me a PTSD episode.

The elevator phobia is exacerbated by the fact that I live in a building with small elevators and lots of people who think nothing of saying, “Come on, there’s plenty of room” when there clearly isn’t.

I sometimes have anxiety dreams about being stuck on elevators. I once had a nightmare about being stuck in a really tiny elevator with my mother, who wanted to talk about wedding plans. I woke up in a cold sweat. So, anyways, I take the stairs a lot.

Back in July, I had the stomach flu. While throwing up for 24 hours straight and not being able to eat for days is not remotely fun, it did have the benefit of a 7-pound weight loss. I was sort of worried about not being able to keep the weight off once I started my new job, because there is endless food available and I seem to be eating like a pig.

But something strange has happened. I’ve kept the weight off and somehow managed to get some actual muscle tone to my body. Last week, I realized that something totally unprecedented had happened: my jeans were all too big for me. I’ve dropped a jean size.

And I owe it all to my phobias. I almost always walked to my old job, but I decided I would ride the bus to my new job, since it’s farther away than my old job and there’s a convenient bus that goes almost door to door. I tried the bus for a few days. It was a nightmare. It never comes when it’s supposed to. And it’s always crowded, so I usually have to stand. I’m short, so it’s almost impossible for me to grab on to the arm rails, so I try to hold on to the seat rails and not fall into anyone’s lap. On my third day, the bus got into an accident halfway to work, and everyone had to leave the bus. From the resigned looks on the other passengers’ faces, I gathered that this situation was not unusual. So, I started walking. It’s actually a very nice walk. It takes me about 5 to 10 minutes longer than walking to my last job did, but it’s not really that much longer than riding the bus seeing as Metrobuses don’t really seem to understand the concept of a schedule. I seem to be walking faster than I did to my old job, which might have something to do with no longer being filled with a sense of dread every morning.

And then there’s the elevator. The building where I work is quite old and has only two elevators, only one of which goes to my floor. On my first day, I was warned that it breaks down a lot. And although it’s quite spacious, it makes horrible noises and does a sort of jumping motion every time it stops. So, I started taking the stairs. And it’s awesome. My ass is smaller than it’s been in about 5 years. I’m not working out at all, and I’m eating constantly, and it doesn’t matter at all. Apparently, the secret to staying fit is having a lot of emotional issues. I’d explore this topic more, but I have to go buy some new jeans.

A Few Notes Cobbled Together in Between Working on a Real Post

2007-10-17T12:43:00.000+01:00

1. This weekend, Lord Kissington and I become godparents to his niece (leading to our friends saying things like “they chose you two to be godparents?” in a tone of disbelief). On behalf of the baby, we renounced Satan and all his minions. It was really hard not to giggle every time the priest said minions (I even giggle when I type the word minions). I kept picturing little tiny red devils cavorting around the big devil’s feet (or cloven hooves I suppose). The instructions for godparents card they gave us didn’t say much other than that we should be models of Christian living for the kid (leading me to question why we were chosen as godparents) and that we should give the kids religious-themed gifts, like Bibles, rosaries, and gift certificates for religious goods and books—just the sort of gifts every kid wants to receive (I was kind of figuring we’d be the cool godparents—the ones who give you stuff your parents totally disapprove of). It also suggested that we commemorate the anniversary of the baptism every year with a card or gift. Oh please. The kid already gets birthdays and Christmas. Who the hell the celebrates their baptism day?

2. While 3/4-length sleeves may be totes adorable, they are not so good for cold mornings. Lately, I’ve been questioning why all my jackets have non-full-length sleeves. I don’t have an answer other than that I tend to emphasize aesthetics over practicality.

3. It is very hard to get dressed when the temperature is going to be 80 degrees, but you work in an office that resembles the Arctic frozen tundra in temperature. I may have to bring a blanket to work to cover my legs.

4. The walk to my new job is a huge improvement over the old one. There’s less traffic, fewer scary people screaming at me for no apparent reason, and way less urine-soaked pavement. And the walk has more potential for being entertaining. The other morning, I did a double take when I saw what looked like a man walking on air. Upon further examination, it turned out he had strung up a tightrope between two trees and was walking on it. He was dressed all in black. He sort of looked like a homeless ninja.

Preview This

2007-10-12T03:40:00.001+01:00

I went to see a movie last weekend, and the experience was evidence of a trend I’ve been noticing lately: movie previews are pretty much shitty and they never seem to show anything I even remotely want to see. It seems to me that there used to be some sort of effort by the movie industrial complex to actually match the previews to the sort of movie you were going to see. Like if you were at a cheesy summer blockbuster, there were lots of previews for overblown blockbuster type flicks. And if you went to see something indie or art house, those were the kind of previews they showed.

But lately, the trend seems to be to just show whatever the fuck is coming out in the next month or so. This weekend, I saw The Darjeeling Limited. It’s a Wes Anderson film, and although I guess it’s not technically indie, it’s totally indie in its sensibilities. It’s all kinds of quirky, and it’s leading men all have very un-Hollywood noses. This is not the sort of movie that breaks box office records. So, one might expect previews that have something vaguely in common with it. You know, like maybe the new Ang Lee film or Elizabeth: The Golden Age.

But no, that wasn’t exactly the case. The first preview was for a tired looking romantic comedy with the blonde chick from Grey’s Anatomy. Apparently, she’s always a bridesmaid and never a bride. It looks totally predictable and clichéd, but it does have Cyclops from the X-Men movies and he’s pretty hot, which takes it from the “never in a million years” category to the “maybe if I’m traveling on business and I have nothing else to do and I can charge it to work” category.

Then there was a preview for a movie about a woman who gets trapped in her office parking garage on Christmas Eve because she’s a workaholic*. She’s then systematically tortured by some creepy dude who’s apparently been stalking her. The preview was surprisingly effective. It was so scary that I actually gasped out loud at one point**. It’s now on the “never in a million years list” because it’s basically torture porn, and I really hate those movies. You know, the ones where the filmmakers have somehow convinced themselves that it’s ok to show a woman being tortured for two hours because in the end, she’ll turn the tables on the creepy stalker and end up killing him. The preview played into one of my (and presumably other women’s?) worst fears: being trapped all alone somewhere with some creepy stalker dude who just wants to rape and kill you. The preview did answer a question I had asked recently: Whatever happened to Wes Bentley? I could have lived without knowing the answer.

Movie previews have become somewhat helpful in the sense that they put extensive warnings in the ratings box, basically telling you exactly what you’re going to see. When the warning says something like “perverse and degrading acts of violence,” I know this movie is really not for me. The next preview started out with the hot guy from Heroes, which made me perk up for about 2 seconds, until I realized the movie was about pathology students who are all weird about bodies and start killing people in some sort of fucked-up game. It looks super-cheerful.

The final preview was for something slightly more in tune with The Darjeeling Limited: The Kite Runner. It looks sweeping and epic and heartfelt and all that. The warning label announced that the movie contains “the rape of a child.”*** Seriously? That made me not even want to watch the preview, let alone the movie.

So, out of four previews, there were three movies I will never watch in a million years and one I might watch if I were trapped in a hotel room and had absolutely nothing better to do and there were no reruns of Charmed on. Way to go, movie industrial complex.

*I guess the theme is that female workaholics naturally deserve to be tortured. If she were a better person and didn’t work so late on Christmas Eve, this never would have happened to her.
**Full disclosure: It doesn’t take much to scare me.
***Sorry if I just spoiled the movie for you. But don’t blame me. Blame the MPAA.

Notes on a New Job

2007-09-25T13:42:00.000+01:00

1. Starting a new job means all sorts of adult things like signing up for life insurance. I felt very much like a husband in the 1950s as I filled out the form. If anything happens to me, will Lord Kissington being able to maintain the lifestyle to which he’s been accustomed? How much extra insurance do I need? Grave matters.

2. Traveling to a different part of town for work means that I get to see a whole new set of fashion disasters every day. To the young woman, I saw the other morning, I don’t even know where to begin with what’s wrong with your outfit. Let me just sum it up by saying, if it’s still warm enough for flip-flops, it’s much too warm for tweed pants. I’m going to try to ignore the fact that the tweed pants appeared to be in knicker* form. And to all the women I’ve been seeing whose pants are creeping up into their butt cracks, for the love of God, please reconsider your undergarment. Or consider buying pants that fits. It’s for the greater good of humanity.

3. I have now figured out the layout of my new building well enough that I am no longer walking into walls or finding myself inexplicably in the garage. I still can’t really do much except make it from the entrance to my department. If I’m ever called upon to visit another department, I might be wandering for hours.

*Knickers pain me. My hero Galliano could make the fabulous pair of knickers ever and I would still turn my nose up at them, simply by virtue of the fact that they’re knickers. Shudder.

A Few Notes

2007-09-13T12:34:00.000+01:00

Posting has been sporadic because of the stress of leaving the old job and the anxiety of starting the new one. Of course, posting has been sporadic for months now, so I suppose this is nothing new.

1. I’ve always known that I have a big head, and not only in the figurative sense. One size fits all hats never fit me. But my head seems to have reached all new levels of biggitude. I tried on a blouse that wouldn’t even fit over my head. I kept looking for some sort of hook or clasp, but there was nothing. And the neckline wasn’t elastic. Who makes a blouse that you can’t fit over your head? Or am I just deformed?

2. The new job is going well, except for a few minor problems like walking into walls and ending up in the garage instead of outside. Apparently, I am directionally challenged. I’m making an impressive debut.

3. Things are going well, except for the other morning when I woke up at 5 a.m. with the most severe calf cramp I’ve ever had. It was so bad, I actually screamed. I guess I was pretty loud since I woke up Lord Kissington, a man who sleeps so heavily I’ve always figured he would sleep through an apocalypse. The cramp passed, but I’m wondering if it has something to do with switching between flats and really high heels so much lately.

4. Bringing a book to work is problematic to read during lunch is problematic. I really want to read this book about a teenager who’s in love with a vampire, but that probably isn’t the image I want to project quite so early in my tenure. Instead, I’ve been carrying the Letters of Heloise and Abelard, a book I’ve been reading the introduction to for approximately 6 months. Maybe I’ll actually make it to the letters this time.

Size Me Up

2007-09-04T00:21:00.001+01:00

In preparation for a new job and a new season, I’ve been shopping more than usual lately. And it’s been a bewildering experience because sizes no longer make sense. I’m realistic about my body. Even with my recent 7 pound weight loss (thanks, stomach flu!), I’m a size 8 in pants or jeans thanks to my cursed thighs (the weight loss coming mostly from my waist and, sadly, the breasts). In skirts and dresses, I’m generally a 6. Tops vary a bit more. Depending on the shape and cut, I’m a small or medium or a 4 or 6.

But my recent shopping excursions have left me very confused as to my size. I spent a half hour dithering over a white shirt that was just a hair too big in a small but didn’t work at all in an extra-small. Could it be tailored? Was it even worth bothering? I cursed a series of skirts that fit either my hips or my waist, but never both.

And then there were the visits to Anthropologie. I’ve always found their sizing to be a bit inconsistent, so I’m nervous ordering anything online and prefer to try things on in person. My recent forays yielded the following purchases: a size small top, two size-6 dresses, and one size-4 dress. A little all over the place, but not too crazy. But then there were the rejected items. The size-medium top that was falling off me. The size-small top that I couldn’t get over my shoulders (I really think that was the odd design of the top and not any odd deformity to my shoulders. I mean, they look normal enough to me.). The size-8 dress that looked dreadful. The size-6 skirt that was falling off me. I had to go down to a 2 in that one (I ended up passing on it for the moment). Size 2 to size 8 is a pretty big size range. You can see why I’m a little wary of ordering anything online. Maybe I’ll just go back to shoe shopping, where I’m pretty much always a size 8. Ahh, predictability.

Dreaming My Dreams of…

2007-09-01T15:03:00.000+01:00

I’m starting a new job soon, and I’ve been so busy finishing up at my current job that I haven’t had much time to think (or worry) about the new job. My subconscious, however, seems to be working overtime. The other night I dreamed that I went to my first day at the new job. They didn’t have an office or even a desk for me. It looked totally different from the office where I had interviewed. A bunch of people sat me down on a couch in the lobby and threw a pile of papers at me, telling me this was my first project. Then everyone disappeared.

I started going through the papers and realized: 1) I was working for a Republican member of Congress, 2) said member had just been arrested for soliciting sex in a public bathroom, and 3) my job was to do damage control. I woke up with my heart thumping in my chest. I guess the good news is that my new job can’t possibly be that bad.

Last night I dreamed about characters on a TV show I’ve never watched. The Hills is on cable, so I’ve never seen it. I’m aware of it because it’s covered in exhaustive detail on every gossip web site I visit. And US Weekly has a story on these people every week. Although I don’t read the articles, I’ve absorbed some details by osmosis. The show seems to be centered around a bland young woman with very cute clothes. I was vaguely aware of her from having watched a few episodes of Laguna Beach at the gym. Apparently, she’s the one who was always fighting with the bitchy blonde over some guy, who I think (I’m too lazy and of the not caring to actually look this up) is the guy who played the skateboarding virgin on One Tree Hill*. My cursory glances at the US Weekly articles suggest that the main conflict of the show is between the bland one and her equally bland ex-BFF and the ex-BFF’s douchebag boyfriend. Feel free to correct me if I’ve got anything wrong here.

In any case, in my dream, I was at a country club, and I was walking to the parking lot when suddenly there was some big commotion, and it turned out that the bland one had gotten into some kind of fender-bender with the ex-BFF and the douchebag, and everyone was screaming and the paparazzi were busy circling. Then I woke up and felt totally disgusted with myself. I really need to have a talk with my subconscious.

*I really love that the teen abstinence storyline on One Tree Hill was so un-family values and made the virgins look like colossal idiots. They all wore t-shirts that said “Virgins for Life,” which makes no sense because I thought the whole point of teen abstinence movements was to encourage not having sex until marriage and not not having sex, ummh, ever. Also, the founder of the club turned out to be an emotionally unstable non-virgin who broke poor Mouth’s heart. With all illusions shattered, the sweet skateboarding virgin was soon losing it to slutty Brooke in the back seat of a car at a party. Not that I watch One Tree Hill or anything. I just picked all this up from flipping through the channels one night. I swear.

Sometimes I’m Like Greta Garbo

2007-08-28T03:25:00.000+01:00

I’m an only child, and sometimes I just really like to be alone. I lived alone for a few years, and mostly, I liked it. Lord Kissington and I attribute the success of our relationship to the fact that although both of us really like being alone, we can actually stand each other’s company on a permanent basis. Still, sometimes I need some time to myself, and the occasional evening when LK is off doing whatever, I really enjoy being able to watch dopey movies like Charlie’s Angels and reveling in my aloneness.

Although my solo trip to Austin this spring wasn’t very exciting in terms of getting to do much in the city, I did have an excellent time because I had a huge hotel room all to myself, I was able to spread my toiletries all over the very comfortable bathroom, and the kind size bed was lovely even though I had insomnia. Yes, being awake at 5 a.m. unable to sleep sucks, but when you’re in a comfy king size bed propped up on about 18 pillows and watching reruns of Angel and Charmed, it seems that much more bearable*.

So, when LK mentioned last week that he had a fantasy football draft on Sunday and would be gone for most of the day, I ran around the living room screaming, “Whee.”

I had really big plans for the day. I’m trying to fix up my closet, getting rid of stuff I don’t wear, finding a way to deal with all the shoes, and organizing my wardrobe in preparation for the new job. I have a zillion papers to go through and file. And I wanted start watching one of my birthday gifts, Season 1 of Charmed. (I figured I could accomplish the first two while having the third on in the background.)

Then LK informed me that the draft might not be happening. “But you promised,” I wailed. Then a few hours later, the draft was suddenly back on, and I heaved a sigh of relief. He left around noon on Sunday, and I began my big day.

Then my mother called. She had just returned from an ill-advised trip with my Alzheimer’s- and osteoporosis-ridden grandmother. Once a year, she takes my grandmother to her old apartment in New York City. Once my grandmother gets there, she doesn’t want to leave, and there’s always an unpleasant scene when it’s time to come home**. Anyway, I was feeling bad for my mother, so when she asked if I wanted to go to brunch, I said sure. I mean, how long can brunch take, I thought to myself in a fit of optimism.

I had forgotten how long everything takes with my mother. You could blame it on everything being slower because of my ever-shrinking grandmother, but even before she was in the picture, everything with my mother took forever. A trip to the store that would take most people 30 minutes is like 90 minutes for her. I left my place around 1:30. I got back home at 6. As I walked in the door, the phone was ringing. It was LK, telling me that he was on his way home. And just like that, my entire day had evaporated. I’m totes bitter.

*Some people get excited about the music and food in Austin. Me, I get excited about being able to watch the Angel episode where Lindsey gets his evil hand at 5 a.m. We all have our small pleasures.
**As you can imagine, pretty much everyone in my mother’s life thinks these trips are a bad idea.

The Detritus of My Life

2007-08-23T00:28:00.001+01:00

I’ll be starting a new job in a couple of weeks. I’ve begun the to process of cleaning out my office. It’s going to be quite a project since I haven’t exactly kept the place in order, and I’ve been in it for a long time.

Here are some things I’ve thrown out so far:

A list of doctors on our insurance plan that was many years out of date

Files from my predecessor that I don’t think I’ve ever looked at

Wall calendars from 2004 and 2005. One had scary pictures of antique dolls and the other pictures of demented looking fairies (they were gifts). I’ve saved the 2003 and 2006 calendars because I like the pictures. Did I mention that my home is chaos too?

A flower pot that’s been empty for 3 years, ever since someone took pity on the dead plant in my office and disposed of it (although if you would think they might have disposed of the pot as well. Perhaps they left it behind to remind me of the plant I killed. It didn’t work since I only just realized it’s still here).

A poster of the 1999-2000 Caps lineup. Adam Oates is like retired now, right?

A hotel bill and other receipts from a conference I attended. In 1999.

A 2002 day planner. Flipping through this item revealed that my life used to be a lot more exciting.

A bottle of conditioner (in case I ever felt the need for some deep conditioning while at work?).

A list of songs that I was apparently making for a mixed CD. Although the list is so old that it might have been a mixed tape.

I found a shopping bag that I apparently carted down from my previous office when I moved into this one 5 years ago and never looked in. I'm really organized.

Here are some of the other gems that have turned up in my clean-up:

A Caps water bottle (never used, I think)

What appears to be a Lego action figure with a sword in one hand and a gun in the other. Totally ready for action

A knife

A gift bag with a pink poodle on it.

An ancient mail scale

The Sound of Music on VHS

A slinkee

A photo album that I think I bought as a gift but never got around to giving

Did I mention that I’m a packrat? I can't wait to start over again in a new office with no crap.

Building the Perfect Playlist

2007-08-22T03:34:00.000+01:00

Back when I first got my Ipod, I became completely obsessed with the idea of playlists, and I tried to categorize everything I own within Itunes. I’ve calmed down a bit, but I still make a new playlist several times a month.

My Ipod is an essential part of my walk to work (it helps keeps my pedestrian rage in check), and I like to have playlists that are good for commuting. My walk to work takes about 45 minutes, so an ideal playlist will have 10 to 12 songs, depending on length (or 20 to 24 songs, if I want to continue listening to the playlist on my way home). The songs should be fast and/or upbeat as I find that I walk faster to those kinds of songs. The occasional slower song is ok as long as it’s bookended by two perkier songs. Depressing songs don’t work at all. (I put “Lay Me Down” by the Connells on a playlist recently and found myself walking at a snail’s pace. And wanting to cry. Not the best way to start the day.)

This my latest playlist. I’m still not 100% satisfied with it, but it keeps me pretty happy during the walk to work.

1. Ring of Fire – Social Distortion
2. Manifesto No. 1 – Shooter Jennings
3. Throw Your Arms Around Me – Hunters and Collectors
4. Handsome Man – Robbie Williams
5. Spirit Boy – Kane
6. The Funeral – Band of Horses
7. Ruby – Kaiser Chiefs
8. Paperweight – Joshua Radin and Schuyler Fisk
9. Better to Be – Liam Finn
10. Shade and Honey – Alessandro Nivola
11. Always Something There to Remind Me – Naked Eyes

(Two songs were cut from my original version of this playlist: “Pour Le Monde” by Crowded House, which was cut for not being peppy enough, and “You Make My Dreams” by Hall and Oates, which apparently made it onto the list during a temporary loss of sanity.)

Here’s one that I’ve been listening to for the last couple of months:

1. Crimson and Clover – Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
2. Rest in Peace – James Marsters
3. 4th of July – X
4. Don’t Cry Out – Shiny Toy Guns
5. More Than a Feeling – Boston
6. Pictures in an Exhibition – Death Cab for Cutie
7. Here Comes My Baby – Cat Stevens
8. Rootless Tree – Damien Rice
9. Bonnie and Clyde – Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot
10. How Soon Is Now – Love Spit Love
11. Thrown Away – Vast

This playlist is pretty awesome because it starts off with oneof my favorite songs ever, hits a bitchen 70s note in the middle, and ends on a gothy note, with some good stuff in between.

And for days when I’m feeling a little angry or really don’t want to go to work, I have the perfect punk playlist. Yes, it gets me all riled up, but in a good way.

1. Career Opportunities – the Clash
2. EMI – the Sex Pistols
3. Steppin Stone – Minor Threat
4. I Wanna Be Sedated – the Ramones
5. What Do I Get? – the Buzzcocks
6. Warsaw – Joy Division
7. The Modern World – the Jam
8. Psycho Killer – Talking Heads
9. Teenage Kicks – the Undertones
10. X Offender – Blondie
11. Love Song – the Damned
12. I Don’t Like Mondays – Boomtown Rats
13. Mannequin – Wire
14. Shot by Both Sides – Magazine
15. Adult Books – X
16. I Love a Man in Uniform – Gang of Four
17. New Rose – the Damned
18. Out of Step – Minor Threat
19. Roadrunner – the Modern Lovers
20. Search and Destroy – the Stooges
21. Ready Steady Go – Generation X
22. Hong Kong Garden – Siouxie and the Banshees
23. Train in Vain – the Clash
24. Down in the Tube Station at Midnight – the Jam

A Shopping Odyssey

2007-08-21T02:36:00.000+01:00

I used to love shopping. I could do it for hours at a time and not get bored. But lately, my tolerance for shopping has gotten dangerously low.

I usually shop alone. Going solo seems to work best for me since I can work on my own time frame, although it is helpful to have a friend around to give me an honest opinion. (I did have a friend who was great to shop with, because we have about the same tolerance level for shopping and we would get bored or annoyed around the same time. But she moved to another country.) I’ve given up shopping with my mother because she insists on coming into the dressing room with me or standing right outside and peeping in. Then she criticizes everything as “too revealing” or “too tight” (which from her means that it actually fits). She might as well tell me I’m dressing like a hooker (which I really don’t). It’s hard with my mother since our fashion aesthetics are light years apart. She wears nothing but neutral colored, buttoned-up, tailored, somewhat mannish clothes (think Annie Hall, but better tailored). Her neck and legs rarely see the light of day. I tend to wear actual colors and prints, and my neck and legs are often displayed.

As I have a good excuse to buy some new clothes (more on that later), I went out this weekend to do a little shopping. I had one specific goal in mind, getting a black pencil skirt, and I was open to anything else that popped up. So, off I went to Georgetown.

My first stop was Sephora. I just needed some grapefruit body scrub and a new eyebrow brush. Sometimes I get a little overwhelmed by Sephora. And this time, every 30 seconds an overly perky Sephora employee would accost me and ask if I needed any help. Over and over again. There were more employees than customers. I bought my items and beat a hasty retreat. I had walked to Georgetown and was hot and sweaty and no I really didn’t want to try a new eye shadow/lip gloss/blush. It’s probably a sign that I shouldn’t be shopping when 10 minutes in Sephora nearly brings on a panic attack.

My next stop was Club Monaco, which was nearly empty and much more low key. But I didn’t find much to interest me.

Then I headed to Zara, where I found 9 items to try on. And none of them worked. I remembered why I don’t own a pencil skirt: they look ridiculous on me. There must be something off about my waist/hip ratio, because if the skirt fits my hips, it gapes on my waist and vice versa. So, I scratched the pencil skirts. I did find one blouse that I liked, but it had some drawbacks: the fit on the top was a little off and I’m not sure it could be tailored to fit. And the shirt had approximately 42 buttons with loop closures that were a real pain in the ass to open and close, and I can only imagine how annoying they could be when I’m running late for work. So, the blouse went back on the shelf. I can’t stop thinking about it though. The Zara dressing rooms have bright, white walls and awful fluorescent lighting that gives my skin a lovely green tone. I realize it’s not exactly a high-end store, but I can’t understand why stores don’t make a little more effort with the dressing rooms. Better lighting would make me more likely to buy things.

French Connection was my next stop. The clothes were extremely meh, but I did end buying a very cute necklace that turned out to be half price.

I wandered down to Anthropologie and just walking through the doors made me feel better. It’s rather soothing. Unlike every other store I had entered, the music was pretty mellow and not pulsating disco beats (don’t get me wrong, I love pulsating disco beats most of the time, but when I’m frazzled and trying desperately to find items of clothing that don’t seem to exist, it just makes me anxious). And it always smells really good in there. I had no trouble finding lots of things I wanted to buy. Trying on the clothes was almost blissful. The dressing room walls are a soothing beige, and the light isn’t harsh. It made everything look better. I walked out of there with three dresses, and I could have bought two more, but I tried to restrain myself. I may have to go back though.

I considered checking out some of the non-chain stores at that point, but I decided to pass because 1) I was exhausted and frazzled, 2) having had success at Anthropologie, it seemed perhaps best to quit while I was ahead, and 3) I had probably done enough damage to my bank account for one weekend.

So, I killed some time flipping through magazines at Barnes and Noble and then met Lord Kissington for lunch. A glass of Sauvignon Blanc did much to soothe my shattered nerves. Not so soothing—the realization that I am still in need of several crucial items that will likely necessitate long shopping excursions in the near future.

This latest shopping excursion brought home several points: 1) pencil skirts don’t work on me, 2) I really like dresses and would be happy to wear one everyday, and 3) shopping makes me insane.

Sidewalk Makeovers

2007-08-20T02:06:00.000+01:00

Do you ever wish you could just walk up to people on the street and politely point out their sartorial errors? For years, I have been doing impromptu makeovers in my mind of people I see on the street. Like, she has a pretty face, but she needs a much less brassy haircolor. Or, that skirt really isn’t doing that poor girl any favors. Or, really wanting to say something to a long-ago co-worker who wore clunky white pumps with black tights year-round (and it seems she still does). An ex-boyfriend thought that this tendency made me a horrible person*. I tried to explain that I did it out of a sense of wanting everyone to look their best, which is quite noble of me, no?

His response: “Maybe they don’t want your help!”

To which I replied, “They may not want it, but they certainly need it.”

He remained unconvinced. He also wore Tevas with socks, so his judgment in such matters was sorely lacking. As was mine for ever dating him. In my defense, it was the 90s.

I would never actually stop anyone to tell them all the things that are wrong with their outfits, because I’m really a very polite person and I have no wish to hurt anyone’s feelings or be beaten senseless by sensitive strangers.

And sometimes I just try to ignore everyone I see on the street with a live and let live attitude. Hey, if they’re happy looking like that, why should I be bothered? But there are some days when I see so many mishaps that I just can’t turn off the makeover button.

Here are a few of the things I might have said to people I saw the other day:

1. To the man in the madras shorts: Sir, I understand that you may really like madras. It’s got that whole preppie/I’m off to go sailing vibe, but you have a bubble butt, and madras was not created for the bubble butts of the world. The plaid is actually straining across your girth. Let’s try a solid color next time.

2. To the man in the hemmed jean shorts: No no no! My eyes! Then I would have run screaming in horror. How do these shorts still exist?

3. To the young woman with the VPL: I understand this one completely; we’ve all been guilty of it at one time or another. But that skirt is too clingy and your ass too loose**, and the VPL is just so out there. Proper undergarments will solve this problem. There’s a valuable lesson here: always look (or have someone else look) at your backside before you leave the house. (Then she turned around and I got a look at the “I just stepped in something disgusting” look she was sporting, and I thought that perhaps she had bigger issues than VPL.)

4. To the young woman in the strapless sundress: Yes, I see the cardigan in your hand, and I’m sure you’re going to put it on as soon as you get to work, but that dress really isn’t appropriate for the workplace, and that cardigan actually doesn’t match it. And the dress needs a good ironing. Also, it’s creating rolls of back fat (see above lesson about the backside). On the plus side, you have very nice legs, so I’d recommend an outfit that emphasizes those.

*Sadly, this was just one of many tendencies that he found “horrible.”
**I would say this in the kindest possible tone, as my ass is none too firm these days, but I make every effort to disguise that fact.

Conversations with My Mother

2007-08-17T23:58:00.000+01:00

Whenever my mother is flying anywhere, she likes to call me right before the plane takes off. Sometimes she wants to tell me where all of her important financial papers are (in a Talbot’s shopping bag apparently) just in case “the plane crashes” and “I die.” She has an obsession with death (although I notice that she quickly changes the subject whenever I ask her to tell me exactly how much money I can expect to inherit at her imminent demise).

Today, she called me at 1:30 to tell me that she was on the plane. And that Katie Couric was sitting across from her.

My phone rang again at 4:20. I saw her number on the caller ID, but when I picked up the phone, she didn’t say anything. My mother has had a cell phone since 1996 but still hasn’t exactly mastered the use of them.

At 4:30, the phone rings again. The plane never took off. She’s still at National and is now on a second plane. Katie Couric is still there. Apparently, she’s going to miss her broadcast tonight. And she’s helping the flight attendants hand out water (“showoff,” I said). And she has really great legs. All very valuable information.

2007-08-13T23:44:00.000+01:00

Please excuse me while I get a touch sentimental. So, we were in Philadelphia this weekend to see Crowded House. Color me bitter that my most favoritest band of all time decides to reunite only to not play DC*. But Philadelphia is a mere three hours away, so all was good. Or would have been had the trip there not been the most harrowing ever. At one point, I may have said, “Did you mean to take us on a tour of the projects?” I’m really not a very nice person. (At a rest stop in Maryland, we ran into someone we hadn’t seen a while. He was surprised to hear that Crowded House actually has fans willing to travel to see them. I tried not to be bitter. I didn’t really succeed.)

But Neil Finn and company made up for the all the badness of the trip. They still sound amazing. How old does it make me feel that Neil’s son Liam was one of the opening bands (and plays with CH)? And how old does it make Neil feel? Lord Kissington and I were among the younger people there, except for small children accompanying their parents. Liam was really good (his voice sounds much like dear old dad’s), and I am kicking myself for not buying his album at the show, since it’s an import and crazy expensive on Amazon (it’s supposed to be coming out here at some point). I did find a live EP to download. Check him out.

I have approximately five all-time favorite Crowded House songs**, and as the show was drawing to a close, they had only played one of them (“Fall at Your Feet.” I am such a dork that I actually shed a couple of tears when they started playing it. Lord Kissington tried to pretend he wasn’t with me, which was hard since it was freezing and we were clinging to each other to preserve bodily warmth.). And I didn’t really expect to hear “Into Temptation” or “Nails in My Feet” since both of them are kind of downers. But I was still sort of sad that they weren’t playing my other two favorites. But then I had a total Nelson “Moon River” moment***. The second encore was “Mean to Me” and “Better Be Home Soon.” There might have been some tears.

I leave you with the video for “Into Temptation”

and my favorite lyrics from “Nails in My Feet” (I was going to include the video, but it’s really goofy and for some reason, Neil looks a lot like my mother in it, which is all kinds of disturbing, and now whenever I watch my Crowded House videos on DVD, I will be forced to skip over it.)

The savage review
It left me gasping
But it warms my heart to see that you can do it too
Total surrender
Your touch is so tender
Your skin is like water on a burning beach
And it brings me relief

*They played DC approximately 42 times during their original incarnation, but I always missed them for reasons such as not being allowed to go to shows in the city on weeknights and at least twice being out of the country when they played. It was tragic.
**I think pretty much all of their songs are genius, I just happen to think that these five are extra genius. And all five remind me of very specific periods in my life, hence the occasional tear.
***In the Simpsons episode where Bart gets a driver license, he, Milhouse, Nelson, and Martin rent a car and pretend that they are going to the National Grammar Rodeo at the Sheraton Hotel, Canada. They end up in Branson, Missouri, where Nelson insists that they go to see Andy Williams. At the end of Andy Williams’ show, Nelson has this rapturous look on his face and he says, “I didn’t think he was going to play ‘Moon River,” and then, bam! Second encore.”

This Is My 300th Post?

2007-08-01T02:23:00.001+01:00

When I logged on to Blogger to post this, I realized that this will be my 300th post. Sadly, I don't have a momentous post just for this moment. As you may have noticed if you haven’t given up visiting this blog entirely, there hasn’t been much content lately. I just haven’t had much to write about, and I’ve been extra lazy, so even when I do have something I could possibly wrangle into a blog post, I usually just say “eh” and lay on the couch instead. There is a serious Lady Tiara-shaped depression in said couch these days.

I recently saw a friend I hadn’t seen in over a year. She asked what was new. I had pretty much nothing to say.

I wish I could say that blogging has been light because of my busy involvement in

1. Saving the world.
2. Making macrame plant holders (betcha can’t wait until Christmas, people)
3. My nothing short of brilliant Saved by the Bell fan fiction.

Sadly, or perhaps fortunately for the last two, none of these things are true.

So, having not much going on and feeling a bit out of sorts, this weekend I fell back on an activity that always makes me feel better: getting rid of shit.

I threw out

3 skirts
6 tops
2 dresses
1 pair of pajama pants
5 pairs of old or ill-fitting or just plain ugly shoes

And that was just a start. It’s always very liberating for me to get rid of things. And during the process, I rediscovered a skirt I had forgotten I had (surely a sign that my closet is out of control). Sadly, the shoe progress that I made is mitigated by the three pairs of shoes I’ve purchased since Sunday. And the other two pairs I have my eye on probably won’t help (but surely it’s a sign when a pair of shoes that you’ve been eyeing is now on sale for less than half of the original price?).

Was That My Stomach Lining?

2007-07-29T02:54:00.000+01:00

So, I had my second stomach bug of the summer this week. Given the severity, I think this one actually qualifies as the stomach flu. The upside is that I lost 5 pounds. The downside:

1. I couldn’t get out of bed for two days (except for trips to the bathroom for vomit out every last scrap of food in my body) and didn’t leave the house for five days.
2. For the first 24 hours, I was so sick that I couldn’t even read or watch TV.
3. I didn’t put on real clothes until Friday*.
4. I’ve eaten nothing but white foods since Monday (white foods = saltines, plain pasta, plain rice, dry toast).
5. My hair and skin look awful, probably from the complete lack of nutrients the past week (white food not exactly swimming with nutritional goodness).
6. My mother, who is a professional hypochondriac, has been coming up with all sorts of horrible illnesses that she thinks I have. The top candidates: giardiasis (awesome) and hepatitis (even more awesome).

But did I mention that I lost five pounds?

I’m looking forward to an exciting weekend of reintroducing dairy and perhaps some vitamins to my diet.

*I realize there are many who would not think this was a bad thing, but I like clothes and getting dressed in them. I don’t really like spending five days in clothes that I would never wear in public.

Potterrific?

2007-07-20T23:03:00.000+01:00

I got into Harry Potter way back when. I think it 2001, and I know it was summer because I had started the first book and was reading it so fast that I stopped on my way to meet Uncle Dad at the big gay pool to buy the second book because I was almost done with the first one and I knew that I would just have to keep reading because I totally get addicted that way and I wouldn’t be able to enjoy a day at the pool if I didn’t have the book. Although I was way behind your average 8-year-old, I was way ahead of pretty much everyone I knew. I read books 1 through 3 in a very short span, and then was left hanging, what with the long wait for book 4.

I sparked an interest in several people, including Lord Kissington, bryc3, and my mother. By the time they all became completely obsessed, I was kind of over it, because it was taking forever for the books to come out, and I have the attention span of a 5-year-old. A 5-year-old with ADHD. I continued to see the movies, and I eventually got around to reading books 4 through 6, although none of them in a very timely fashion (something that drove LK and my friend Mary Ann crazy as it meant they couldn’t discuss them while I was around). And it will be a while before I get to the last book (preordered months ago by LK) since I will have to pry it out of his cold, dead hands.

LK, Maryann, and I saw the fifth movie last weekend. It was pretty good, although the viewing experience left somethnig to be desired. Uptown, get your AC working full blast. Parents, consider maybe not letting your kids get all hopped up on sugar right before a 2.5-hour movie. Teenager two seats down from me, when you have to pee during the climatic battle, just learn to hold it in.

I figured it was safe to go see the movie without my mother. She pretty much refuses to leave my Alzheimer’s-stricken grandmother alone, so it’s not like she goes to movies much. Apparently, I was wrong. She laid a major guilt trip on me yesterday, in which she said about 14 times, “I can’t believe you saw it on the first weekend” (meaning “I can’t believe you saw it without me”) and “I guess I’ll just have to wait for the DVD” (said with a plaintive sigh). I like to think of myself as a strong person, but I am no match for such an expert at passive aggression. The upshot: I will be spending an evening with my grandmother (something I certainly don't mind doing), while my husband takes my mother to the movie.

I informed LK about this last night: “Dude, enjoy your date with my mother.” Then I cackled like a hyena.

Beyond the guilt trip laying, my mother has another issue with the whole HP oeuvre: She refuses to accept the Harry/Ginny and Ron/Hermione romances. (I called Harry and Ginny way back in the second book, and I’ve been trying to tell her she’s on crack for years.) She told me that she heard that two characters die in the seventh book, and she’s hoping that it’s Ron and Ginny, so Harry and Hermione can end up together. I told her that was horrible (seeing as there’s a long list of nasty people one would rather see die a horrible death than the likable Weasley sibs, no?), and that she should probably join a message board, as she will probably find many likeminded 11-year-old girls with whom she can share her thoughts.

Not So Deep Thoughts

2007-07-13T03:06:00.000+01:00

My life seems to be settling into a pattern where something pretty good will happen, but will be quickly followed by something really awful. As I’m on a good cycle right now, I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, which isn’t the most restful way to live.

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My insomnia has reached epic proportions and now taking a toll on my skin, which is routinely erupting with tumor-sized pimples. This is unusual for me, since I am used to getting pimples maybe twice a year. It seems ridiculously unfair that one needs to worry about both pimples and wrinkles at the same time.

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I considered going to Fort Reno last night, but then realized that we had barely a scrap of food in the house, so we went grocery shopping instead. This is clearly a sign of getting old, or perhaps just being exceptionally lame. Or both. Sigh.

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After reading my last post, Lord Kissington has smugly pointed out that many of the actresses on his free pass/totally bangable/filling up the Netflix queue list are Oscar nominees and winners, while my list seems to tend more toward actors who maybe once appeared on a very special episode of Dawson’s Creek. I pointed out that it’s not really their award-winning talent that I’m interested in. He’s still awfully smug.

Queuing Up

2007-07-10T00:09:00.000+01:00

The Netflix queue presents a constant conundrum. Either I don’t look at it for three months, and we end up with totally random stuff that sits around for weeks because neither of us feel like watching it, or I micromanage it, updating it daily and adding more movies than I could ever hope to watch in the next year or so.*

I’ve noticed that on our Netflix queue, there are several distinct categories:

1. Movies that Lord Kissington adds that I would never watch in a million years. These are usually ultraviolent and/or star Bruce Campbell. Despite being told many times that Bruce Campbell is “awesome,” I still have no idea who he is. (I also refuse to watch anything with Billy Bob Thornton. I’m sure he’s a fine actor, but he scares the bejesus out of me, especially with his creepy new face**.)

2. Movies that I’ve added that Lord Kissington would never watch in a million years. Recent additions in this category include 13 Going on 30, What a Girl Wants, and Just Like Heaven. None of these would I have paid to see in a theater, but I’m all about them on Netflix.

3. Movies that we both actually want to see. This might be the smallest category. It usually includes recent releases that we missed in the theater and stuff with Tony Leung. I heart Tony Leung.

4. Movies that one of us put on the list and the other one will watch if they don’t have anything else to do.

5. Movies that neither of us remember putting on the list. This doesn’t happen too often, but when it does, it usually leads to an argument over who put this stupid movie on the list. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s usually me.

6. Movies that seem totally random but were added to the queue because they feature any of a number of (usually obscure) actors I find seriously bangable. Some of these could fall into category 2, but not all of them. LK doesn’t seem to mind this category and recently encouraged me to move some of these higher up on the queue so “you can watch them before you get bored with these guys, so we don’t have a repeat of the Sam Rockwell situation.”*** He’s a very understanding husband.

*I’m not as bad as my friend June, who actually maxed out her Netflix queue. Who knew the limit was 500? And how can one actually watch 500 movies? By never leaving the house again?
**If this face was the result of plastic surgery, he should sue his surgeon. If it’s just a symptom of the manorexia, eat a cheeseburger or 8 already.
***Fall 2005 saw a brief fascination with Sam Rockwell where I added many of
his earlier films to the list. They were so far down that they didn’t show up for almost a year, at which point, I was totally like, “Why the hell did I want to watch this?” LK thinks I’m fickle. He’s probably right.

Celebrating in a Different Way

2007-07-06T11:50:00.000+01:00

The 4th of July is pretty much my least favorite holiday ever. Not because I hate America. I’m totally down with the whole U.S. of A. thing, and I think fireworks pretty much rock. It’s just that July 4 has been a uniformly shitty day for me. I’ve been almost crushed to death, relationships have imploded, and one ex chose that day to say “I’m really unhappy and it’s all your fault.” So, after many lousy 4th’s, I’ve learned to lay low on the day and not attempt anything major, lest I get food poisoning, or crushed, or dumped.

Yesterday, I celebrated by eating French food* and purchasing this item**:

When I saw it in the soon to be closing Second Story Books in Bethesda (65% off everything!), I did a little dance of glee. Lord Kissington said, “Wow. Show tunes and disco. It’s like Christmas for you.” There was no price tag, but I knew it had to be mine regardless of price. Imagine my delight when I took it to the counter and was told the price was 50 cents. 50 cents, people! I would have paid octuple that amount.

*Before anyone gets all “freedom fries” face about that, may I remind you that they’ve been on our side in all the major wars, and their support was crucial to American success in the Revolutionary War. I think that eating a Croque Monsieur and drinking French wine is a fine way to celebrate freedom and independence. Or to celebrate anything for that matter.
**Apologies for the poor photo. It really doesn't capture the fabuloisty of this item.

In the “Be Careful What You Wish for” Category

2007-06-28T04:03:00.000+01:00

The other day, a friend and I were discussing various stomach ailments one could get while traveling abroad and the resultant weight loss, and I expressed regret that I never seem to get stomach viruses anymore, and how it would be an easy way to drop a few pounds.

I lived to regret those words not long afterward, when I threw up for 7 hours straight. Apparently, the universe heard me and decided to laugh in my face. I haven’t been that sick since I was a kid. It was so bad that I had to keep a bucket next to the bed since I was too weak to make it to the bathroom half of the time.

The last few days have not been the most fun ever. Here are some things I am totes sick of: flat coke, saltines, and dry toast. I’m trying to get back to regular, non-bland, non-carb food now. I am craving protein or anything with taste really.

And the kicker: I don’t think I’ve lost any weight. Thanks for nothing, universe. Why do you hate me?

Summer Notes

2007-06-21T03:14:00.000+01:00

My least favorite thing about summer (and there are many) is the extra-smelly garbage trucks. They pass me every day, and when I seem them coming, I hold my breath until they’ve passed in an effort not to smell the stench. I did this yesterday when one passed me by. I managed to hold my breath for another half a block. When I breathed in the stench hit me hard. And continued to hit me for another block and a half. That is some powerful stench.

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My cute, new, walk-to-work flats have apparently already bitten the dust after less than two months. I realized this when I got to work this morning and went to change my shoes. My feet started the morning off perfectly clean. They were now covered with black grime. The flats have small open panels and apparently these panels let in massive amounts of dirt, which have now become ground into the interior of the shoe and transfer to my feet every time I wear them. It’s revolting. I am totes bitter. I am a little OCD about dirty feet in the summertime, and scrubbing my feet is pretty much the first thing I do when I get home in the evening.

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The other day I was walking behind a woman wearing a cute jersey wrap dress. Unfortunately, this woman (like me) had a not so firm ass. There was VPL and jiggling and jersey catching in the fold of flesh at the top of her underpants. I felt bad for her as I’m sure the dress looked good from the front when she put it on. I made a mental list of things to remember about wearing jersey.

1. Proper undergarments are key.
2. Always check out your backside in the mirror before leaving the house.
3. It’s not enough to ask “Does this make me look fat?” You need more specific questions like, “Do I have VPL?”, “Is there visible jiggling?”, and “Is this dress sticking to my fat ass?”

Thank You for Not Mentioning That Thing on My Face

2007-06-15T01:56:00.000+01:00

I was at CVS the other day morning, picking up a few necessities, wearing my Ipod and trying to ignore the masses of humanity around me. “The Lady Is a Tramp” by Frank Sinatra played, and it was just so peppy and jazzy that I totally wanted to bust out a couple of dance moves. I refrained, but I realized as I was walking out of the store that this was the Dupont Circle CVS, and I’d have to do something a lot more extreme than dance if I wanted to get anyone’s attention. Like maybe vomit blood.

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I considered working from home yesterday because of a massive growth on my face. And by “massive growth,” I mean “enormous pimple.” This is completely unfair. I am too old to still have pimples. To be honest, aging completely sucks, but one benefit should be a complete and utter lack of pimples. This pimple is of the unfortunate variety that I only get every 5 years or so. It’s big, it’s red, it’s throbbing (actually painful), and it’s impossible to hide, being that it’s smack dab in the middle of my cheek. The concealer helps a bit with the redness, but all the concealer in the world can’t hide the fact that there is a very three-dimensional entity poking out of my cheek. Lord Kissington has been nice enough not to remark on it, but it probably helped that I left the house before Blindy McCan’tSee put in his contacts. I would try medicating it in some way, but all anti-pimple creams do for me is dry the skin around the pimple out while leaving the pimple throbbingly intact.

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In sad DC-related news, the venerable Reeves Bakery and Restaurant closed last Friday. Reeves has been a DC institution for since 1886 years. When I was just a wee tot, my dad used to take me to the original Reeves (which was a really amazing place that sadly burned down sometime in the in this amazing old building that burned down sometimes in the 80s). They had these awesome ham salad sandwiches. Their cakes, pies, and doughnuts were to die for. They vacated their last location because of problems with the lease and are currently looking for a new location. Here’s hoping they find one soon.

This Lamp Better Have a Genie Inside

2007-06-14T01:56:00.000+01:00

My mother has issues with driving on highways (even on the GW Parkway, which barely qualifies as a highway). Her highway phobia isn’t as crazy as it sounds (i.e., there are reasons for it that I won’t get into, because, ummh, they’re just not that interesting), but it does mean that there are a lot of places she can’t get to. She left a lamp at a lamp store in Old Town to be repaired about six months ago. The lamp store has (not surprisingly) been calling her and asking her to come get it. So, she asked me to do it. Lord Kissington and I went out to Old Town on Saturday. While we were out there, we had brunch (which included mimosas, a key ingredient in making the whole day slightly more bearable). Then we drove to the lamp store. As soon as I handed the woman who runs the store my claim ticket, she said,

“I called you about the lamp, right?”

I explained that she had called my mother, not me, because I do not want to be known as a person who sends her lamps out for repair and doesn’t pick them up for 6 months. I can be a person who wanders into a lampstore and gets really giggly about finials because she just had a couple of mimosas at brunch, however.

She goes off to the back to look for the lamp. She comes back 10 minutes later, telling us that she can’t find it. She goes off to look again. She returns empty-handed. She keeps asking if my mother could have already picked it up, and I explain that this is impossible. My cell rings. It’s my mother calling, so I go outside to take the call. I tell her that they seem to have lost the lamp. She’s dumbfounded. It turns out she was just calling for… some completely boring, unrelated reasons that I’ll spare you from. She also describes the lamp as a “ginger jar lamp.” I have absolutely no idea what that means. I go back into the store. Lord Kissington has now disappeared. Apparently, he’s in the back helping the woman look for the lamp, which is totally insane since he has no idea what the lamp looks like, other than that it’s peach.

They didn’t find the lamp, of course. We left the store and decided to drive to Pentagon City because I (apparently feeling supremely masochistic) wanted to stop by the mall. After 20 minutes at the mall, we were both frazzled and cranky (but I did get a free lipgloss at Sephora!). We had split up to go to different stores and had both become quickly overwhelmed by the crowds and general ickiness. It took us a while to find each other, since our phones didn’t work in the mall. As we were heading back to the car, I noticed that my mother had left me multiple messages.

Lo and behold, they had found the lamp. So, we drove back to Old Town. Only when we arrived, it had been temporarily misplaced. Again. But they did manage to locate it after a few minutes. We paid for the repairs and left. I came really close to smashing the stupid lamp on the sidewalk outside the store. Clearly, I have anger issues. On our way back, some friends called and invited us over for drinks. Like the mimosas at brunch, this went a long way toward making the day bearable.

I'm Just Not Feeling This Movie

2007-06-08T02:50:00.000+01:00

The other night we watched Laurel Canyon. It’s one of those films that I always sort of meant to see but never got around to it. It finally came up on the Netflix queue. It’s not a bad movie, it has some awesome music, and it made me think that living in LA wouldn’t be bad if one could live in Laurel Canyon, which looks awesome (the house is the movie is to die for). But for the most part, the movie just seems wildly implausible.

(Warning: spoilers for this 4-year-old movie follow.)

For example, at one point, Kate Beckinsale’s character does a shot and promptly strips down to her bra and boys shorts, hops into the pool, and starts making out with her boyfriend’s mother and her boyfriend’s mother boyfriend. I don’t think there are enough shots in the world to ever make me think that’s a good idea (especially when your boyfriend’s mother is Frances McDormand).

Earlier in the movie, Kate Beckinsale tries to go down on her boyfriend (Christian Bale, looking surprisingly not hot for some reason—possibly his really awful hair). He says no, because he’s “tired.” Lord Kissington was incredulous.

Lord Kissington: Kate Beckinsale offers him a blow job and he says no?!
Me: This movie just lost you, didn’t it?
LK: I’m going to fold the laundry.

The movie did have the saving grace of the very hot Alessandro Nivola, who sings a really amazing song (that plays over the end credits).

Random Again

2007-06-06T01:20:00.000+01:00

1. I’ve been quite distracted lately, hence the lack of posting. Just how off my normal self I am was made clear to me this weekend. As I made half-hearted attempts to straighten up the bedroom, I found a pile of magazines and realized that the last three issues of Vogue have gone basically unread. This is unheard of for me. I’m not sure if it’s me or if it’s the increasing lameness of Vogue. I have to admit that when the last issue arrived, I said, “Hmmh, Keira Knightley. Again?” and tossed it into a pile. Still, I’m inclined to think it’s me, since the last few weeks of US Weekly haven’t brought me my usual level of schadenfreude. (Seriously, a cover story about a baby? Perhaps in 16 or 17 years when Shiloh is puking outside nightclubs and dating daddy’s aging Lothario friends, she’ll be worth the cover, but now? In a week when Paris is off to the pokey and Lindsay was arrested, I expected more.)

2. Another reason for the lack of posting is that I’ve actually been trying to write some fiction, and my, err, creative energies have been focused in that direction. The stuff I am working on is still in a very early gestational stage, and I’ve forbidden Lord Kissington from reading any of it. To that end, every time he comes near me when I’m working on the computer, I stand up or minimize Word or flail around flapping my arms in front of the monitor so he can’t see anything. He’s invariably offended by this sort of behavior, as he had made no attempt to read anything. I started to wonder why I was so paranoid, and I realized that it’s because if the situation were reversed, I would be insanely curious and would have a very difficult time keeping myself from sneaking a peek. Clearly, he is a far better human being than I am.

3. I recently found, for a low low price, a collection of extended dance remixes of Depeche Mode songs. For me, this is like being caressed by angels. For Lord Kissington, not so much.

4. NIH is apparently *still* under the mistaken impression that I am in menopause, as they have asked me to join another study. I have no idea why this is the case. People, I am not getting any younger, but I am still far from menopause age. Actually, they are quite lucky I am not menopausal, as if I were, I would probably take my hot-flashy menopausal ass down to their headquarters, smack someone with the tasteful card they sent me inviting me to join their study, and scream, “I’m not old enough for this” over and over again.

Randomness

2007-06-04T23:24:00.000+01:00

1. Can someone please explain to me why, even though I quit smoking over 5 years ago, and DC bars are now smoke free, I woke up Sunday feeling like someone had sandpapered the inside of my throat. It’s just not fair, people.

2. I spent most of Sunday in bed. Every 3 or 4 months, my stomach rebels against my daily treatment of it. It holds up a white flag, screams “no mas,” and subjects me to excruciating pain for no apparent reason. The only way to deal with this is to spend the day in bed, groaning and eating bland food. I crawled out of bed and attempted to eat breakfast, which left me writing in pain on the couch. I soon returned to my bed, equipped with lots of magazines and DVDs. Sadly, The Princess Diaries was not nearly as entertaining as I had hoped*, although it did elicit the same response from both Lord Kissington and me: “Damn, Julie Andrews still looks pretty good.” (I have to put in a disclaimer, lest Lord Kissington want guest post privileges to rebut me: He wasn’t actually watching it, he just happened to wander into the room when Miss Andrews was on screen.)

3. Lord Kissington has excitedly informed me that next year, Lost won’t be coming on until the second half of the season, which will give me “plenty of time to watch season 3 on DVD!” I stopped watching after the first couple of episodes last fall, which would mean I have about 17 or 18 to watch (although I do know some major plot points from wandering in and out of the room while he was watching). Is it even worth going back? The few episodes I watched made me want to throw things at the TV.

4. This morning, I trotted out of the house with freshly shaven, extra-moisturized legs. When I arrived at work, I looked down to find them covered with mud splatters (almost up to my knee on the right leg). Had I inadvertently walked through a field on my commute? Not likely in my neighborhood. How did I not notice all this mud splashing on me? Apparently, the moisturizer really helped the mud cling. Very attractive.

5. I almost took a header off a bar stool on Saturday night, having caught my heel on a rung, but I somehow managed to not end up face first on the floor. It wasn’t particularly graceful, but it wasn’t completely embarrassing either. I should add that I was sober.

6. Did anyone else hate Spiderman III as much as I did? All I could think at the end of it was “that’s 10 bucks and 2.5 hours of my life I’ll never get back.” Hint to the filmmakers: introducing a new character as a potential romantic foil doesn’t really work when the new character appears to be mentally challenged. (An out-of-control beam is heading for the window you’re standing in front of, so you, of course, walk toward the window?) Also, any movie that messes up James Franco’s pretty, pretty face is just wrong. So wrong.

*An ongoing issue with having such a long Netflix queue is that all those movies I put on there in a flush of enthusiasm 18 months ago no longer seem quite so watchable now. After watching this one, I moved The Princess Diaries 2 (which was next on the list) far far down (I couldn’t quite bring myself to delete it; it probably has something to do with my love for Julie Andrews). When it shows up in another two years, maybe I’ll be more in the mood for it.

Not That I'm Anxious or Anything, but...

2007-05-25T01:38:00.000+01:00

All work and no sleep makes Lady Tiara a dull girl (and kind of a raving bitch). My insomnia has shifted into high gear lately. I have the insomnia trifecta: trouble falling asleep when you first get into bed, frequent waking up in the middle of the night, and waking up really early. Most people have one type. I get them all, over the course of the night. I’m extremely grumpy, and I’m beginning to wonder how long a person can go with only 4 to 5 hours of sleep a night. (If you are one of those type-A personalities who can get by on only 4 hours a night indefinitely, I really don’t want to hear about it.) So, a combination of lots of stress and not enough sleep has made life exceptionally dull lately, hence the lack of posts.

But for the last few days, I was in Austin for work, so that finally gives me something to write about (posts and not very exciting photos to come). The whole process of traveling adds to my insomnia: 1) I get stressed out before traveling, so I lie awake at night making lists in my head of everything I need to do or pack, or I have nasty anxiety dreams about missing planes, and 2) I have trouble sleeping in strange beds.

I have been trying to figure out why traveling makes me so anxious. I like traveling in general. I love going new places. And I’m not particularly afraid of flying. While waiting in the Austin airport, I started making a list in my head and I’ve taken somewhere around 160 flights. My first flight was when I was 4. My first international flight was when I was 5. I am a fairly seasoned traveler. But two things give me pause.

1) Flying makes me feel all eurgh. I have severe motion sickness. I threw up on every domestic flight I took from ages 4 to 13. (For some reason, this never happened on the international flights since I would generally fall asleep five minutes after take-off. I suspect the use of drugs, for which I can’t really blame the adults.) I still often feel like puking when I fly, although I am usually able to hold it together. (Still, the first thing I do when I take my seat is check the seat pocket for the barf bag. I like to be prepared.) I also get severe pain and pressure in my ears, which feels like someone jabbing a letter opener into my eardrums. It’s awesome.

2) I absolutely refuse to ever miss a plane or be rushed in any way, so I like to get to the airport really early. For example, my flight to Austin was Saturday at 12:30. I woke up at 7 a.m. and threw a few last-minute things into my already packed bag. I was in the car at 9:15. I arrived at the airport at 10, and I was checked in and through security by 10:30. For a 12:30 flight. Yes, I know this is totally insane, but it’s all my mother’s fault. When I was a kid, she was late for every flight she ever took. She’s the woman running through the airport rushing to make her plane. Every time. And I was the kid she was dragging behind her. I hated this. I never understood why we just couldn’t leave earlier for the airport. Or why we had to wait until the last possible minute to call a cab. Once, when I was 7, I stopped running and said to her, “Someday I’ll be a grown-up, and I won’t have to fly with you anymore, and I’m never going to miss a plane or have to run through the airport. I’ll be on time!” She just rolled her eyes, but I stuck to that resolution. I’ve never missed a plane, and I’ve never had to run through an airport (except for last year’s unfortunate incident at Charles de Gaulle, but that was entirely the fault of Air France, a.k.a., the bastards who wouldn’t let a couple on their honeymoon sit together). So, I blame most of this on my mother (to be fair, my father also likes to get to the airport with a few hours to spare, so it may be something in my genetic makeup).

I'm a Slob/Killer Bees

2007-05-11T01:25:00.000+01:00

When I arrived home from work last night, Lord Kissington was at the hospital visiting his sister, who had her third baby yesterday (congrats and a big thanks for taking the pressure off me for a while, sister-in-law). He told me that our friend Ward might be stopping by to pick up a CD. I said, yeah, sure, and flopped on the couch to flip through the new Lucky and watch Guiding Light. Ward called a little while later and said he’d be there in a few minutes. And then I looked around the apartment and realized that it wasn’t exactly in visitor-receiving condition.

You see, I’ve kind of been letting things go recently. I’ve been uber-lazy and it’s just so much trouble to actually pick up after myself. And Lord Kissington barely notices and apparently has no issue with living in squalor. But when I realized that someone was going to see the place, I felt a sudden sense of shame and shifted into overgear, trying to fix the worst of it. I removed the drying rack that was covered with bras from the foyer (I know, I know, but really, the foyer is just wasted space and I don’t have anywhere else to put the rack). I grabbed my strapless bra off the computer desk (the damn bra was bothering me so much the other night that I just reached under my shirt and pulled it off. A less slovenly person would have then deposited it in the hamper, but that’s just not me.). I threw the pile of shoes in the dining room into the bedroom. Sadly, I neglected to clean up the pile of US Weekly’s on the couch (which were only there because I was going through a bunch of old magazines and was going to throw them out and totally not because I was planning to cut them up to make a shrine to Paris/Lindsey/Britney or anything like that. I swear.), but I’m hoping he didn’t notice them.

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While at work today, I saw something swirling around outside my window. Out of the corner of my eye, it sort of looked like snow, which didn’t seem very plausible seeing as it’s May and kind of hot out. Upon closer inspection, whatever was swirling seemed sort of yellow, so I figured it was some sort of plant material, like massive floating chunks of pollen. But it wasn’t. The floating things were a huge swarm of bees darting around. Which is just fantastic. Ummh, hello, universe? I don’t have enough things keeping me awake at night? Now I need to worry about swarms of killer bees? Awesome.

The Tiara of the Moment

2007-05-09T03:02:00.000+01:00

With a blog titled Tiaras Optional, I would be remiss if I did not comment on Queen Elizabeth’s tiara at Tuesday night’s state dinner. Sadly, she wore one of my least favorite tiaras from her large collection. She wears it fairly often, so I’m guessing it’s one of her favorites. I was hoping for the Hannover diamond tiara (the tiara she wore at her wedding), which is a spike tiara (modeled after the Russian kokoshnik, traditional headdress). The one she wore is certainly glittery, and she had lots of other glitter, in her necklace (three strands of big diamonds) and earrings. (I can’t give the name of the tiara, as the fantastic site I used as a reference is no longer available and it’s one of the few British tiaras not mentioned in the fabulous book Tiaras: A History of Splendour, which holds a place of honor on my shelves.) Although the British royal family has probably the largest collection of tiaras of all the royal families, I much prefer the Swedish and Norwegian collections, which have some truly stunning examples.

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I need your help, readers who read. I would like some book recommendations, as I will be on a business trip later this month, and I’d like to be well stocked with reading material. On my last business trip, I got through 3 or 4 books (there was a lot of downtime), so please recommend anything you think I might like. Unfortunately, I’ve been in one of my not reading phases for the last few months, so I don’t have my normal pile of “stuff to read next.” I go through these phases every once in a while. Normally, I probably read two to five books a month (depending on time and length/difficulty of book), but since the beginning of the year, I’ve read maybe 6 books total. This is worrying me a bit. It might have something to do with the insane amount of TV shows on DVDs that I’ve been watching lately, which has cut into my reading time.

I received about 8 books for Christmas. I’ve read only one of them. I suppose I could bring some of them with me on my trip, but they’re not necessarily the kind of books I want to travel with. The kind of books I’m looking for are lightweight, engrossing, not terribly thought-provoking (do I really want to be awake all night in a hotel room pondering the implications of an airborne toxic event?), and not scary (I don’t want to be awake all night thinking a serial killer is under my bed either). So, if you have any recommendations along those lines, please let me know.

Those Shoes Just Don't Seem Appropriate for This Situation

2007-05-08T02:52:00.000+01:00

It is perhaps a testament to my extreme laziness that I am getting around to writing about my weekend now, although I could easily have done so during the many hours that I spent sat around over the weekend. However, that would have interfered with my precious TV time.

1. We went to the Arcade Fire show on Friday. Like many things that I get ridiculously psyched for and then have to wait a long time to happen, I no longer cared about the show by the time it actually arrived. Thankfully, Arcade Fire broke through my ennui. They are fucking awesome live. There are about 28 people in the band (Lord Kissington has helpfully told me that he counted 10) and some of them play multiple instruments. Totes impressive. It even made me like the second album more.

2. Lord Kissington’s niece made her First Communion on Saturday, which put us in a church for the first time in ages. It seemed to go on forever. At one point during the sermon, his 6-year-old nephew said rather loudly, “Why is the priest talking about cars?” Everyone shushed him, but I was thinking the exact same thing. It was some sort of extended metaphor about learning to drive and taking Communion or something like that. I kind of zoned out somewhere in the middle.

I spent most of the Mass checking out what people were wearing. I know that standards of what is appropriate for Church have really dropped over the years, but since when are shorts (even the dreaded formal shorts) acceptable for this sort of event? The worst transgression was a woman wearing stripper shoes (and she appeared to be a grandmother to one of the little darlings). Yes, 5-inch, platform, completely see-through shoes (lucite heels, clear vinyl straps, etc.) that looked something like this. These shoes seem wildly inappropriate for an event that is happening in a house of worship and at 10 in the morning (I can’t help but think of these as evening shoes). Her shoes make baby Jebus cry.

3. Can anyone recommend a strapless bra that actually works (i.e., one that doesn’t compress my boobs, push them too far up toward my neck, or slide down)? I’m wearing one right now, and I had forgotten how much I hate them until I started having to readjust (an attractive and tres appropriate office activity, of course) it every five minutes.

Roses Are Dead, Violets Are Blue

2007-05-04T11:57:00.000+01:00

The other night, I was walking through the hallway to my apartment, and I noticed that someone had stuck a single red rose through the door knocker of the apartment across the hall from me. “Oh, how romantic,” I thought to myself. Then my eyes adjusted to the low light, and I realized that the rose was dead. And it hadn’t been there earlier in the day, so it’s not as if someone stopped by a few days before and the person was away and the rose died before they got back. No, someone placed a dead rose there. Creepy, but at least it wasn’t on Valentine’s Day. Maybe my neighbor has a Goth admirer?

At Least I'm Not Bathing in the Blood of Virgins

2007-05-02T02:30:00.000+01:00

For years, I’ve been kidding myself that I’m somehow really low maintenance. Sure, I never leave the house without makeup, but it’s a very simple makeup routine, and I can do it in five minutes if pressed. But making this list exposed my habits to the harsh light of day. And here’s a scary realization: I use seven different kinds of moisturizers.

1. 45 SPF facial moisturizer for day
2 and 3. Two different nighttime moisturizers for alternate nights (one with hyaluronic acid and one extra creamy moisturizing one)
4. Eye cream (for night use)
5. Another daytime moisturizer for my eyes only (I can’t use the sunscreen one too close to my eyes since it makes them burn, so I use this one instead and always wear sunglasses)
6. Basic body moisturizer
7. Hand and nail-specific moisturizer (the body moisturizer isn’t quite strong enough for my hands, and since I started using this stuff, I haven’t broken a nail)

And even though it seems like overkill when I write it all down, I really can’t live without any of them. My skin has been pretty good since I began this regime and it seems to be staving off the wrinkles (vampire-like avoidance of sunlight helps too). And this is just the skin care stuff. I haven’t even gotten to the hair products. No wonder my suitcases are always so heavy.

This Whole Getting Old Thing Sucks

2007-04-28T16:13:00.000+01:00

I spent the last few days taking care of my grandmother while my mother was out of town. My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. It’s in the early stages, mostly just short-term memory loss. She still knows us all. She can remember the past, she just can’t remember what she was talking about 10 minutes ago or if she took her drugs this morning. She also has severe osteoporosis, which has left her somewhat immobile. She can get around with the help of a walker or cane, but she’s in danger of falling at any time and in bad pain. She’s also about six inches shorter than she used to be. (Excuse while I go take a calcium supplement.).

Taking care of my grandmother is a lot like taking care of a small child. Endless confusion and endless questions (except the small child will hopefully remember the answer you gave them five minutes ago and not keep asking the same question). But with a small child, no matter how frustrating they can be, there is at least the knowledge that in a few more years, they’ll be capable of real conversation. And with my grandmother, if she’s still around in a few years, she’ll be in even worse shape and remember even less.

Perhaps because caring for a Alzheimer’s-stricken elderly woman is rather stressful and also because I was in a strange bed, I had trouble sleeping. Of course, it’s sort of hard to sleep when an elderly woman wanders into your room at the crack of dawn and says, “Oh, I thought you were someone else.” I almost asked her who she thought I was, but I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know the answer. During the hours that I did sleep, my subconscious decided to go into overdrive, resulting in a bunch of weird dreams. The highlights (or perhaps lowlights): I was trapped in some sort of glitzy shopping mall with an ex-boyfriend, unable to get back to Lord Kissington. People lived in the mall in these weird sort of pod apartments, that although small, were quite moderne and chic except that everyone in the mall could see into you apartment. The ex lived in one of these apartments, and his place freaked me out because there was a mouse running around that had a crazy huge fluffy tale that was sort of like a feather boa. It was fierce, but creepy. The next night I had a dream about a different ex. He had discovered my blog and thought that every post was about him, and I kept trying to explain that nothing was about him and that he didn’t matter enough for me to even blog about (mattering enough to dream about is apparently another matter entirely).

While staying with my grandmother, I watched a lot of shows that I never watch, stuff aimed toward the old folks like Wheel of Fortune and Live with Regis and Kelly. These shows made me want to rip the hair out of my head just to have something else to focus on. My grandmother doesn’t even seem to particularly like these shows, although she never misses them. Actually, the only thing she likes is The Sopranos, except that sometimes she can’t remember the name of it and calls it “that show with Tony.” I don’t think she really gets the concept of DVDs, so I had a lot of trouble explaining to her that no new episodes had arrived from Netflix. She will also sit through Law and Order. I think she enjoys stuff about people getting killed.

The last few days were incredibly draining, and I’m beyond glad that it’s the weekend and I don’t have to do anything. I plan on a lot of sitting around. And a lot of TV watching that doesn’t involve any programs geared at old people. And feeling really awful for my mother, who has to do this every day.

So Boring

2007-04-22T01:31:00.000+01:00

It’s been very hard for me to post at all lately, mainly because my life has been so fucking boring for the past couple of weeks. For example, I was home sick last Friday with a migraine, and I did pretty much nothing but lie in bed moaning (and not in the good way) all day.

I spent last weekend not doing much of anything, feeling totally blah. I made it to work on Monday, but stayed home Tuesday and Wednesday with a cold (which is like my 42nd cold of the season; my immune system decided to take winter off it seems). During all this time spent at home, I was in my pajamas more than regular clothes. Also, my insomnia is back with a vengeance, so I’ve been pretty much braindead for days. Sleeping only 4 or 5 hours a night will do that to you.

I watched a couple of movies, several episodes of Twin Peaks, several episodes of Gilmore Girls, and approximately 25 episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I sat around on the couch. I read US Weekly. I avoided most coverage of the Tech shooting, because the situation is depressing enough without having to watch exploitative reports that make me want to throw things at the TV.

So, I’ve been at a loss for blog topics. What can I write about?

Why I have spent more time sick than healthy lately.
How I had forgotten just how fucking weird Twin Peaks is (and how it makes me yearn for a good slice of cherry pie).
Why all the people who inhabit the town in Gilmore Girls are so darn precious (seriously, have they ever explained why the next door neighbor lives in a house designed for midgets?)
US Weekly: Is it just me or is the “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” feature becoming increasingly lame?
Bride and Prejudice versus Pride and Prejudice: The guy who plays Will in B&P is no Colin Firth. He’s no Matthew MacFadeyn either.
How I’m really sick of movies arriving from Netflix that I have no memory of having put on the list. Since we’re now getting movies I added to the list in a burst of enthusiasm in 2005, this is a recurring problem.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Angel or Spike? (This would be a short post since the answer is clearly Spike. ).

Here’s hoping things get more interesting soon.

A Day All Gone to Hell

2007-04-12T23:53:00.000+01:00

I took Wednesday off from work, because I haven’t taken a day off in ages and because I wanted to do my taxes. My taxes aren’t really that complicated, I just like to have a day to do them with nothing else hanging over my head. I had big plans: do my taxes, run some errands, and go to the gym. The day didn’t turn out quite as well I had hoped.

*Get up, eat breakfast, and do the federal taxes. Am getting money back for the first time in 10 years. Woo hoo.
*Call Lord Kissington to tell him the good news.
*Consider running errands, but need to check work email first.
*Check work email.
*Discover crisis.
*Spend next two hours working.
*Grumble for 10 minutes about having to work on my day off.
*Do DC taxes.
*Discover that we owe $900.
*Hysterically call Lord Kissington.
*Redo DC taxes as married filing separately to bring that total down to under $200.
*Breathe sigh of relief, as we are still getting more than that back from the feds, so we’re coming out ahead.
*Call Lord Kissington yet again with the good news.
*Check work email again to see that crisis has been averted.
*Debate going to the gym, but decide to watch General Hospital instead.
*Wonder who the hell all these new characters are and why they are ruining my stories.
*Again debate going to the gym, but decide to watch an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer instead.
*Ponder some huge holes in the plot but decide they don’t matter because this episode is about Spike and storyline inconsistencies seem unimportant before the awesomeness that is Spike.
*Consider running errands again, but realize that it’s cold and gross out and LK will be home from work at any minute.
*Accept that my day off is basically shot and pour myself a glass of wine.

Hug Your Mom

2007-04-11T03:07:00.000+01:00

I was working on this rather long involved post about some draining family drama involving my aunt and her Easter-related behavior, but I was having a lot of issues with it and was very undecided about actually posting it. And then I found out that, over the weekend, two mothers of friends of mine died. One mom had been sick for a while, but the other death was completely unexpected. One of the moms I had never met; the other I’d known since childhood.

So, I’ve scrapped that post entirely, because the antics of an aging drama queen seem rather silly in the face of death. And trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense. And being momless. So, I’m going to ignore my aunt and hug my mom. I encourage you to do the same.

I've Totally Got "in the Navy" Stuck in My Head These Days

2007-04-06T03:23:00.000+01:00

I was working on a spring-related post, but on a day when I spent 15 minutes searching for the gloves I thought I was done with, such a post no longer feels appropriate. At first, I felt sort of bad for all the underdressed tourists I saw today, but they kept blocking the sidewalk, so I got over that pretty quickly. Besides, anyone who had done a little research before their trip would have learned that spring temperatures in DC are unreliable at best.

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Is it just me, or are those recently released British sailors mostly all teh hot? Especially the one in the front of all the group shots and the one that kind of looks like Prince William except less balding. In Jane Austen’s Persuasion, the naval men are treated like rockstars. Now I see why. I do feel for the lone female sailor. All the male sailors are given suits, and she gets stuck with the frumpy denim and unflattering horizontal stripes.

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My apartment building got a new management company last year, and they make me long for the days of the old, half-assed managerial team. The new group is very rules-oriented, and they release a lot of memos and statements, 98% of which are completely pointless. They’re posted a new set of rules for our roof deck, which ban parties, illegal substances (I really would have thought this one was a given, being that they’re, you know, illegal. Besides, anyone consuming illegal substances isn’t likely to be the rules-oriented type.), and alcohol, thereby making the roof deck completely worthless. If I can’t have a glass of wine with my sunset, what’s the point?

I paid the rent on Monday. They recently raised the rent, starting last month. I couldn’t remember the new amount (it not being a nice round number), so I looked at last month’s check and wrote it for the same amount. Last night, when I got home, they had dropped off a letter, with my uncashed check attached. It spelled my last name wrong, told me that my check was too high by $3, and said that they do not accept overpayments and that I needed to drop off a new check. It also attached a copy of the rent payment rules, with the following rule highlighted in yellow: “We do not accept partial payments.”

I thought of writing them a response along the lines of:

Dear Fascist Manager,

I would like to point out that the partial payment rule does not apply in this case, as the word partial means a part of a whole, and I paid the whole amount, plus $3. This is an overpayment, about which your rules remain silent. Also, last month, I paid this same amount and was not informed that I had overpaid. I expect a refund check in the amount of $3 to be given to me in a prompt manner.

Very sincerely yours,
Lady Tiara

But then I realized that I might end up having to deal with the fascists in person or on the phone over the matter, and it’s worth $3 not to have to do that.

You Liked Me I Like

2007-04-04T03:27:00.000+01:00

I don’t post much about the weird searches that directed people to my blog, since the vast majority of people who end up here were looking for info on “shrinking breasts.” That’s right, I’m number 1 on google for “shrinking breasts.” Which is actually pretty sad if you think about it, since I assume people who are googling shrinking breasts are actually looking for medical advice, which they sure as hell aren’t getting here.

Lately, though, I’ve had a few interesting searches.

Someone got here by searching for "you liked me I like." I liked you? Really? But I hardly know you.

I think someone is planning an emo wedding, because I’ve gotten two related searches: “emo wedding first dance songs” and “girl emo tiaras.”

I obsessed over the first dance for my wedding, so I have some experience here. The problem with choosing an emo song for your wedding is twofold: 1) Most emo songs are fast and thus not really appropriate for the traditional slow first dance, and 2) although many emo songs are about love, they are generally of the “my girlfriend dumped me and I totally miss her and now I just get drunk a lot” variety, making many of them not the best choice for a wedding. That said, I do have a couple of suggestions:

“Hear You Me” or “23” by Jimmy Eat World
“I’ll Catch You” by the Get Up Kids
And if you don’t mind not having a slow song, “Skips a Beat (Over You)” by the Promise Ring would work well.

Although it’s not exactly what I would call emo, “Heaven” by the Fire Theft is an awesome song, and it’s by the guys from Sunny Day Real Estate, and they totally qualify as emo.

As for girl emo tiaras, although I know way too much about tiaras, I don’t think I can help you with this one. Because you know what’s not very emo? Tiaras.

I got two people searching for the meaning of the lyrics of “Blue Skies” by Strays Don’t Sleep. Actually, maybe it was the same person phrasing their query slightly differently. I’m too lazy to try to match the search up with an IP or location. From the first verse it seems like it’s about someone thinking about their ex (“It’s been a long year since we last spoke”) and forgiving them for whatever went wrong in the relationship. The second verse hints that the ex in question is now dead (“Could I have saved you?”), perhaps from suicide (“You alone with those pills”). It’s all about forgiveness and shit. I know this because they played it on One Tree Hill during a scene where Nathan forgave Haley for leaving him to become a rock star and Lucas forgave Brooke for sleeping with Chris Keller (which was far less forgivable in my opinion, since Chris is a douchebag who refers to himself in the third person. But I digress.). Yeah, I need to get out more.

Someone asked “is it ok to send mass card to family after the funeral?” Yes, it’s absolutely fine to send a mass card after the funeral. This is what people who can’t make it to the funeral generally do. It’s what I did recently when my uncle in another country died. Please stop by Tiaras Optional for all your funeral etiquette questions.

Apparently, all my posts about mixed tapes have made me a go-to girl for mixed tape suggestions. To the person searching for “make a mix tape, songs, he broke my heart,” first of all, I’m very sorry, but remember, there are lots of other fish in the sea and all those cliches. For an awesome breakup mix, try the following songs:

Yeah, Oh Yeah by Magnetic Fields
My Friend Peter by Alkaline Trio
Your Cheatin’ Heat by Hank Williams
Rootless Tree by Damien Rice
The Mixed Tape by Jack’s Mannequin
Breaking My Heart by Aqualung
Is She Really Going Out with Him by Joe Jackson
Goodbye Forever by Alkaline Trio
Fuck and Run by Liz Phair
This Is Getting Over You by Alkaline Trio (actually pretty much anything by Alkaline Trio will work. Those guys know breakups.)

Listen to the mix nonstop for two weeks. By the end of that time, you’ll be really sick of wallowing in misery. This is a crucial first step to moving on. Good luck.

Rereading an Old Favorite

2007-04-03T02:44:00.000+01:00

Last night, after being exhausted and sluggish all day, I crawled into bed around 11 and immediately woke up completely. This often happens to me. Somehow the act of getting into bed signals my insomnia to kick in. So, I figured I would read for a while. I’m in between books at the moment, and I wasn’t sure what I wanted to read next, so I decided to do one of my favorite things: rereading a favorite book.

I do this all the time, and I’ve realized over the years that most people find it a bit odd that I have read some books five times or more. For every book I reread, there’s a new book I haven’t read. But when I am feeling out of sorts or sleepless or sick, there’s something extremely comforting about reading something I know and love.

But not just any book will do. White Noise, Lolita, and Independent People are among my favorite books, and I’ve read them more than once, but if I’m feeling a little blue, they’re not the kind of book I turn to.

The classics that I reread on a regular basis include

Anything by Nancy Mitford, but preferably The Pursuit of Love
Anything by Jane Austen (but Persuasion and Pride and Prejudice top the list)
Generation X by Douglas Coupland
The Other Side of the Fire and Unexplained Laughter by Alice Thomas Ellis
Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
The Lover by Marguerite Duras
The Daughter of Time, Brat Farrar, or anything else by Josephine Tey
Anything by Agatha Christie (particularly when I’m sick)

They’re comfortable and welcoming. In several cases, the covers are dog-eared and falling apart. These books have been well loved.

Last night, I chose The Pursuit of Love. Fifty pages in, I came to two realizations: (1) this was going to be a bad night in terms of sleep, and (2) I have read this book so many times that I could probably recite it. I am now qualified to write one of those annotated editions explaining all the obscure 1930s British cultural references and which friend or relative of Nancy Mitford each character was based on. This is either awesome or really scary. I actually used a quote from it on my wedding program. One of the guests told me he almost cried when he read it. I was extremely pleased.

When things are really bad, I’ve been know to turn to such childhood classics as

Little Women
Anne of Green Gables (or any of the other novels in the series)
The Secret Garden
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
Anything by Enid Blyton

I’m not sure how well known Enid Blyton is to an American audience, but she is identified by the ever-reliable Wikipedia as the fifth most popular author in the world. This is quite plausible, since she wrote hundreds of books and they’ve been translated into dozens of languages. I know and love her from having spent part of my childhood in Ireland, where her books were everywhere. I read and reread her books throughout childhood (apparently, this habit started early for me). I would lend the books to friends, all of whom loved them as well. Lord Merlin loved them so much that he used to borrow my copies and write his name in them and insist they were his. Her mystery series (including the Secret Seven, the Famous Five, and the Five Find-Outers) are all delightful, as are the standalone books. I just found out that many of her books are available in fairly cheap new editions, so I may have to buy a few (although the newer editions have been altered to make them more PC. I can see the point of cutting the racist language, but is it really necessary to excise every use of the word queer or gay? I suppose it’s assumed that modern children are too stupid to know that these words might have other meanings). Is there something wrong with me that I would rather read books written over 50 years ago that I enjoyed from ages 5 to 11 (to be fair, this isn’t as bad as it sounds. I was an advanced reader—I was totally reading at a fourth-grade level in first grade. Everyone wanted to hang out with me.) than anything else on my shelves? I probably shouldn’t mention that Nancy Drew phase I went through a few years.

Why I Apparently Need to Update the Netflix Queue Sometime This Century

2007-03-29T02:28:00.000+01:00

Back when we first signed up for Netflix, I got very excited about it. I checked the queue constantly and added a ton of movies to it. At first, we watched the movies all the time and moved through the queue pretty quickly. But then we began to lose interest. The movies sat around longer and longer. You know how it is: you’re in the mood for something lightweight, and Netflix sends you a documentary about the Holocaust. And it’s your fault, because you put the damn documentary on there 6 months ago when you were feeling bad about always watching such stupid movies all the time and trying to be more intellectual. Now it’s gotten to the point that I don’t even remember the movies I added.

The other day, Lord Kissington held up a red Netflix envelope and said, “Are you ever going to watch this?”
“What is it?”
“[Insert name of pretentious-sounding movie]”
“Hmmh, I’ve never heard of it. Did you put it on the list?”
“No, you did.”
"Are you sure about that? Seriously, I’ve never heard of it.”

He read the description to me. It involved sensitive young people growing up in a war-torn environment or something like that. It didn’t ring any bells.

“Are you sure you didn’t put this on the list? It doesn’t sound like something I would pick. I mean, it’s not a teen comedy or something starring a hot British guy.” I asked.
“No, it’s definitely one of yours.”
“Maybe I had some sort of blackout last year and added a bunch of movies I can’t remember?” (Let’s be honest here—the pre-wedding stress could have easily put me into a fugue state in which I updated the queue yet have no memory of it.)

This is not the first time this has happened. So, I finally decided to update the queue. Again, many of the titles were unrecognizable to me, despite the fact that Lord Kissington claims they were all my choices. A couple of them appeared to be a remnant of my short-lived but intense fascination with Sam Rockwell (fall 2005). The rest are a mystery. I was able to clear out the queue, which is awesome because now the next two films to arrive are much more to my liking: Bring It On and The Princess Diaries. I definitely remember adding those ones.

But I Thought You Liked Me

2007-03-22T14:30:00.000Z

Jury duty, you are such a tease. For weeks now, I’ve been preparing for the possibility of being out of work for five weeks. I was all ready to show up at the courthouse yesterday as you requested, but when I called you on Tuesday evening to find out what time you needed me, you told me that you had so many jurors for this trial that it was going to take you days to get through them all and to call back the next day. This hurt me a little, because I thought I meant something to you, but I understand that you’re really busy, so I let it go. But when I called back last night, you told me to not even bother calling you until next Wednesday. What’s up with that, jury duty? Apparently, I don’t mean as much to you as I thought. I really thought we had something special, but I guess I’m just a number to you.

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I know that lately, most of my posts have been my whining about jury duty and being sick. And sadly, I don’t see things changing any time soon, because I’m sick again. Either I have the world’s longest running cold or my spring allergies have kicked in. I’m bitter.

***************************************************************

I am sending a mass card to my uncle’s family. A mass card is something that Catholics send to other Catholics when someone dies. You make a small donation to a church or religious order and they say a couple of Masses for the deceased. I didn’t know where to get a Mass card, but my grandmother gave me one (she keeps a supply on hand at all times; apparently, at her age, she uses them all the time as her contemporaries are dropping like flies). Mass cards generally have some kind of religious imagery on them. This one has perhaps the cheesiest picture of Jesus I’ve ever seen. Not only is Jesus really pale and Northern European looking, but the quality of the painting is what you might find at one of those “starving artist” sales, the ones at Holidays Inns where all the paintings are $29 or less. It’s awesome in its awfulness.

***************************************************************

Someone got here by searching for “the clap song syphilis.” I have no idea what this is, but I have two points to make: 1) I believe that the term “the clap” actually refers to gonorrhea, and 2) I totally want to hear this song.

***************************************************************

To the person who was searching for “the mixed tape lyrics meanings”: I’m pretty sure that with lyrics like

This is morning
That's when I spend the most time
Thinking ‘bout what I've given up
This is a warning
When you start the day just to close the curtains
You're thinking ‘bout what I've given up

Where are you now?
As I’m swimming through the stereo
I’m writing you a symphony of sound
Where are you now?
As I rearrange the songs again
This mix could burn a hole in anyone
But it was you I was thinking of

[…]

And I can’t get to you
I can’t get to you
I can’t get to you (you, you)

this song is about making a mix tape for an ex with whom things have gone wrong.

***************************************************************

Someone else wants to know “what songs should i put on my mixed cds?” You’ve come to the right place, gentle reader, because Lady Tiara loves her some mixed CDs. Of course, the answer depends on what you’re going for with the mixed CD. Do you want a party mix or is it for someone you want to sleep with you? If the former, here are some suggestions:

Bizarre Love Triangle – New Order
I Want You Back – Hoodoo Gurus
That’s Entertainment – the Jam
Kelly Watch the Stars – Air
I Go Crazy – Flesh for Lulu
La La Love You – Pixies
Don’t Leave Me This Way – the Communards
Le Disko – Shiny Toy Guns
I Wanna Be Your Lover – Prince
I Love a Man in Uniform – Gang of Four
A Praise Chorus – Jimmy Eat World
The Look of Love - ABC
Speak Like a Child – Style Council

If it’s the latter, here are some suggestions:

Fairytale of New York – the Pogues
My Baby Just Cares for Me – Nina Simone
Skips a Beat (Over You) – Promise Ring
You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me – Dusty Springfield
The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side – Magnetic Fields
Kiss at the End of the Rainbow – Mitch and Mickey
For Blue Skies – Strays Don’t Sleep
Only You – Yaz
Pale Blue Eyes – Velvet Underground
Hyponotised – Might Lemon Drops
Written in the Stars – Paul Weller

Good luck!

Yeah, That Would Be Me

2007-03-21T01:03:00.000Z

I am so stressed out about the possibility of five weeks of jury duty that it’s making my chronic insomnia even worse than usual. I woke up yesterday at 4:45 a.m. On the plus side, I got to work at 8. I would have gotten in even earlier if it hadn’t been for my reluctance to walk to work in the dark. (Walking to work as the sun came up was weird, since it was only a few years ago that I occasionally was coming home as the sun rose (totally vampire style).)

There’s a part of me that’s hoping I’ll suddenly be stricken with nasty boils or something like that, so I can show off my horrid boils to the judge and point out that I’m not someone they want on their jury.

I keep thinking about what jury duty could be like. I read this little gem on Wonkette: One juror was kicked off the Scooter Libby trial during deliberations. She was also the only juror who didn’t dress up in a heart t-shirt on Valentine’s Day. The rest of the jury wore matching t-shirts, and the foreman actually gave a little speech thanking the marshals and the judge and wishing everyone a happy Valentine’s Day. Clearly, too many weeks on that jury has wiped away any common sense these people once had.

I can just imagine what the other jurors thought of the t-shirt-abstaining woman:

“What is her problem?... Thinks she’s so much better than us… Why won’t she just wear the shirt? It’s FESTIVE!... What a bitch…”

And you know what? I would totally be the bitch who refuses to wear the t-shirt. I fucking hate dressing like everyone else, and I’m not so good with the whole group thing. The last time I was on jury duty, the best part of it for me was that there was a lot of sitting around time (we were stuck in the jury room for more time than we were in the courtroom), and I spent that time reading, something I never have enough time to do in my daily life. This mystified the other jurors, who said things like, “You sure do read a lot” in a slightly incredulous tone, as if saying “You sure do seem to enjoy picking your nose.” I guess I’m basically an introvert, and I have no desire to share my life story with a bunch of people I’m never going to see again. I’d just as soon read a book.

Eliminate the Negative

2007-03-20T00:26:00.000Z

My last post was uber-depressing and negative, so I’m trying to accentuate the positive today.

1. I’m not a fan of St. Patrick’s Day, but I managed to stay close to home and avoid the green vomit-covered streets of my neighborhood. I did eat some Irish soda bread, which was awesome.

2. My new allergy meds are only so-so at actually curing my sinus issues, but they have an unexpected benefit: they’re totally suppressing my appetite. I keep forgetting to eat lunch, something that has pretty much never happened to me before. It’s like fen-phen without the heart attacks.

3. My alma mater made it to round 2 of the tournament. I’m not exactly a huge college basketball fan, but at least it gives me the chance to say suck it to certain people. Even if they did lose in the second round.

4. People actually gave us money for our anniversary. It’s like getting paid to stay married.

Farewell to Uncle J

2007-03-16T01:58:00.000Z

You know how when things are really bad, and you think, ok this sucks, but at least things can’t get worse. Which is of course a total crock. They can get so much get worse. And they will. Things are pretty bad around here. I’ve been sick, I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m swamped and totally stressed out at work, as I try to arrange things so that someone can cover for me during my potential five weeks of jury duty, all the while knowing that I’ll still have to work several hours a day in addition to spending a full day at the trial. This begs the question of when I am going to be able to do everything else I need to do, like eat, work out, and sleep. Of course, if I don’t have time to eat, maybe I can just skip the working out part. I’m still hoping to find a way to work sleep in.

Wednesday night, I was home alone and I found out that my uncle J (who is actually really my first cousin once removed, but I’ve always sort of thought of him as my uncle) had died on Tuesday night. I found out via answering machine, and it was a big shock. Although I had heard that he was in the hospital, I didn’t think that much of it since he had been having a lot of non-life-threatening health problems for the last year or two. And now he’s dead. It hit me really hard, and I sobbed for about 20 minutes. Then I crawled into bed.

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. with a migraine. I stumbled out of bed and made myself a cup of tea (caffeine sometimes helps mitigate the pain), took an advil, and went back to bed. I lay there awake and feeling like someone was continuously dropping an anvil on my head until the alarm went off. I forced myself to get up, because I’ve been out of work a lot this winter for health reasons, and I am just too backed up to take anymore time off, even I though I felt like shit and was operating on about 5 hours sleep.

Getting ready for work was a really fun, and involved a lot of stumbling into walls and dropping of things. Putting on makeup did nothing, because it couldn’t cover up the swollen-from-crying eyes and there’s not enough concealer in the world to hide the dark circles under my eyes.

For my ongoing sinus problems, I got some new prescription meds that I have to take in the morning and the evening. I picked up the bottle to take the morning pill with my breakfast. I read the fine print and realized that you have to take this pill on an empty stomach, either one hour before a meal or two to three hours after. Which is going to make these pills really hard for me to take. Even with my morbid fear of getting pregnant, I have trouble remembering to take birth control pills, so I keep them on the dining room table so I see them every morning when I’m eating. Otherwise, it would be really hit or miss. I can’t take these new pills before I eat because I am not up an hour before I eat. And taking them two to three hours after is going to be a serious problem for me to remember. I dropped one of the pills on the floor and I got down on my hands and knees to find it, because they cost a fucking fortune. When I was down there, I considered just curling up in the fetal position and calling it a day.

And then the toilet broke. It just stopped flushing. With, ummh, stuff in the bowl. So, I had to stick my hand in there several times to try to fix things. (Memo to self: buy a plunger.) One of the things about having a migraine is that you feel really nauseous and sometimes you have to throw up. And having to stick my hand into an unflushed toilet really, really made me want to vomit. Of course, I had to try really hard not to vomit, since I wouldn’t be able to flush the fucking toilet. While I was sticking my hand into the toilet (shudder), I noticed that it was pretty filthy and I was disgusted by that, but not so disgusted that I could actually bring myself to clean it. Hopefully, the maintenance guy will associate the filth with the backed-up toilet and not with our general level of cleanliness.

And the whole time that I was moping around the house, whining to myself, I felt really selfish and shitty and awful, because J is dead and I’m this stupid idiot who’s moaning about her broken toilet. J was an amazing person, and the whole thing is really hard for me because he’s from the part of my family that lives in another country and so they’re far away and I can’t do anything, like go to the funeral or send flowers or anything (the funeral was yesterday). I feel really disconnected from this part of my family. I haven’t seen them in years, and now I’m wishing I had gone there on my honeymoon, so Lord Kissington could have had the chance to meet J and the other people who are important to me. During my childhood, I spent my summers in that country, and J was always incredibly kind to me. When I got older, J, who didn’t drink, would always go out and buy a bottle of something special for me to drink whenever I was visiting. It was usually some sort of god-awful sherry that he thought was appropriate for “young ladies” to drink, but I always choked it down because he had made such an effort.

Now that J is gone, I’ve lost another link to my childhood. I never thought of J as old, but I realize yesterday that he was in his early 70s, which really shocked me. I guess I had him frozen in time at a much younger age. And both of my parents are turning 60 this week. Which means that I’m getting older every minute, and my childhood is receding farther and farther into the mists of memory. Some things are still very clear to me, but other stuff is starting to get fuzzy, and I wonder about the point at which it all starts to blur together. I really don’t want to forget.

So, in memory of Uncle J, I’ll be pouring out a bottle of sherry.

Short Notes

2007-03-15T00:32:00.000Z

1. Yesterday, I went to Au Bon Pain to pick up a sandwich for lunch. I was in a hurry, so I grabbed a pre-made sandwich. I got back to office, unwrapped, and realized that it had extra bread. It was a regular sandwich configuration: bread, meat, cheese, lettuce and tomato, bread. And then another slice of bread on top of that. It was like they tried to make a club sandwich, but forgot to fill in the second later. I removed the extra slice of bread. A half-hour later, I ate it. I have no self-control.

2. Waking up in the middle of the night from a disturbing dream sucks. What sucks even worse is falling back to sleep and re-entering the same shitty dream. It involved the possibility of being evicted from an apartment I no longer live in, a huge amount of cheap sci-fi paperbacks I had never seen before, and my favorite childhood doll being infested with mice. Shudder.

3. My first attempt at getting out of jury duty failed. Five weeks. Oh fuck.

4. In what has been an otherwise shitty week, Arcade Fire tickets fell into my lap, somewhat mitigating my extreme bitterness toward TicketMaster and their image verification nonsense. Apparently, I am visually impaired as I had to type approximately 18 verification codes before being allowed to get to the point at which they told me “no tickets available.” Grr.

5. Last night, I was walking through Dupont Circle and this amazing New Orleans-style jazz band was playing. There were dozens of people listening, and it made me really happy, because this same band is out there every year as soon as the weather gets nice. I like the sense of continuity.

6. I’ve celebrated two anniversaries recently. My first wedding anniversary was this weekend. We made it through a year. Just five more and we’ll beat my parents’ record. Of course, we have many more years to equal his parents’ record (40 years and counting). I think we’re doing pretty well, and we only threaten to divorce each other once or twice a week. The latest grounds for divorce: his thinking that the Pixies’ version of “Head On” is better than the Jesus and Mary Chain version, which is clearly crazy talk.

The other anniversary was my second blogiversary, which passed unnoticed by me last month. I celebrated that by posting hardly at all. And writing shitty numbered posts.

I Officially Surrender

2007-03-09T02:19:00.000Z

As I’ve said before, I really love winter. I love snow, I love frigid temperatures, I’m a total Viking. But now I have to admit that winter has finally kicked my ass.

On Tuesday, I was loving the cold and excited about the possibility of one last snowstorm. Then I noticed a tickle in the back of my throat. That tickle is now a full-fledged sore throat, and I am well on my way to a cold, which will be approximately my 18^th illness of the season.

Winter, why do you hate me? I’ve been so good to you. I’ve embraced every below-freezing day. I’ve scoffed at the pussies complaining about the cold. I’ve sneered at the idiots who don’t know how to layer. I’ve walked to work during every snowstorm. I’ve worshipped at your frozen altar. And how do you repay me? With every miserable fucking germ? I thought we had an understanding, winter. Why aren’t you infecting all the whiners who don’t know enough to wear hats and scarves? Why me?

Thanks a lot, winter. I am so over you.

I’ll Take a Boob Job, a Tummy Tick, and a Hoo-Ha Lift

2007-03-07T00:26:00.000Z

Yesterday, the Post had a super-creepy article on vaginal surgery. I was only vaguely aware that such a field existed, so the article was a huge—and profoundly disturbing—revelation. My first thought was this: It’s not bad enough that I have to worry about how my face, my skin, and my body look—now I have to worry about my cooch too? What.the.fuck.

I can see how women with sexual dysfunction are driven to laser procedures in an effort to solve a major problem. But there doesn’t seem to be any actual evidence that these procedures work. And do you really want a laser anywhere near your va-jay-jay? I sure as hell don’t.

Far more disturbing are the truly cosmetic procedures. Some women are having surgery to make their ladyparts look younger. Woman are apparently wanting for a “nice sleek look,” and according to the doctor who invented and popularized these procedures, “Women tell me they want to look like they’re 18 again.” You know, when I was 18, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time looking at my cooter with a magnifying mirror, so I don’t really have a basis for comparison. But I can’t say I spend a lot of time worrying about it looking old. Silly me. I’ve spent all this time worrying about wrinkles and gray hairs, when I should have been doing something about my aging box. This is just stupid. (Besides, if a man is spending too much time looking at it, he’s not doing things right.)

There’s also a procedure called a hymenoplasty that can revirginize you. It’s apparently increasingly popular in cultures in which virginity is prized. The article mentioned a woman who was having the surgery before returning home to Egypt to be examined by a gynecologist before an arranged marriage.

In a situation like this, where there’s all kinds of potential for family shame and dishonor, the need for the surgery is understandable. But there are also people who are getting this done as a little something special for the men in their lives: “Some of his patients… are celebrating a new relationship or a second honeymoon.” This is just so fucked up I don’t even know where to begin. Why would you want to relive losing your virginity? Was your first time really so amazing? Were there candles and romantic music and you felt the earth move? Or was it so awful that you want a second chance? All I can say is, been there, done that. My hymen can stay broken, thank you very much.

Fighting a Losing Battle

2007-03-06T01:13:00.000Z

This weekend, I realized that I was completely overwhelmed by stuff. We have too much stuff and it’s overwhelming what would otherwise be a decently sized apartment. The situation is not helped by teeny tiny closets that were clearly designed for someone who doesn’t own more than five outfits. Everywhere I turn, there is a precariously balanced pile of some sort. Every time, I open a closet, stuff falls out. I recently ran out of hangers, so I bought a ton of them. I’ve now run out of space on the closet rod on which these hangers are placed. And this was after I got rid of three garbage bags full of clothes. Clearly, I have a problem here.

To combat this growing problem, I have begun a massive clean-out of the apartment. I fight against the stuff all the time, but it’s a losing battle. Yesterday, when I began my latest skirmish, I was determined to be as strong as possible and hold out against every last packrat tendency.

My first attack was on a cabinet in the dining room that serves mostly as a repository for crap that we don’t know what to do with. It was filled with all kinds of “treasures.” Among the items that have exited or will shortly exiting the Tiara/Kissington household are these gems:

1. A shot glass with the flag of Texas on it. Where the hell did that come from? It’s not as though I sit around the house doing shots. I prefer to drink straight from the bottle.
2. A small clock with a picture of a penguin on it (it’s not even a particularly cute penguin) and no numbers so it’s hard to tell the time.
3. The infamous Princess Diana commemorative plate. The story is a good enough conversation piece, so I don’t really need the physical evidence, which in addition to being butt ugly, is not “suitable for food service” and thus completely useless except on a creepy kitsch level.
4. A poster of Yoda. Please don’t even ask how that ended up in my apartment. Seriously, Yoda?
5. A “vinyl repair kit” for an unknown (and probably long gone) vinyl item.

I packed up two bags of books to bring over to my mother’s (she has easy access to a place where they can be donated). They were nothing exciting, mostly mass market paperbacks of the trashy mystery variety that I just wanted to be rid of. When she saw how many books there were, she was somewhat horrified that I was giving away “so many books.” I explained that it was maybe 40 crappy books, we have a couple thousand more at home, and this is just a drop in the bucket.

She then went through all the books, kept a pile for herself, and convinced me to keep two of them. I wonder where I get my packrat tendencies?

As part of my organizational efforts, I made a trip to the Container Store, whose motto should be “Overpriced boxes and storage solutions for people who have way too much stuff and obviously way too much money since they can afford the stuff AND the expensive boxes to put it in.” My gift wrap situation has been messy at best lately, so I purchased a gift wrap organizer that can hang on the inside of my coat closet door. They had a really fancy gift wrap organizer that turned into a platform for wrapping stuff on, but it was $100, and if you really need that, maybe you’re giving too many presents. (Or you’re Candy Spelling and you have a whole room that’s devoted to gift wrapping.) My gift wrap is now neatly organized, but the organizer did not provide enough space for my multitude of gift bags. Whatever am I to do?

I also purchased a hanging jewelry organizer. I actually think this item has the power to change my life. It has little clear pouches that you can place jewelry in, which keeps items from getting tangled (an issue with jewelry boxes) and you can see each item, which will help me to accessorize every morning and remember all the forgotten pieces I own. This is almost as good as the time that I harnessed the awesome power of the hook and got my purse collection under control.

The next step is organizing all my papers so I can do my taxes. That should send me totally over the edge. But they did have some super-cute expandable folders at the Container Store…

Getting to Know the Neighbors

2007-03-02T03:26:00.000Z

My neighbors are an interesting bunch. There’s the crazy lady downstairs who likes to complain that we hammer all the time. And then there’s the dominatrix upstairs. She hasn’t been too bad lately, although the sound of chains clanking against the floor does get old. I wish she would get some foam padding for them. At least we never hear the screams of her clients. I assume she’s all about the ball gag.

My next-door neighbors have been a mixed bag. Many people have cycled through that apartment in the last four years. Most have only lasted a few months and didn’t leave much of an impression. For a while, there was a 60-ish father/twenty-something son pair living there. The son was a total douchebag who fancied himself a “musician.” He enjoyed practicing his guitar in the wee hours of the morning. He only knew three songs, and one of them was an eardrum-puncturingly awful version of “Free Falling.” He had a girlfriend who lived in the building too, and I used to see him in the hall taking his guitar over to her place, presumably to serenade her. That relationship didn’t seem to last very long. She probably couldn’t stand the guitar playing either.

He and his father used to have very loud fights. Then the son moved out. The father stayed there on his own for a while after that. He was a little crazy, but totally harmless. He used to corner Lord Kissington and me in the halls to discuss the state of contemporary fiction. Not that I wasn’t interested in the topic, but I was way too polite to cut him off after a couple of minutes and I would get stuck talking to him forever, so I took to ducking into the stairwell if I saw him coming.

After he moved out, we had a couple of phantom neighbors. And then the screamer moved in. I first noticed her one night in December. I had woken up around 3 a.m. as I do most nights (insomnia’s a bitch) and as I was trying to fall back to sleep, I heard some strange noises. At first, I thought there was dog next door, which was odd since they don’t allow dogs in the building. Then it dawned on me that this was no dog.

I looked over and noticed that Lord Kissington was now awake too. This is unusual, since he’s a very heavy sleeper. But the dog-like noises were really loud.

Lord Kissington: Is that what I think it is?
Me: Yeah, I think so.
LK: Wow, she totally sounds like a panting puppy.
Me: Not so sexy.
LK: Yeah, not so much.
Me: Does it sound a little weird to you?
LK: How do you mean?
Me: Like sort of, I don’t know, artificial?
LK: Yeah, she’s totally faking.

This continued pretty frequently in December, so I figured she was in a new relationship. Things got quiet in January, so perhaps the December relationship didn’t last. There were a few incidents in the beginning of February, but nothing much recently. I can’t say it really bothers me that much. I usually sleep with earplugs on, so it’s not that bad (although she really is a screamer if I can still here with the earplugs on). Our major dilemma now is that we’re both afraid to see her. She’s lived next door for months now, and neither of us have seen her. Every time, I get off the elevator with a young woman, I’m afraid she’s going to stop at the apartment next to me, but she never does. I just don’t want to see her, because I really don’t want to have a mental image when I hear her yelping. Shudder.

It's Not Just a Duty, It's a Privilege

2007-03-01T01:36:00.000Z

I have been called for jury duty later this month. This is nothing new; I’ve been called numerous times since I’ve lived in DC. But this time is a little different—it’s Federal Court and I have a bad feeling that I’m not going to be able to get out of it. Back in September, I was called for jury duty for the Federal court. Unlike the regular DC court, which is one day or one trial service, with the Federal court, you are on call for two weeks and can be called in and selected at anytime during those two weeks. Since I had a business trip scheduled during the time for which I was called, I asked for a deferral, and it was granted. I knew they would get me sooner or later, and indeed, I got another summons. Only this one is a bit different. Instead of being on call for two weeks, I have been pre-selected for a specific trial, which is expected to last five weeks(!). I’ve asked for another deferral on the grounds of my job (if I were on a five-week trial, I would
basically still have to do my job as I have daily and weekly deadlines and no one to back me up full time). But I have a bad feeling they’re not going to buy the job excuse a second time.

Of all the times, I’ve been called for jury duty, I’ve only actually served on a trial once. The experience was pretty surreal. It ranged from the scary (a shackled witness wearing old school striped prison duds who got up to the witness stand and said “I ain’t sayin’ shit.”) to the funny (all the witnesses had giggle-inducing nicknames like “Shoop-Shoop”). It was a first degree murder trial, involving one crack dealer who allegedly killed another crack dealer. It was, for the most part, depressing as hell and often mind-numbingly boring. There were a few interesting moments, courtesy of one of the witnesses. Joy* took the stand one day, and I looked over at her and thought, hmmh, that woman sort of looks like a man. But she had a female-sounding name, so I figured maybe she just had very strong features. She identified herself as a prostitute who plied her trade in the area where the murder happened.

When questioned by the prosecutor as to why she was in an alley, she said that she was, “paying the water bill.”
The prosecutor replied, “And by ‘paying the water bill,’ you mean?”
“I was peeing,” Joy replied, as if he were a slow child who needed everything explained in great detail.

I love this euphemism, because it doesn’t really make any sense. It would seem to be more appropriate as another term for turning tricks, but whatever.

At another point during her testimony, Joy told the rather stiff judge, “You got it going on, girlfriend,” which was so absurd that everyone in the courtroom burst out laughing, including the judge.

I sat on the jury for eight days, taking copious notes. Some of the other jurors actually commented on my mad note-taking skills, asking if it was my first trial. They were mostly older, had served numerous times, and were pretty jaded about the whole process. But I figured, if I have to be here, I’m going to do it right. And when you’re potentially sending someone to prison for life, taking lots of notes can’t be a bad thing.

After we heard the closing arguments, the judge announced that the two alternates would be released at this point, before deliberations. There were 14 of us, and we didn’t know who the alternates were. They called my juror number and told me I was dismissed. I walked out of there, feeling a little weird. I was mostly relieved to be done, but I was partly disappointed that after putting in all that time (and taking all those damn notes), I wasn’t going to be deliberating. I heard from another juror (who was a friend of a friend) that the defendant was found guilty, which didn’t exactly come as a shock to me.

A year or two later, I was reading an article in the Post about a bail bondman who had hired two crack whores to kill his wife. (There are so many things wrong with that sentence. Beyond the obvious one of murder being wrong, is it really ever a good idea to hire crack whores for an intricate murder-for-hire plot? And wouldn’t a bail bondsman perhaps have access to a more professional grade of hitpeople?) Shockingly, the plot went awry, and the crack whores were arrested. One of them turned state’s evidence. The article described “her” as a male prostitute who dresses as a woman. And her name was Joy. Actually, I yelled, “I knew it. Because chicks totally don’t have Adam’s apples.”

*Not her real name.

What Happens After We're Gone?

2007-02-28T11:47:00.001Z

Two weeks ago, a women who had lived in my building for many years died. It wasn’t really a huge shock, since she had been in bad health the whole time I’ve lived here, but it was still sort of a surprise because I had just seen her in the lobby a couple of days before. Although I didn’t know her, I felt sad because she was a real fixture in the building and she seemed like a very nice person and relatively happy for someone who appeared to be in constant pain, something that would probably make me a miserable bitch.

The other day, I heard two of the other long-time residents talking about her. Apparently, there hasn’t been a funeral yet, because no one has claimed her body from the city. I assume it’s because a family member has to claim it, and there’s no one in the area, but this depresses me profoundly. At first, I felt good that I had Lord Kissington, because at least I have someone to claim my body. But then I realized that he could die first and we might not have had any children. Or perhaps we did have a kid, but he/she hates me for trying to force him/her to live out my failed dream of becoming a champion ice dancer. Who would claim my body then? I suppose it won’t really matter, because I’ll be dead, but I’d like to think that there will be someone around to take care of things. It makes me think of Dorothy Parker, whose ashes went unclaimed for 17 years after her death. I just hope that when the time comes, I haven’t pissed off everyone I know.

Guest Post: Oscar Mania

2007-02-24T15:39:00.000Z

Ages ago, I told Lord Kissington that he could write a guest post on my blog. After a year and change, he's finally written a few things down. Without further ado...

“Most of these movie that win a lot of Oscars I can’t stand. They’re all safe, geriatric, coffee-table dogshit.”

Clarence Worley
True Romance

So the Oscars are this week. Every angle and story about them has been covered, but what the hell, here’s one more. I have a love/hate relationship with the Oscars. Deep down I know they’re crap and don’t really mean anything. But I still watch the whole damn thing every year and get worked up about it. I’m really kind of an addict that way. I know it’s bad but I can’t look away.

Hollywood’s annual strokefest is only half about the movies anyway. It’s as much about the red carpet, fashion, celebrity gossip/starfucking/schadenfreude thing that is its own huge cottage industry. It’s the gay superbowl, etc. That’s cool if you’re into that thing. Lady Tiara digs all that stuff and I can understand how she gets excited for it. For that reason I can see why it’s such a big deal. I honestly could give two shits about all that stuff though and most of it gives me a headache. Lady Tiara did point out that I will get to see many of the ladies from my Friends-style free-pass-people-I-can-sleep-with list all dressed up and sexy. (Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett are nominated and Rachel Weisz will most likely be presenting the Best Supporting Actor Oscar. Plus many others.) So there’s that.

The Oscars are notoriously conservative. It’s also as much a marketing device as anything else. Stars can now be advertised as Academy Award winners on their next crappy movie** [Editor’s note: Not that it really helped Stealth. Just sayin’], and it ups their asking price. But in terms of truly representing the best films of year, it falls short. I know all this and I’m slowly weaning myself from Oscar’s naked golden teat. But I can’t seem to make that final break. When I was younger, I put much more stock into these awards. I tried my best to see every film nominated and used it as a barometer of what I should see. In that respect, it still has some value, but there are so many other awards given now that winter has become awards season and that’s a bit ridiculous.

If I’m wondering what’s good and what I should see that I might have missed I’ll put more stock in critics’ awards from various cities (NY, LA, etc.) and ten best lists from critics whose opinions I tend share. I will admit there is some validation if my favorite movie wins, but the Academy is so boring and predictable that’s becoming less and less the case each year.

As for the show itself, the less said the better. Other than the hot actresses looking good in evening wear, there’s not a lot there that I like. The in memoriam section, showing who died the previous year, is always nice and tasteful. Most of the other stuff they show isn’t great though. Jon Stewart was good last year, but he’s not hosting this year. I just read that Sacha Baron Cohen declined to present an award. The story is that he wanted to present in character as Borat, and the producers of the broadcast weren’t into that. That’s too bad, because that would have been awesome. His acceptance speech at the Golden Globes was hilarious. But I guess that’s too progressive for the Academy.

Last year should have been the final straw. To be fair, I still haven’t seen Crash. I just don’t have much interest. Everything I hear from the aforementioned critics whose opinions I share/respect and friends who have similar taste to mine backs up every reason I don’t want to bother with it. Namely that it seems manipulative, shallow, and broad while attempting to come across as deep and meaningful. Plus Paul Haggis is a hack. I thought Million Dollar Baby was decent (not great), but most of the quality came from the performances and Clint Eastwood’s restrained direction, which helped to temper some of the schmaltzy elements of Haggis’ script. So the fact that what appears to be the worst movie nominated won had me yelling at the screen. Plus two of my favorite movies from last year, Syriana and The Constant Gardener, didn’t even get nominated. I should have expected all this, but somehow I still was surprised and angry.

This year I haven’t seen all the movies nominated for Best Picture. The best movies I saw this year were (in no particular order) Children of Men, Pan’s Labyrinth, The Departed, and The Fountain. Three of the four didn’t get nominated for Best Picture, but to be honest, I didn’t expect them to. I knew there was no way in hell The Fountain would get nominated for anything. It’s dense and a bit confusing, it polarized critics, and it made no money. It’s not for everybody and I totally get why it was largely ignored: because people are stupid. Naw. While that’s true, it is a tough movie and I understand why people might not get it or like it. Children of Men was marketed poorly and seems way too edgy and hip for the Academy. It’s nominated for some technical awards (which it deserves) and best screenplay, which is the consolation prize for hip, edgy movies. “We like your movie, but we’re a little scared of it, so here’s a bone.” Pan’s Labyrinth will win Best Foreign Film, which is as much as I can expect. It’s also up against Children of Men in a lot of technical categories, which sucks because they’re both brilliant. So I’m pulling for The Departed to win Best Picture, but am fully expecting it lose to something safe and slightly boring like Little Miss Sunshine. But even though I know it really doesn’t matter, I’ll be there Sunday night watching. [Sigh] It’s tough breaking way.

I Knew There Was a Reason I Married That Guy

2007-02-23T02:15:00.000Z

When I got home from work today, Lord Kissington was looking very pleased with himself. Turns out he had a surprise for me. He had bought me the most awesomest t-shirt ever from the internets. Behold the magnificence:

If you don’t get the reference, please watch Zoolander immediately. Turns out this whole marriage thing wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Lame Numbered Post 47

2007-02-22T00:09:00.000Z

1. The lack of posting has a lot to do with the fact that I was sick. Again. I have been sick almost non-stop this winter. Once in November. Once in December. Again in January. Now twice in February. I get stressed out, I can’t sleep well, I get run down, and then I get sick again. It’s a vicious cycle. Immune system, I have had it with you.

2. My faith in humanity was briefly restored on Monday by the very kind people who stopped and aided Lord Kissington and me in digging the car out (we were able to get it out of our lot with no trouble, but got stuck in a parking space in another part of town). You people are my heroes.

3. My faith in humanity has been shot down again by the various drivers who’ve tried to run me over the past two mornings on my way to work. Seriously, people, I know the roads aren’t in great shape, but that does not mean you get to ignore stop signs.

4. I didn’t watch much TV or spend much time on the internets over the long weekend, so I was unaware until yesterday that Britney Spears had gone totally insane and shaved her head. When I mentioned this to some friends last night, they all gave me shocked and disappointed looks, as if I had somehow fallen down on the pop culture job. Oh, the shame. On the upside, this week’s issue of US Weekly should have an awesome Britney cover shot. Will she be bald? Will she be crying? Will her abundant flesh be spilling out of an ill-fitting, inappropriate outfit? I’m thinking all of the above.

5. It’s Ash Wednesday today, so if you see anyone with dark smudges on their foreheads, it’s not just a matter of poor personal hygiene. I am nominally a Catholic, but I’ve been lapsed for so many years, I’ve forgotten most of the arcane lore I learned as a child and thus have no idea what the ashes mean. I haven’t been to Mass on Ash Wednesday since childhood, except for this one time in college, when I went with a guy I had a very mild crush on. Midway through the ceremony, I remembered that church dates were totally not my thing, that there were many reasons that I was a lapsed Catholic, and that this “relationship” was going nowhere. Also, the fact that I used Ash Wednesday to hang out with a guy probably makes the baby Jebus cry.

*Other than the time spent obsessively rearranging my Itunes playlists. Yes, I have a serious problem.

Short Notes

2007-02-11T16:09:00.000Z

1. I was sick earlier this week. Again. Seriously, people, if you are sneezing all over the place or coughing up a lung, just stay home. No one is so important that they can’t miss a day of work and help avoid turning the workplace into a germ warfare lab. And if you could just not breathe anywhere near me, that would be awesome.

2. As previously mentioned, I’ve been obsessively categorizing my CDs. I also purchased an Ipod. I have about 38 playlists. The list of songs I’ve downloaded is just embarrassing. I was explaining it to a co-worker:

“I like the anonymity of itunes. I can buy whatever stupid song I want and no one has to know. Like that Justin Timberlake song “SexyBack,” I like it, but I would never want to buy a Justin Timberlake album because that would be…”
“Embarrassing?”
“Yeah.”
“But now I know you bought that song, and I’m embarrassed.”

(Good thing I didn’t mention that Britney Spears song I downloaded.)

Punk rock cred: officially dead.

3. The new Bloc Party is pretty good, not exactly a departure from the first one. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I suppose that’s the peril of the sophomore effort. You don’t want to make the same album over again, but if you move too far in another direction, all your fans will hate it. The Shins’ new one is also pretty good*. One band I am loving right now is La Rocca. Their album, The Truth, is teh awesome. I’m excited for the new Arcade Fire. I’ve heard a couple of tracks and they sound amazing. I just got into their first one, and I can’t stop listening to it. I’m glad I spent all those hours putting 5000 songs on my Ipod, seeing as I listen to approximately 40 of them over and over again. Still, it kept me from doing other lame stuff, like my taxes or cleaning the kitchen.

4. Apparently, it’s cold out. I hadn’t really noticed. Well, actually, I had noticed, but far more annoying than the cold is everyone bitching about it all the time. I have a new rule: if you’re not wearing a hat, scarf, and gloves, you have no right to whine about the cold. If you’re walking around with coat unbuttoned in 20-degree weather, of course, you’re going to be cold. It’s winter, duh. Unlike most people in DC, I love the cold weather, and I find most of our winters much too warm. I’m pretty sure that in a previous life I lived in New England. Or maybe the Arctic Circle. I’m distantly descended** from the Vikings, so maybe that explains it.

5. I keep seeing commercials for some new Billy Bob Thornton flick. Something about astronauts (awesome timing Hollywood). Mr. Thornton has always scared the bejesus out of me, but there’s something even scarier than usual about him in these commercials. What is up with his face? Has he had a facelift? How else can one explain the fact that his eyebrows are practically in the middle of his forehead.

*This is why I could never write music reviews. I think everything is “good” or “cool” or “doesn’t suck.” It’s almost as bad as “It’s got a good beat. I can dance to it.”
**“Really, really, really distantly,” as Lord Kissington puts it, but something has to explain my love of Arctic weather and all things Scandinavian.

Categorize This Post

2007-01-31T00:21:00.000Z

To the world, I probably seem like a very disorganized person. But I actually have a mind like a steel trap. Sometimes, I picture the inside of my brain, and what I see are rows and rows of file cabinets, all containing pertinent facts, categorized and cross-referenced. I really like categorization. When I was nine, I created a library of all my books, sorted into categories and then alphabetized. I even created little check-out cards so anyone who borrowed them could fill the card out and I could keep track. It may not come as a surprise to learn that my first job ever (non-paying sadly) was at my local library. I was 11 and volunteered there during the summer. When I got to alphabetize the books and reshelve them, I was in heaven.

Sometimes when I have trouble sleeping (which is pretty much all the time), I make lists in my head to pass the time. For some reason, categorizing stuff calms me down. There’s this old Go-Gos song called “Girl of 100 Lists.”

Ghetto blasters, phony jewels
Cathedrals, castles, making up rules
Trashy novels and leather gloves
This is a list of the things I love

I am the girl of 100 lists
From what shall I wear
To who I have kissed
Check items off
Let nothing be missed
Say I to myself and my 100 lists

I am that girl.

As mentioned previously, I’m about to break down and get an Ipod. In anticipation of this blessed event, I set up Itunes on the fancy new computer and started uploading a bunch of CDs*. Itunes has brought out my inner librarian. I started making playlists. And I realized that I could use playlists to categorize my entire CD collection. I can do genres and subgenres. I can organize things chronologically. My physical CD collection is divided into three categories: classical/jazz (very small), soundtracks (including original Broadway cast recordings, oh yeah**), and everything else (90% of my CDs, but since they’re mostly rock and pop, I didn’t break things down further). Each of the three categories is alphabetized. I’ve always wanted to do further categorization, but I’ve never been able to because of the inability of a CD to be in more than one place at a time (except for magic CDs, but I only own a couple of them).

These are my playlist categories so far (not including my shorter playlists, e.g., stuff I work out to, my favorite songs from the old Fox and Hounds jukebox):

80s***
Punk
Post-punk
Hardcore
Indie
Emo
DC
Britpop
Disco
Showtunes
Soundtracks
Cheesy Pop
Classical
30s/40s/Big Band****

But I’m already running into problems. What do you do with bands that were big in the 80s, but still active today? I decided that Depeche Mode could stay in the 80s category, since I only have one recent CD and it only has one good song on it. And New Order is such a quintessentially 80s band, they’ll have to go in that category. But what about U2? After much discussion with Lord Kissington, I decided that if a band had their glory days in the 80s, then that’s where they’ll go. U2, welcome back to the 80s*****. Still, my 80s playlist isn’t just about chronology; it’s so much more than that.

Jesus and Mary Chain presented another conundrum. They started in the 80s, but their sound is really Britpop, so that’s where they’ll have to reside. Lord Kissington wanted to know what I was going to do with the Pixies. I decided on indie for them, even though they were on a major label and their first album came out in the 80s. Their sensibilities are more indie than anything else.

There’s obviously going to be some overlap within these categories. All my emo stuff is also indie, but much of my indie isn’t emo (that could totally be a question on the SATs). And the DC category will have a lot of overlap with the indie, emo, and hardcore categories. Some bands will end up all over the place. Blondie can go in 80s, punk, and disco. Rites of Spring can go in DC, indie, emo, and hardcore. Think of them as a manila file folder with four different colored tabs. Awesome.

Obviously, this system is pretty subjective. I have an 80s category, but none for the 70s or 90s. But there is a method to my madness here. Approximately 97% of my 70s stuff can be easily categorized into either the punk or disco categories. And my 90s stuff is all over the place and makes more sense going into categories like indie or emo.

I’m trying to figure out what other categories I need. Do I own enough trip hop to justify its own playlist? And what about all my math rock CDs? Maybe I need a “none of the above” category.

*And purchasing a bunch of embarrassing songs that I would never buy a whole CD of because the rest of it probably sucks and buying it would seriously damage my waning punk rock cred at the used CD store. I’m talking about you, Justin Timberlake.
**You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Robert Goulet (or Bob, as I like to call him) singing “If Ever I Would Leave You.”
***I thought about doing a sub-category of New Wave, but since at least 70% of my 80s stuff could be classified as New Wave, there doesn’t seem to be much point. I may do an 80s college rock category though, because really, Camper van Beethoven doesn’t have so much in common with Depeche Mode.
****These should really be their own categories, but since I don’t have much in any of them, I combined them.
*****This decision was aided by the fact that neither Lord Kissington nor I own a U2 record made after the 80s.

Keep It Like a Secret

2007-01-26T03:04:00.000Z

Not that many people I actually know in real life read my blog. I have some overseas friends who read it to keep up with what’s going on in my life (I’m sure they are all wishing lately that I would get a life). I know a couple of local friends check it occasionally. Lord Kissington reads it regularly (leading to lots of conversations in which he points out that things may not have happened exactly as I said. Ummh, poetic license, dood.). My parents know that I have a blog. My father isn’t entirely clear on what these “blog” things are. In a moment of insanity, I actually gave him the address. A few days later, he told me that he couldn’t get it to work (I suppose he wrote the wrong address down, or perhaps he’s a little unclear on how this whole internet thing works). I sighed with relief and suggested that it was probably best that he didn’t read it.

My mother asks questions about the blog occasionally. She’s never come right out and asked for the address, but she’s hinted at it a couple of times. Then she said that she thought it was better if she didn’t read it, since I needed my privacy (and then she muttered something about how private can it be when it’s all over the internet, but I just ignored her). Still, I have occasional bad thoughts about her stumbling upon just the right combination of search terms to find the blog: “sienna miller sux tiaras one tree hill syphilis orlando bloom so hottie shrinking breasts,” or something like that. As far as I know, this hasn’t happened. Yet.

But I had a scare last week, when the blog was mentioned in the Express’ Blog Log. I am quite sure that my mother doesn’t read the Express, as she already reads every page of the Post, so why would she bother with the watered-down, ADD version of it. I mentioned the Express to Lord Merlin. I saw him the next day, and he mentioned that he had picked up a few copies, in case I wanted one. He had given one to his mother (my godmother), who was very excited about it.

“Oh, that’s nice,” I said. Seconds later, I was stricken with panic. “Oh shit, what if she mentions it or shows it to my mother? That would ruin my whole ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ family blog policy.”

He called his mother up to tell her that it was all a big secret. She told him that she hadn’t mentioned it to my mother and she wouldn’t in the future. And then she told him that it wouldn’t matter, because “it didn’t give the address.”

Apparently, she is also not so good with this whole internet thing. Phew.

Your Help Please, Internets

2007-01-25T12:27:00.000Z

I generally post on and view my blog in Mozilla. On my new computer, I haven't set up Mozilla yet, so I've been using Internet Explorer. And the blog looks all messed up. So, ifyou're using IE, please please please leave me a comment telling me how it looks. Do you see random codes? Thanks.

I suppose I'm going to have to switch to the new blogger too. Grumble.

The Mixed Tape

2007-01-22T16:56:00.000Z

[Disclaimer: If you’re a regular reader, you’ve probably come here expecting some snark. So, I want you to know that this post is going to get totally emo. Consider yourself warned.]

I’ve been kind of a Luddite with this whole newfangled music thing. I don’t have an Ipod. This tends to cause consternation among friends and acquaintances. As my friend J said when told that neither Lord Kissington or I had one, “Isn’t there some sort of law that a couple in your demographic who’s so into music has to have at least one Ipod?” And he’s probably right, but we’ve broken that unwritten law. Here’s the thing: I have nothing against Ipods. Far from it, I’m planning to get one. It’s just that until last week, we had an aging laptop with not much memory, certainly not enough to support the massive amount of music we would be getting ourselves into, and no capacity for copying. And my trusty portable CD player had been serving me well.

But this has all changed. We’re not yet hooked up to the internetz (seriously, Verizon, how many days do you need to flip a switch?), but I’ve been exploring all this music stuff on the fancy new computer (henceforth to be known as FNC). Right after we got the FNC set up, I made myself two CDs, taking all the tracks I liked from a bunch of CDs I’d gotten recently, saving myself the trouble of carrying around a bunch of CDs just to listen to one or two songs. And it was so easy (yes, I know, isn’t it amusing that I’ve entered the 21^st century) that I decided to make a mix for a friend. He’s burned me a bunch of stuff recently, and I’ve been promising to return the favor once I got the FNC. I wrote up a list. I thought it about. I revised the list. And then I even wrote liner notes. (I’m a huge dork, but January is a dead month and I have a lot of free time on my hands.) The liner notes were really fun to write, because most of the songs I put on the mix had some sort of history for me. Not that I put all that history in the notes, because my friend doesn’t really need to know that “Holland 1945” is emblematic of a relationship that went nowhere and caused me lots of angst, but writing up the more generic comments did make me remember why I liked each song. And it got me thinking about all the mixed tapes I made over the years.

That’s right: mixed tapes. There’s something about the phrase mixed CD that doesn’t quite roll off the tongue like mixed tape does. I used to make mixed tapes for myself and others all the time. My favorite mixed tape from college was so good that Lord Merlin borrowed it and refused to give it back. I was able to steal it back a few years later, but now it no longer plays and I don’t have the case anymore, so I don’t know all the songs on it. Someday, I’m going to try to recreate it.

I used to make mixed tapes for boys I liked or was dating. In high school, I had a huge crush on an older guy. I poured my little emo heart into making the most awesomest mixed tape ever, one that would say, “Lady Tiara has amazing, really mature taste in music, and you should totally fall in love with her, even though she’s technically jailbait.” It didn’t make him fall in love with me, but he did tell me that it got him into the Replacements. I guess that’s something.

(I told Bryc3 I was writing a post about mixed tapes, and he said “You obviously have to mention the ‘I made you this mix tape, you wanna do it?’ angle that most men you know employed throughout the nineties, myself included.” Ummh, it wasn’t just men. Not that it worked so much.)

In college, I didn’t just hand my mixed tapes out to anyone; you had to be really special to get one. I used to labor over the list of songs. Every song had to mean something. Or be really awesome. Or say, “this is the girl for you.” (I was so emo in college*.) I made one really amazing mixed tape for a certain young man. He was suitably impressed. We made out, but things didn’t work out. Later, I might have made out with his friend and then even later his friend might have realized he was gay**. But it was still a really awesome mixed tape.

I also made a lot of mixed tapes for myself. I came across one recently that I had made for a party, and I listened to it and it wasn’t half bad. But I only made mixes for my own parties or if someone asked me to provide one for them. Showing up at someone else’s party and insisting on putting on your own mix is really the height of douchebaggery. I had a friend who used to do this all the time, and he would actually carry around what he referred to (and was labeled as such) “the [his last name] party mix.” It was actually a really lame mix, filled with the type of songs my mother enjoys dancing to at her office Christmas party. In retrospect, he kind of sucked.

When I first started dating Mr. Ex a million years ago, he made me a mixed tape. It was a truly excellent mixed tape. One side was slower songs and the other was faster songs (the whole side thing is really lost with CDs, isn’t it?). I played it over and over again, and not that I wouldn’t have fallen for him anyway, but the tape didn’t hurt, as I was majorly impressed with his taste in music. But in this case, the mixed tape was completely misleading. Those 20 songs represented the absolute best of his music collection. There wasn’t much else, and within a year, he was listening to a bunch of crap that would barely pass muster on an adult contemporary station. I was 24 and I had somehow signed on to a relationship with a prematurely old man. He also hated about 75% of what I was listening to at the time, so to keep the peace, I tended to only listen to my music when he wasn’t around***. (Shortly after he gave me the mixed tape, I made one for him. I can’t tell you a single song that was on that tape, which is kind of weird. I guess I’ve blocked out a lot of that relationship.)

We eventually went through an ugly breakup, one of those ones that goes on for months. After a couple of years, we sort of reestablished a friendship. It was fraught with difficulty and often not worth the trouble. But one part of it was another exchange of mixed tapes. The one I gave him was just a compilation of songs I was listening to at the time. It probably included Air, Paul Weller, and Built to Spill. The mix he made for me was pretty good, better than I expected. It seemed that his taste in music improved after we broke up, except that he included a song by Belle and Sebastian, one of my least favorite bands of all time. Lord Kissington is totally into them. I guess I should be grateful that Mr. Ex only got into them after we split up. He also included a couple of songs from 69 Love Songs by Magnetic Fields, including the lovely “Yeah! Oh Yeah!” Here’s a sample of the lyrics:

I though if we lived apart
we could made a brand-new start
Do you want to break my heart?
Yeah! Oh, yeah!
I've enjoyed making you
miserable for years
found peace of mind in
playing on your fears
How I loved to catch your gold
and silver tears, but now my dear
What a dark and dreary life
Are you reaching for a knife?
Could you really kill your wife?
Yeah! Oh, yeah!
Oh, I die, I die, I die!
So it’s over, you and I
Was my whole life just a lie?
Yeah! Oh, yeah!

Cheery song. I get the feeling he was trying to tell me something.

During the period between that bad breakup and the beginning of things with Lord Kissington (a time I like to call “the first date of the month club”), another guy made me a mixed tape. It was ostensibly for a party we were throwing, but he put “our” song (or a song that could at least partially be considered “our” song because we listened to it together once), so that totally meant he loved me, right? I analyzed every track on it, wondering if there were any hidden meanings.

“Do you think he put ‘Love Is a Drug’ on it because he, ummh, lurves me?” I whined to a friend.
“Yeah, sure. Or he likes Roxy Music. How the hell should I know?” she replied.

Things didn’t work out, but it was still an awesome mix. I still listen to it occasionally and it allows me to forget all of his really annoying qualities. That’s the power of the mixed tape.

I made Lord Kissington a mix after we had been dating for a few weeks. It was kind of a reciprocal mix, since he had given me one on our first date****. This mixed tape wasn’t a “fall in love with you tape.” It was a “I know you’ve already fallen for me and I just want you to share my love for all my favorites bands, especially the Get Up Kids, even though I know you totally hate emo” mixed tape. He was grateful and all, and it did spark an interest in all things Paul Weller, but he’s still not crazy about the Get Up Kids. Sigh.

I’ll leave you with these lyrics from the totally awesome and extra emo-licious song “The Mixed Tape” by Jack’s Mannequin. They totally get what I am trying to say:

*As I type this, my meddlesome inner voice says, “Just in college? Could you be possibly anymore emo now?”

**Really, the friend telling me that I reminded him of Elizabeth Taylor should have clued me in.

***Yes, now I can see that this wasn’t the most healthy relationship.

****Totally not as creepy as it sounds. We had known each for months and used to talk about music a lot, and I had expressed interest in hearing more of some bands he was into.

Express Yourself

2007-01-19T18:59:00.000Z

I got very excited today when I opened up my copy of the Express, went straight to the Blog Log (after a quick stop at the gossip page), and saw that my blog was mentioned. After nearly two years of blogging, I had finally been picked up by the Express. I’ve never really expected to get picked up by them, since I tend not to cover the topics they seem to like (politics, commuting on the Metro, pandas). It’s not quite an Oscar, but it’s a little bit like getting a Golden Globe. As Kevin Bacon said on Will and Grace, “My Golden Globe really meant a lot because it didn’t come from my peers, it came from the Hollywood Foreign Press Association.”

Then I read the sentence they quoted from yesterday’s blog:

“By mid-month, the resolutions have been all broken and you’re left with detritus of the holidays to clean up.”

“Hmmh,” I thought to myself. “They cut the parenthetical bits, but that must have been for space. I don’t really like the construction of this sentence. Why did I write it that way? It really would have been better as ‘By mid-month, the resolutions have all been broken, and you’re left with the detritus of the holidays to clean up.’”

Then I went back to my original and saw that this was the sentence I had actually written. Does the Express not understand cut and paste? Did they actually retype the sentence? So, anyways, Express, thanks, sort of. And remember, highlight the text, then ctrl C and ctrl V. It’s really very simple.

T.S. Eliot Had It All Wrong

2007-01-18T19:58:00.000Z

April isn’t the cruelest month. January clearly is. One generally begins the new year hungover, but hopeful, filled with noble intentions. By mid-month, the resolutions have all been broken (if you’re like me), and you’re left with the detritus (mental and physical) of the holidays to clean up.

I’ve been a bad blogger, but it has a lot to do with the whole January thing. Nothing ever happens in January. At least not for me. I have nothing to write about. For example, the January has included the following:

1. One extremely dead tree that was finally removed from my apartment last weekend. It was so dry that the needles weren’t just falling off, the branches were actually snapping off if you moved anywhere in its vicinity. Lord Kissington carried it down to the loading dock and I followed him, picking up branches and twigs (which on the plus side is much easier than having to sweep up 800,000 needles).

2. A fancy new computer has arrived. Sadly, the fancy new internet service is not yet up and running, so the aforementioned computer isn’t being used much.

3. I’ve been sick twice already this year: once with a general post-holiday exhaustion sort of malaise (I’m willing to admit that one might have been mental) and a killer cold, from which I’m still recovering. It’s snot galore and I am so over it.

4. I watched the entire second season of One Tree Hill and have started Season 3. I’m still kind of embarrassed, but this show is ridiculously gripping. I can’t stop watching. And it kept vastly me entertained while I was too sick to get out of bed.

5. Putting aside all the important books I received for Christmas (The Complete Claudine, The Wives of Henry VIII, and The Letters of Abelard and Heloise) in favor of rereading old mysteries because it’s just less mentally taxing.

So, as you can see, January has been a big fat nothing so far. January, you have 13 days left to wow me. I’ve already moved on to your shorter, but hopefully snowier and less dreary sibling February.

Notes on the Holidays

2006-12-29T19:07:00.000Z

1. On Christmas Eve, I was having brunch with my in-laws. I noticed that a guy seated two tables down from us had an unusual mustache. It was a Hitler mustache, and you really don’t see too many of them in the post-WWII era. I really wanted to point it out to someone, so I kept making head gestures in his direction, hoping Lord Kissington would take a hint and check it out. Instead, he asked if there was something wrong with my neck. This guy’s stache got me to thinking. Did he choose this mustache because he wants to look like Hitler? Had he been living under some sort of rock where he doesn’t know that his mustache makes him look like Hitler? Or does his mustache just grow that way? Of course, the last questions begs another: if your mustache grows in a Hitleresque fashion, why would you grow a mustache at all? He reminded me of my late grandfather whose idea of a good joke was to take a black comb, hold it above his lips, and give a “Heil Hitler” salute. Sometimes he would even throw in a couple of goosesteps. His jokes were always ridiculously inappropriate and not really very funny if you were over the age of 8.

2. I received my very first graphic novel for Christmas. I’ve never read a graphic novel before, but I very much like the term, as I would not want anyone to think that I got a comic book for Christmas, because it is clearly a graphic novel. My only previous experience with comic books are the Archie comics my grandfather used to buy me. After I had read them, he would come up with weird money-making schemes that involved my 8-year-old self trying to hawk the comic books to other kids. This made no sense to me because (a) they were my comic books, dammit, and (b) is there really much resale value for Archie comics? As you may have gathered from this story and the one above, my grandfather was what we euphemistically call a “character.”

3. I need a new calendar for 2007. Last year, I bought two: a tasteful Gustav Klimt to use for work and a still tasteful but totally embarrassing Orlando Bloom calendar for home use. This year, I have not been very impressed with the selection, i.e., I have not seen an Orlando Bloom calendar anywhere.

4. I received three copies of Son of a Witch for Christmas. Seriously, people, is the concept of the Amazon wishlist that hard to grasp? You look at the list, you click, you buy. I wandered around Borders today, thinking I could exchange my two extra copies, but there wasn’t a single thing I wanted. I got a ton of books for Christmas and when I combine them with the huge pile of other books that I haven’t yet read, I should be busy for the next 2 to 3 years. Also, I have approximately 42 hours of DVDs to watch, so I don’t really need anymore of those. Call me if you’re interested in a Jane Austen marathon: I’ll be examining the relative merits of Colin Firth vs. Matthew MacFadeyn as Mr. Darcy.

5. Lord Kissington got this awesome 80s box set, with all sort of amazing songs on it, so we spent most of Christmas morning fighting over which songs we wanted to hear. It totally disintegrated into a “Mom, she’s stealing my toys!” moment.

6. Every year, my mother freaks out at the last minute and is convinced that she doesn’t have enough presents for me, so she will call me up right before Christmas and ask me if there is anything I’ve bought myself recently that I might want to receive as a gift. Lord Kissington thinks this is totally insane, especially when I took Season 2 of One Tree Hill (Will Nathan and Haley’s marriage survive? Can Dan be even more of a dick?), which I had already opened, wrapped it up in Christmas paper, and brought it over to my mother’s. Actually, he’s right. It is totally insane. Particularly because when I opened it, I screamed, “Oh my God, the second season of One Tree Hill! How did you know I wanted it?” and my mother just sat there with a pleased look on her face, as if she had actually been really clever and somehow figured out that this was the perfect present. Have I ever mentioned that my family is the crazy?

Happy Christmas, Your Arse, I Pray God It’s Our Last

2006-12-22T15:53:00.000Z

Happy Christmas, Your Arse, I Pray God It’s Our Last

This morning on my walk to work, I listened to my favorite Christmas song,
“Fairytale of New York” by the Pogues and Kirsty McColl. Actually, it’s not
just my favorite Christmas song, it’s one of my top five favorite songs of
all time*. I first heard it when I was just an impressionable young lass in
1987, and it affected me profoundly, making me think that future Christmases
would be all about doomed love and being drunk (turns out, I wasn’t too far
off the mark). In its own depressing way, it’s the most wonderful Christmas
song ever, combining the miserable:

She: You’re a bum
You’re a punk
He: You’re an old slut on junk

She: You scum bag
You maggot
You cheap lousy faggot

with the sublime:

She: When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

She: You took my dreams from me when I first found you
He: I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can’t make it all alone
I’ve built my dreams around you

Some years later, I was living in Ireland, and I listened to the song on my
Walkman as I looked out over Galway Bay (“And the boys of the NYPD Choir
were sing ‘Galway Bay’…”) shortly before Christmas. It’s a lovely memory,
even if that Christmas was all about the doomed love (and the being drunk).

I thought I didn’t have a copy of the song anymore, my copy of the Pogues’
If I Should Fall from Grace with God having gone missing after a party a few
years back, but then I remembered that I had picked up Kirsty McColl’s
Greatest Hits on a trip to London*, and it’s on that. The Pogues are, of
course, one of the greatest bands of all time, but what really makes this
song work are Kirsty’s poignant vocals. It feels appropriate to remember
Kirsty at this time of year; it was six years ago this week that she was
killed, run down by an out of control speedboat as she pushed her children
to safety. (Those responsible have yet to be brought to justice.) So, when
you hear “Fairytale of New York” this season, please pour out a 40 in
Kirsty’s memory. And check out her Greatest Hits, which contains some of her
original songs (like “They Don’t Know,” a hit for Tracey Ullman in the 80s,
and “There’s a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He’s Elvis”), fantastic
covers (Billy Bragg’s “New England” and the Smiths’ “You Just Haven’t Earned
It Yet, Baby”), and another collaboration with the Pogues (Cole Porter’s
“Miss Otis Regrets”). It’s great stuff.

Posting will be sporadic for the next few weeks (even more sporadic than
it’s been lately, I should say), because of the holidays and some computer
issues (it’s hard to compose a coherent post when the t, g, and keys only
work part of the time). See you sometime in January.

*Yes, I actually make lists like this in my head.
**That phrase sounds ever so pretentious. I was with Lord Kissington, and he
said, “Who’s Kirsty McColl” and I replied, “Oh, you have so much to learn,
grasshopper.” Actually, it’s more likely that I said something along the
lines of, “Dude, you’ve never heard of Kirsty McColl? We are so over.”

Notes from a 4-Day Weekend

2006-12-20T22:15:00.000Z

I attended five parties. One was in Baltimore. Baltimore is really really far away, and we only brought two CDs for the ride (actually, I brought three, but one of them didn’t have a CD in the case. I do this all the time. It’s a really bad habit.), so we had to listen to both of them twice.

Parties are awesome. Less awesome: being the first person at a party and then having to leave before most of the other guests arrived because Baltimore is so far away.

I wrote approximately 30 cards. I wrapped approximately 30 presents. I stood on line for approximately 30 minutes at the post office waiting to mail a package and buy stamps. Seriously, people, five days before Christmas when the line is out the door is not the time to have a 10-minute conversation with the postal employee about the relative merits of 1st class versus priority mail. You’re lucky the rest of the customers didn’t throw their packages at you.

From Friday to Sunday, I ate no real food, just hors d’oeuvres. Approximately 133 hors d’oeuvres. I would like all future food intake to be in bite-sized portions. Rugelach are fantastic and so is June for letting me take home a bag of like 20 of them. Sadly, the fifth party put me into a temporary sugar coma.

I watched approximately 12 episodes of One Tree Hill. It’s possible that the first season DVD may have recently entered my possession. It’s also possible that it was purchased on ebay (New! Sealed! Totally not bootleg!) for the low, low price of $18.99, which someone may have convinced herself was actually cheaper than putting it on the Netflix list. Which is probably true, since we never get around to watching our Netflix DVDs, and they are costing approximately $15 each, and that would be six DVDs times $15, versus $18.99. Or something like that. But now I’m going to come out and stop using the third person here, since why should I be ashamed to admit that One Tree Hill is like my favoritest show of all time*? Nathan luvs Haley 4ever! As one friend said this weekend, when I tried to convince him of the greatness of One Tree Hill, “You really need to get cable.”

*There are actually many, many reasons, far too many to get into here. Still, this show is strangely gripping.

Am I Turning into My Mother?

2006-12-15T21:58:00.000Z

When I was a child, I really really really LOVED Christmas. Starting at age 8, I would hit my grandfather up for Christmas money (and he gave it to me until I was 18, with an increase each year. Miss you, Pop-pops) and I loved shopping. My mother, on the other hand, was not so into the Christmas spirit. Starting on Dec. 1, I would pester her daily about Christmas:

Me: When are we getting a tree?
Mom: Not for a while. It’s too early. It’ll dry out. You’ll poke your eye out.
Me: When can I wrap the presents? (My favorite Xmas activity. Still)
Mom: When I buy wrapping paper.
Me: When will that be?
Mom: I don’t know, next week maybe.

Finally, one night she would arrive home from work with the wrapping paper and I could go to town. I spent much of my childhood wondering why she was down on my Christmas enthusiasm.

I think I finally get it. My mother was working full time, raising me, and trying to get ready for the holidays. So I can now understand why, after a long day at work, she wasn’t really dying to wrap all the presents three weeks ahead of time.

We bought our tree last Sunday, but weren’t able to decorate it until last night, because we were busy every night this week. The presents are all in a big pile, waiting to be wrapped. The cards are completely unwritten. At least I’m finished with the shopping.

This weekend, I have five parties to attend. Yes, I can just hear you: “Oh, Lady Tiara, your life is so hard. It must be just awful to get invited to parties to too many parties.” And your sarcasm would be justified. It’s just that I feel a little overwhelmed at the moment, and I’m not sure I have the energy for five parties, even though I am looking forward to each and every one of them, and I’m sure they will all be fantastic.

And you know, I get totally overwhelmed by these little things, and my mom had to do all this AND deal with me. She’s made of stronger stuff than I am apparently.

Quiet

2006-12-14T22:04:00.000Z

I had an early meeting today, so I set the alarm for a little earlier than normal. I woke up really early and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I ended up getting up before the alarm went off. I actually made it to work at 7:50, which is unheard of for me. The world is a different place that early in the morning.

The fog was just dissipating as I walked outside. There were way fewer cars on the road than normal. A man gave me a friendly wave as if knew me. After a minute, I realized that he was the older guy with the funny hat I always see at the beer store. I don’t really know him per se, but maybe this is how early risers greet each other?

The sidewalks were deserted. The approximately 842 little dogs that are normally taking their morning constitutional when I walk to work were nowhere to be seen.

As I got downtown, the fog hadn’t really lifted, so it was a bit like breathing soup. The main door to my office was still locked. I was alone on my floor for at least a half hour. The whole thing was kind of peaceful. Still, I don’t think I’ll be getting up at 6 a.m. on a regular basis.

Numbered Post 87

2006-12-12T22:21:00.000Z

1. A Victoria’s Secret catalog arrived in the mail the other day. I used to get their catalogs at the rate of approximately 3 a week, but after my last move, they lost track of me. It seems they have found me again. I like that their otherwise cute pajamas promote healthy female stereotypes, like the one that says on the t-shirt:

“Wishlist:
Diamonds
Boyfriend
Chocolate

Also, they have these pink boy shorts that say “Pink and Frosty” on the ass. I don’t get it. Isn’t this a region of your body that you don’t want to be extra cold?

2. I am done with my Christmas shopping. I placed one last order to Amazon this morning. I fully expect this package to not arrive, as happens every December with at least one package from Amazon. Do people see the Amazon label on the box and steal it in hopes of getting some really awesome DVDs or videogames? If so, they must be sorely disappointed with my packages, which usually contain things like A Short History of the Crusades and obscure foreign films. Serves you right, thieves.

3. We got a tree on Sunday. It’s in the stand but not yet decorated. This year, the first lot we went to was entirely unsatisfactory. “These trees just will not do,” I exclaimed. So, we went to a second lot, where they had far superior trees. I realized that I may be turning into my mother, since she has been known to go to five or more lots in search of the perfect tree (usually on the coldest night in December). Given those experiences, it’s actually a wonder that I like Christmas trees at all. This year’s tree is a beauty, but in my quest for perfection, I have turned it around approximately 8 times so far, looking for just the perfect angle.

4. I get a lot of hits from people looking for information about shrinking breasts. I am now number 1 on Google for “shrinking breasts.” I’m so proud. But I really feel like Google isn’t exactly helping those who are desperately in need of information about their shrinking breasts, since I’m sure there are actual medical sites that might give people a clue as to why their breasts are shrinking.

5. Although the majority of my hits are in the DC area, I have regular readers in the UK, Germany, and Singapore (hugs and pinches, kids). Lately, I’ve gotten hits from Saudi Arabia, Belarus, Romania, and Malaysia. I feel so cosmopolitan. Apparently, shrinking breasts are a worldwide problem.

The Video Store and Me

2006-12-11T22:33:00.000Z

I have sort of a weird relationship with video stores. Some years back, when I was living with the former boyfriend I call Mr. Ex, we belonged to a fairly generic local video store. The selection was ok, but a little heavy on gay porn (which is of course totally awesome, just not really what I was looking for). Eventually, that store moved to a larger but much more inconvenient location, and one day, Mr. Ex came home and told me that he had found this great new video store with all these awesome obscure movies and he had joined and “Look, I rented The Sorrow and the Pity for us to watch tonight.” If you have never seen it, The Sorrow and the Pity is this 4-hour documentary about the Nazi occupation of France during World War II. It is totes awesome and as you can imagine really uplifting. Mr. Ex then insisted that I get my own membership to this video store. I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t just use his membership and I had to have a second one, but it was one of those issues that really just wasn’t worth fighting over (there were a lot of those in that relationship). I asked him where the video store was and he said, “It’s on X St., next to the sex store.” Then he handed me The Sorrow and the Pity and said “Why don’t you return this since you’re going there anyway.”

I resisted the temptation to throw the tape at his head and trotted off to get my new membership. Once I was on X St., I walked into a video store that had opened a few months before and was right next to the sex shop. I told the guy behind the counter that I wanted to join. He looked sort of surprised, but handed me a form to fill out. As I was filling out the form, I looked around the store and I couldn’t figure out why Mr. Ex thought the place was so great. It was just a few shelves of shitty new releases, and everyone else in the store was heading behind the black curtain to the porn section. When I handed the form over to the guy and gave him The Sorrow and the Pity, I noticed a video catalog behind the counter with a fairly graphic photo on the cover. Since it was two men, I began to wonder if Mr. Ex was trying to tell me something. Then the video store guy told me that the video I was trying to return wasn’t from their store.

Me: “What?”
Video store guy: “This is from Video X, that new place across the street.”
Me: “Oh.”
VSG: “Do you still want the membership?”
Me: “Ummh… yeah.” I didn’t want to seem like a complete idiot (oops, too late).

With my new, never to be used membership card in hand, I walked across the street. There was indeed a new video store, and it was next to the OTHER sex shop. You can understand my confusion. So, I joined that video store, and although in theory, it was really great, it actually was not so much.

Because, you see, sometimes I just want to watch something stupid or cutesy or the latest Chad Michael Murray* release. And this store did not have a good selection of such films. It did have a really great selection of documentaries in Serbo-Croatian, but you know, sometimes you’re just not in the mood for that. Once my friend L and I were in there trying to rent a movie. We had already discounted approximately 12 titles because I knew that Mr. Ex would refuse to watch any of them. We finally settled on a fairly harmless new release, but the store only had one copy and it was out. L said, “Let’s just go to Blockbuster,” and the video store dork #1 looked distraught and said, “No, no, I can find you something great.” So, he asked us a few questions and brought out three movies for us to choose from. Two of them I had to veto (again because of Mr. Ex, sigh), but the third seemed ok, so we rented it. And it completely and totally sucked. So, I was not really trusting video store dork #1. Also, he referred to Katharine Hepburn as KaHep, which I found really annoying. But the worst thing of all was the way he and his fellow employees would sneer at me when I tried to rent Can’t Hardly Wait or asked if they had Never Been Kissed.

Within a year of joining this video store, my relationship with Mr. Ex ended (shocker, I know). I joined the Blockbuster down the street and my visits to the old store became far less frequent, because I was not so often in the mood for Serbian documentaries. I liked the Blockbuster. Sure, the selection was shit, but no one ever passed judgment on me for anything I rented. Sometimes, I would even get a teenage girl at the counter and she would tell me how much she loved Never Been Kissed.

But the long reign of Blockbuster is coming to a close, and Lord Kissington and I joined Netflix almost two years ago. It’s really the ideal situation. They have almost anything you could want to watch, and even if a Netflix employee is sneering at my choice of movie, I don’t have to see them sneering at me**. The only problem with Netflix is that sometimes the movies sit around for ages before we watch them. And often, when I’m in the mood for something lightweight, the next movie is not really appropriate for that. For example, right now, we have a critically acclaimed but depressing looking Tibetan film and Heavenly Creatures. And this weekend, I was looking for something more like The Prince and Me. Luckily, the next item on the list is The Princess Diaries. I can’t hardly wait.

*Totally joking. I have some standards.
**Not that Lord Kissington doesn’t sneer now and then, but how much can a person who owns Red Dawn really sneer at the movie choices of others?

Sample Christmas-Related Conversation from the Tiara/Kissington Household

2006-12-05T22:45:00.000Z

Me: It’s only 21 days ‘til Christmas, and you haven’t bought a single gift.
Lord Kissington: Yeah.
Me: Aren’t you worried?
Lord Kissington (in a bewildered tone): No.
Me: But how can you sleep at night knowing you haven’t done any shopping yet?
LK: Like a baby.

As much as I don’t really enjoy Christmas shopping, I still feel a huge compulsion to get it done (because once it’s all done, I can do the present-related activity I most enjoy—wrapping). Lord Kissington has no such compulsion. Before he met me, he tended to do all his shopping at the mall at 5 p.m. on Christmas Eve, usually with one of his brothers and there was often beer involved. He has admitted that this method didn’t always result in the best gifts (like that decorative rooster that’s probably gathering dust in his sister’s closet). I could never do this; the anxiety of not having everything in place would make me sleepless and grumpy. Maybe this is why we are a good match: I make sure he’s not roaming around some suburban mall on Christmas Eve and he makes sure that I don’t have a nervous breakdown in the weeks before Christmas. It’s a good combination.

'Tis the Season for Giving

2006-12-04T22:23:00.000Z

Every year, I find the process of Christmas shopping less and less fun. When I was younger, I used to love Christmas shopping, and I would spend days searching for just the perfect gift for everyone on my list. These days, not so much. I’ve done about 70% of my shopping, and most of that was over the internets.

I try to make things easy for anyone giving to me. If anyone asks what I want, I tell them about my Amazon wishlist or some other easily available items. Yes, this takes the surprise out of Christmas, but it saves me from having to feign enthusiasm for crockpots and Princess Diana commemorative plates.

Unfortunately, my parents don’t seem to grasp the concept of the Amazon wishlist. Last year, my mother told me that she ordered stuff from my list, but from Barnes&Noble.com, because Amazon “didn’t work.” And my dad printed out the list and took it to Borders, because he “didn’t want to get cookies on my stepmother’s computer.” (I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t actually understand the concept of cookies.) So, I got duplicates of several items. Obviously, this is not the end of the world. One would rather get too much than nothing at all.

One item that both Mom and Dad ignored was the (then) new Madonna CD I had asked for. My father muttered something about “I didn’t raise you on the Clash and the Ramones so you could listen to that crap” and mother just said “Madonna? Really?” in a disappointed voice. At least I don’t need to worry about getting two copies of VIP: The Complete First Season.

Holiday Fun and Twitches

2006-11-27T22:48:00.000Z

Thanksgiving wasn’t totally sucky, which in Tiara family parlance means “actually rather nice.” Everyone behaved themselves, and the food was excellent. Of course, it’s not hard for this year to look good when I compare it to Thanksgivings past, like the time everyone was being so awful that I just skipped it or the time my grandfather’s London Fog raincoat got stolen at the truly awful restaurant he insisted we eat at*.

The four-day holiday was nice too, except for the fact that I seem to have developed a new stress-related symptom. In addition to stomach problems, red scaly blotches on my skin, and insomnia, I now have a facial twitch. Seriously, a facial twitch. So unfair, people. Lord Merlin tells me that he read in Men’s Health that twitches are usually stress-related and can be exacerbated by lack of sleep and dehydration. This all sounds plausible, but I’m still going to go see my doctor, since I don’t really consider Men’s Health to be an authoritative source. Especially since I am not a man.

In my time off, I did a lot of sitting around, saw The Queen (v. good) and The Fountain (also good, but if the internets could explain it to me, I would be totes grateful), and finally finished that Marie Antoinette biography I’ve been slogging my way through. It was very good, but I have had the worst time finishing it, and have actually put it down several times to read other books. I think my problem relates to the ending. I know how the book is going to end and I know it’s not going to be pretty. And it wasn’t. Sometimes, I reread books I’ve read before, and of course, I know that ending, but that just makes it better. For example, it’s hard to read about the trials and tribulations of Jane Eyre, but you know there is going to be a big payoff in the end, and Jane will (spoiler alert for anyone who’s never read Jane Eyre†) overcome adversity and live happily ever after with Mr. Rochester. And as I read about Marie Antoinette, I already knew there wasn’t going to be some last minute rescue. So sad.

*Which is kind of like poetic justice in a way, because he forced to eat at this awful Irish (a people not known for their fine cuisine as you are no doubt aware) restaurant all the time, and on three separate occasions, the same ancient drunk Irishman walked off with the raincoat, because he had a similar one and got “confused” after 18 Guinnesses. Three times. Each time, my grandfather got the coat back, but it always smelled of old man, cigarettes, and cheap Irish whiskey.
†Just read it already.

Giving Thanks

2006-11-22T19:41:00.000Z

This year, I'm thankful that I will only be expected to eat one Thanksgiving dinner. As a long-time child of divorce, I should be used to the split holidays by now, but somehow my stomach has never adjusted. So, only being expected to show up for one dinner tomorrow is reason for thanks.

(And yes, I realize that there are many unfortunate souls who would be glad to have two dinners to go to. I'd gladly give them one of my spots, but I've yet to convince my mother that spending Thanksgiving with the homeless is a good idea.)

Lack of Wordage

2006-11-20T22:57:00.000Z

Lack of Wordage

Things have gotten really crazy and posting has fallen by the wayside. I’ve been having serious stress of the unable to sleep, mysterious stomach pains, and lovely red blotches bursting out all over my body (hawt, I know) variety. This has led to a reduction in writing and in any fun activities that might actually give me something to write about.

1. The other day, I wore this new top to work. I spent the whole day feeling like the top just wasn’t working for me. It was kind of a crazy pattern and the cut didn’t really feel right to me. I was totally uncomfortable in it all day. And then it dawned on me. This was the sort of top that crazy Great Aunt Edna might wear. I don’t actually have a crazy Great Aunt Edna, but you know the type. She wears crazy outfits and accessorizes them with turbans. And you look at her and think, “Wow, that is one crazy outfit Great Aunt Edna has on, but you know, she’s really working it, what with the turban and the crazy clunky jewelry.” Sadly, “crazy Great Aunt who lives in Miami and wears wacky print muumuus” isn’t really the look I’m striving for, so I don’t think I’ll be wearing this top again.

[The following contains a spoiler for V for Vendetta, so please skip if you are planning to watch it. However, I would really recommend that you skip watching it. You’ll thank me.]

2. Over the weekend, I watched V for Vendetta. It was one of those movies that I meant to see in the theater, but by the time I got around to it, it was gone. I figured I would enjoy it. I usually like futuristic Utopia-gone-wrong sort of tales (We, Brave New World, and Anthem* are among my favorite books). Sadly, this film did not live up to my expectations. I knew we had a problem in the first five minutes when Natalie Portman’s character is rescued from a potential gang rape by a guy wearing a creepy mask. Even though the rescuer has just knifed the three creeps to death and is WEARING A REALLY CREEPY MASK, she agrees to go with him when he asks her to come hear some music with him. I know she’s been trained by her totalitarian society to obey at all costs, but you would think there might be a moment of hesitation. But no, there wasn’t. That set the tone for the rest of the movie, and I was flipping through US Weekly before long. The last 10 minutes or so was fairly decent, but couldn’t even begin to compensate for the previous 2 hours.

3. Last night, I had Chinese food. I have noticed that lately, the fortunes I’ve gotten with Chinese food have been very lame. Last night’s fortunes included such gems as “The weather is nice.” I got one that said “For those who feel, life is a tragedy; for those who think, life is a comedy.” Not only is this not a fortune, but I don’t even agree with it. Perhaps life is a tragedy for those who feel, but life is definitely a tragedy for those who think. The happiest people I’ve known have always been kind of dumb, and I figure that their lack of thinking about things make them much happier. Those who are not cursed with self-awareness are generally much happier than those who are. So, fuck you, fortune cookie that isn’t even a fortune.

*The only Ayn Rand I could get through, probably because it’s 1000 pages shorter than all of her other books.

Lady Tiara Hearts Viktor & Rolf

2006-11-10T23:02:00.000Z

Last year, I waited a few days before hitting H&M for the Stella McCartney collection, and by the time I got there, all they had left were key chains. And you know, a Stella McCartney keychain is much like any other keychain. This year, I was determined not to miss out on the Viktor & Rolf collection. I really like the Viktor & Rolf aesthetic, and this may be my only chance to own any of their clothes, barring any unforeseen lottery winnings.

H&M opens at 10 a.m. I arrived there at 10:10. As I approached the store, I noticed a woman looking at me. We were obviously heading to the same place. She gave me the stinkeye and started running to get to the door first. I really wanted to say, “Slow down, sweetie, you’re clearly a size 2, so it’s not as if we’ll be fighting over the same clothes.” I walked into the store and saw that the Viktor & Rolf section was completely picked over and that there appeared to be none of the four dresses I was interested in left on the racks. 10 minutes, people. I suppose I should have lined up at 8 a.m. I grabbed two tops and the black coat (in a size larger than normal, since it was very fitted and looked tiny) and headed to the dressing room. I went to the end of the very long line and prepared to wait. And wait. And wait.

The wait was interminable, but also somewhat entertaining. A bit of what ran through my head:

Upon noticing that they were playing the Viktor & Rolf commercial on continuous loop: “This is the coolest commercial ever. I love V&R. I wish I wasn’t already married so I could get married in that wedding dress.”

After watching the commercial on continuous loop approximately 30 times: “Don’t they have any other videos to show?”

Upon noticing two different over-50 women wearing leggings: “Looks like my decision to never ever ever in a million years wear legging in this millennium was a good one.”

Looking at the mother/daughter duo several places in front on me: “Do they really think that because both of them dye their hair that awful shade that people will actually think it’s natural? … Shit, I really am an awful person. But seriously, these clothes are best suited for anorexic amazons and neither of them fall into that category. Or even close… Why so bitchy, Princess? Why shouldn’t this mother and daughter be able to enjoy a little shopping together? … This could be you and your mom… (hysterical silent laughter) Oh wait, my mother would have no idea who Viktor & Rolf are because they don’t carry them at Talbot’s or Lands End… They are each holding approximately 30 items of V&R… Wait a minute, everyone in this fucking line is holding like 30 items… Did they just grab everything their greedy little hands could carry? No wonder this line isn’t moving. I’m going to be here all day… Do I even like these clothes…”

As the woman is front of me—the same woman who beat me to the door on the way in—eventually gives a frustrated sigh and stomps off: “Ha! Quitter!”

I eventually make it into a dressing room. During my long wait in line, I could see lots of V&R being rejected and put back out on the racks, so I had some hope that the items I really wanted might actually be available. One of the tops I tried on was a weird sweater/shirt combo (silk shirt in the front, sweater in the sleeves and back). While I appreciated the concept, it just didn’t work on me. The white angora sweater was much better and has a lot of possibilities. I’ll probably remove the little heart pendant, since it’s a bit much with the bow, but it would be a cool necklace on its own (V&R love hearts and bows and they are all over this collection). The coat was adorable, but huge, and fit oddly, so even going down a size probably wouldn’t have helped.

I hung on to the sweater and hit the floor again. I snagged two of the dresses and bought them, skipping a second trip to the dressing room (I can only take so much masochism in one day). Instead of the usual blah plastic H&M bag, you get a really nice V&R special shopping bag, made out of heavy white paper with black ribbon handles. I know it’s just a shopping bag, but I am a shopping bag connoisseur and this is a very fine example. They also threw in some samples of V&R’s new scent Flowerbomb, which is pretty, but a bit headier than the kind of scents I like to wear.

Sadly, the red silk dress didn’t work at all, as it was way too small. It was oddly cut: the arms were almost too tight, even in the forearms (my arms are extremely average in size, so this is odd), the top fit fine, and the bottom I couldn’t even button. Luckily, the black dress fit perfectly, even though it was supposed to be the same size as the red one. I’ll be returning the red dress, so if anyone really wants it in size 8 that’s really more like a 4, you may be in luck (they’re out of this one in all sizes as far as I know).

So although it was a bit harrowing, it really wasn’t that bad, and I got two cool things. Much better than New York, where they were lined up around the block and the collection was completely sold out 30 minutes after the store opened.

Conceding That He's an Idiot

2006-11-10T13:52:00.000Z

Normally, I avoid watching concession speeches. They’re just so sad, and I usually end up feeling bad for the loser, even if it’s someone I wanted to see defeated. But yesterday, I decided to make an exception and watch Senator Macaca McFootball concede, because I really really can’t stand him. He represents everything that I think is wrong with Virginia*. And he’s just really annoying.

So, I tuned into the internets to watch the speech. Nothing happened for a while, but as I looked at the place where he was going to speak, it seemed really familiar.

I called Lord Kissington and got him to turn on the speech. “Isn’t that where the Professor and Mary Ann got married?”

Lord Kissington: “Yeah, I think so.”

Me: “I went on a field trip there in 1^st grade. Now it’s totally tainted. But I can see why he chose it. It’s a colonial house. It represents the Virginia George wishes he lived in.”

LK: “Five bucks says he brings football into the speech.”

Me: “That bet’s not even worth taking, because you know there’s no way that Macaca McFootball won’t bring football into this somehow. This is a guy who campaigned at the Skins game in Maryland two days before the election.”

Eventually, John Warner came out and blathered on for what seemed like forever about how great McFootball is. I couldn’t take it and I stopped watching. But I caught a clip later on the news, and he indeed brought football into the speech, throwing his precious football into the crowd. Which is pretty funny, since I actually thought the thing was surgically attached to his hand.

*The state in which I grew up. I’ve spent more years there than anywhere else (approximately 20). There are plenty of good things about Virginia, but George Allen isn’t one of them.

Notes on an Election, Part the Second

2006-11-08T22:21:00.000Z

1. So, I was over a my father’s house the other day and I saw something that surprised me: a large election poster that said “Vote for [Dad’s name] Tiara!”

“Dad, is there something you want to tell me?”

He insisted that he wasn’t really running for office, but that someone with the exact same name spelled the same way (our family name is slightly unusual and the least common spelling) was running for a local office in the city in which we were both born. Who would have thought there was another Lord Thistlewaite St. John Tiara out there?

I’m happy to say that Thistlewaite won his election with a whopping 74.5% of the vote. Way to go, Dad!

2. [Not election-related but still worthy of comment] I offer a hearty congratulations to Britney Spears, who has finally dumped her loser sperm-donor husband. She probably should have kicked him to the curb after the first kid, as I’m sure she’ll have to pay him more now. Of course, she really should never have married him, so what’s another year and another kid? Hope that prenup stands up in court.

3. Congratulations also go to handsome politician Martin O’Malley for his win in the Maryland governor’s race. I don’t know if the race came down to looks alone, but O’Malley sure beats Ehrlich in that category.

4. There were approximately three other people voting when Lord Kissington and I arrived at our local polling station last night. I’m guessing turnout wasn’t huge earlier in the day either, given that when I signed my name, most of the other lines on the page were blank. I told myself that it was important to vote because if nothing else, I am influencing politics on the most local level, when I vote for the ANC candidate. Of course, our candidate was running unopposed. Sigh.

5. I was asked if I wanted paper or electronic voting, and I said paper, because I’m not using one of those dang, fancy, newfangled machines. Filling out the paper voting forms is a bit like taking a standardized test. You have to use number 2 pencils, and you have to fill in the arrows ,being careful not to go outside the line. Since I vote in a school, the whole process really takes me back.

6. My mother called last night to ask if I had voted. I told her that we went after work and it wasn’t too crowded.

“Oh, the election. No, I was wondering if you had voted for anyone on Dancing with the Stars?”

"Gee, Mom, I was a little more concerned about the actual election."

I told her that I couldn’t vote for Mario Lopez, because even though I think he’s probably the best dancer, there’s just something I don’t like about him. Maybe it’s that his main claim to fame is Saved by the Bell? Maybe it’s his annoying little whispery voice? Or maybe it’s that he seems so intense when he’s dancing, like he’s desperate to win this because he knows it’s his last chance to rise above the D list? I can’t help but prefer Emmitt Smith who’s always smiling and actually looks like he’s enjoying dancing. But hey, that’s just me.

I Got Two Words for You:

2006-11-08T14:21:00.000Z

Woo hoo!

Notes on an Election and Other Things

2006-11-07T14:21:00.000Z

1. On Saturday, we went duckpin bowling for a friend’s birthday. Apparently, I don’t completely suck at it. I enjoy bowling of the rare occasions that I do it, but the whole having to wear shoes that have been worn by who knows how many people thing really freaks me out. This time, I figured out a way to cut down on the germ factor (or at least to assuage my germ phobia). I wore an old pair of socks for bowling, and I brought an extra pair of socks. After bowling, I removed the bowling shoe-contaminated socks, put them in a ziplock bag I had brought specifically for that purpose, and put on the clean socks, thereby avoiding any contamination in my own shoes. Yes, I know, very OCD.

2. On Sunday, while on a trip to the burbs, we stopped at a Taco Bell. There is just something about suburban Taco Bell. I’ve tried city Taco Bell, but there’s always something a little off about it. This particular suburban Taco Bell is open until 4 a.m., and they have all kinds of signs advertising “the meal between dinner and breakfast.” Because Americans really need to add another meal to their diets. They also had a sign announcing that all items can be made without meat and that Taco Bell is “Great for Lent!” I’m glad they’re looking out for the Catholics, but Lent doesn’t actually start until 21 February 2007. Still, it’s good to be prepared.

3. So, it’s Election Day. I keep thinking about the Virginia Senatorial election and how voters have to choose between a possibly racist douchebag and a possibly sexist douchebag*. But really, I’m just jealous that you get to have a senator.

4. I’ll be voting today, but it’s really an exercise in futility. Fenty is all but elected already, and most of the other candidates in my ward are running unopposed. But I have to vote. If I don’t vote, I feel like I’m just giving in to a Congress who seems to think we don’t deserve voting rights. It sucks to be disenfranchised.

*The choice seems pretty easy here—vote for the guy who doesn’t mention in every other sentence that he used to play football and that his daddy coached the Redskins.

Ladybug Killer (Or Karma Will Get You in the End)

2006-11-03T13:56:00.000Z

Yesterday, I killed a ladybug. I really tried not to. Two nights ago, I saw something on the ceiling of the kitchen. I figured it was yet another roach, and I was trying to figure out a way to kill it, which was looking difficult since the ceiling is a lot higher than I can reach. Then I noticed that it was a ladybug. For some reason, I’ve always liked ladybugs. They’re not like roaches; they don’t seem to multiply like rabbits, and they’re not usually indoors. Lord Kissington was all set to kill the ladybug until I begged him not to. He looked at me as if I were nuts, but he humored me and left the bug where it was. I promptly forgot all about it.

The next night, I was in the kitchen when I noticed a bug in a half-filled glass of water in the sink. Once again, I assumed it was a roach. Upon further examination, it turned out to be my ladybug. And I was very upset to find it floating upside down, since it seemed sad that I had given her a reprieve last night and here she was, drowned. But then I realized she was still moving. This ladybug had life in her yet. I scooped her out of the water with a spoon and put her on a paper towel to dry off, while I pondered how to save her. “Lord Kissington,” I called, “I need your help.”

He comes into the kitchen quickly, but when I explain to him that I need his help to save the ladybug’s life, he snorts and says, “I don’t save bugs, I kill them.” He leaves the kitchen as I stared in horror at his heartlessness. I pondered how to rescue the bug. Taking the bug outside would be the easiest solution, but since I live on the sixth floor, I wasn’t sure how to transport her that far without crushing her. I figured out a way to push the screen out of the window and got Lord Kissington (under protest) to hold it in place, so I could put the ladybug out on the ledge so she could crawl to freedom. Unfortunately, as I attempted to place her on the ledge, she slid right off. Can ladybugs survive a six-flight drop? I feel so guilty.

****************************

Perhaps karma is getting me back, because this morning someone spit on me. I don’t think it was intentional, because I would imagine that if you really wanted to spit on someone intentionally, you would stop and really aim it in their direction. I think this was a just a case of a guy spitting and me being within spitting distance. I saw flecks of spittle floating through the air and I thought I had escaped contact until I looked down and noticed a gob of spittle on my coat. Shudder. I kept looking at it in panic, trying to figure out what I could do. My only option was trying to wipe it off with a tissue, but there were no trash cans in sight, and I didn’t want to litter or return a contaminated tissue to my purse. Three blocks later, I was still staring at my sleeve, when I spotted a trash can. I whipped out a tissue, dabbed at the spittle (which strangely hadn’t soaked in or evaporated at all), and threw the tissue in the trash can. Just as I tossed it in, a gust of wind caught the tissue, and off it went. I briefly considered following it and trying to dispose of it again, but it blew into traffic and I decided that I wasn’t going to take my life in my hands to rescue a germ-laden tissue. A man who had seen the whole thing gave me a dirty look. I wanted to scream, “I tried not to litter. It was the wind, damn it,” but instead I just kept walking. For a germaphobe like me, this has totally ruined my day. Now I’m off to attempt to boil the sleeve of my coat. Wish me luck. Here’s hoping I don’t get hepatitis*.

*And if the hepatitis lobby is reading, yes, I’m aware that it’s highly unlikely that I would contract hepatitis this way. Jokes, people.

Off with Her Head

2006-11-02T14:02:00.000Z

Over the weekend, I saw Marie Antoinette. I had been looking forward to it for ages, because I really like Sofia Coppola as a director (we try to forget about her brief flirtation with “acting”*) and I’m a huge history dork with a soft spot for queens who lost their heads. Unfortunately, I had some issues with it. (Shocking, I know. As you’ve probably realized by now, I tend to have issues with everything.)

(Two warnings about what’s to come: spoilers and extreme dorkiness. Don’t say you weren’t warned.)

It’s really visually stunning, and it definitely works on an eye-candy level. However, the story doesn’t hold together very well. It’s just a series of cool-looking scenes thrown together without much thought for coherency. For example, we see Marie Antoinette have an affair with the handsome Swede Count Axel Fersen. First of all, there is no proof that the affair happened. Certainly, they had a relationship, but whether it was physical is impossible to say, since Marie Antoinette didn’t leave any evidence behind. (If only she had: Dear Diary, I totally hooked up with Axel last night. He’s like from Sweden and he is such a hottie and so much cuter than my fat**, boring, key-loving husband.) Some biographers do think they slept together, so I don’t really have a huge issue with her putting it in the movie, except that it seems to have no point. Fersen and MA sleep together, he leaves, and she wanders around Versailles thinking about him to the tune of “What Ever Happened” by the Strokes. We never see Fersen again. Why bother showing the supposed affair if they weren’t going to show his important role during the revolution? Fersen worked tirelessly to free MA and her family and was instrumental in a failed escape attempt. The affair seemed meaningless without this context.

Coppola chose to end the film with MA and Louis leaving Versailles in the early days of the Revolution. I can see why she made this choice (she would have really had to condense things a lot to get the subsequent events in and a lot of ugliness would have intruded into an otherwise pretty movie), but by leaving out most of the Revolution, she missed out on the chance to really show MA growing as a person. We see hints of this when she refuses to leave Versailles, saying that her place is with her husband, but this seems to come out of nowhere since she hasn’t exactly shown great devotion to him up to that point. During the family’s captivity, MA showed great strength of character and she is said to have gone to her death with dignity and courage.

Not that it was all bad: I did think some parts of the film were extremely effective. The portrayal of the elaborate rituals that surrounded every move the royal family made were very well done. And the constant whispering that surrounds MA at Versailles really was very effective at conveying the fishbowl atmosphere in which she lived.

If you are at all interested in it, I would certainly recommend seeing it, as despite my complaints, there is a lot of good in it, and if you’re not all that interested in the dorky historical details, the good may outweigh the bad.

*But we were in favor of her designing career, except that we’ve always been bitter that none of her cute clothes fit us because they are made for women with freakishly long torsos (or perhaps we just have a freakishly short torso?).
**Louis and some of his siblings were rather corpulent. It’s said that when Marie Antoinette first arrived in France, she was surprised by how much Louis ate.

Maintenance Woes

2006-11-01T14:09:00.000Z

I live in a very large building. Sometimes, the maintenance staff is great and really efficient, but sometimes, eh, not so much. Last week, the lightbulbs in our foyer and dining room burned out. (The building installed light fixtures that use those super long-lasting fluorescent bulbs, and they are responsible for replacing them.) On Monday, Lord Kissington stopped by the front desk and put in a maintenance request. When I arrived home on Monday night, the foyer light had been changed, but the dining room light had not. I stopped by the front desk Tuesday morning to put in another request. When I gave the apartment number, the woman asked if my husband had put in a request yesterday. I explained that he had and that only one light had been changed. She rolled her eyes, so I guess this kind of thing is not unusual. When I arrived home, there was a note saying they had changed the lightbulb, but when I flipped the switch, nothing happened.

On Wednesday, the woman at the front desk was surprised to see LK again. He suggested that the light might be broken as well as burned out. When I arrived home on Wednesday, they had fixed the light, but it’s definitely a case of be careful what you wish for. The other fluorescent overhead lights in the apartment aren’t too harsh. But now when you flip the dining room switch, first you hear that tinkling sound that you get in most office fluorescent lights. Then when the light comes on, it’s this horrible harsh greenish light. Our dining room now resembles a police interrogation room. Sigh.

In addition to our lighting issues, we’re having some major bug issues, so I stopped by the front desk to ask about getting exterminated. When the lady saw me coming, she said, “Don’t tell me they didn’t fix that light of yours.” We arranged to put our apartment on the list to be exterminated the next day. When I came home from work on Friday, there were bugs all over the kitchen and no sign of any extermination. Luckily, the exterminator showed up yesterday. I am now waiting for the bugs to die a slow, painful death, which they don’t seem to be doing. Considering the level of the problem, we’ll probably have to have the exterminator back again this Friday. Sigh.

TV Is Totally Letting Me Down

2006-10-31T18:04:00.000Z

Now that it’s the end of October, I feel it’s fair to do an assessment of the new TV season. And my assessment would be that it sucks ass. I feel like Homer Simpson, asking the TV to give him some of that sweet sweet magic and all he gets in return is Admiral Baby. This year, I tried three new shows:

1. Vanished. This show looked sort of interesting. It’s an ongoing mystery, and I loves me some mystery. And it has that hot guy from the American Queer as Folk. I watched two episodes and decided it was totally lame and that I liked the hot guy better when he was gay. Fox is moving the show around on the schedule and it’s apparently on the verge of cancellation.

2. Smith. The promos for this one looked cool, and the first episode was really good. Unfortunately, the next two episodes were lame. I was going to give it one more week to turn things around, but CBS made the decision for me by canceling it. I guess even the combined hotness of Jonny Lee Miller and Simon Baker just wasn’t enough to keep this one afloat.

3. Studio 60. The first episode was decent. I watched two more episodes, but each one got a little worse. I find the show clever in some ways, but everyone is so damn self-righteous and preachy. They are producing a sketch comedy show, not saving the world. Of course, the fact that everyone takes themselves so seriously might explain why the sketches aren’t funny. I gave up after the third episode, and it appears that much of American did as well, as the show is rumored to be on the chopping block.

I figure that this is fine, because the less TV I’m watching, the more time I have for important intellectual pursuits, like sitting around on my ass and reading Vogue. And I always have the returning shows to keep my company. Only, that isn’t working out so well either. I’m still enjoying House to some extent, because of my undying love for Hugh Laurie, but what is up with the three young doctors? They just get dumber every year. Watching gives me lupus panic too, since it seems that lupus is the answer to any odd combination of symptoms. Last year, I really liked Bones, but this year, it’s just stupid. They replaced the interesting male boss character with the really annoying female boss character, who seems to be there solely for the purpose of providing “sexual tension.” Just a hint, but manufactured “sexual tension” is, ummh, not sexy. And the plots are terrible. It’s painfully obvious by about 20 minutes into the show who the murdered will turn out to be.

And then there’s Lost. Where do I even begin with Lost? Last week, the promos promised that a huge secret would be revealed. The big secret? The Others are apparently on another island that’s about 100 yards from the original island. Big fucking deal. And the direction of this episode was painfully obvious from the beginning. Conman Sawyer is in jail. And wow, what a surprise, he’s running a con. And it turns out that the Others were conning him! Raise your hand if you didn’t see that one coming. I actually missed 15 minutes of it since I left the room when Henry Gale started torturing the rabbit. Nobody hurts a bunny on my watch.

With all this free time, I can totally work on that novel I’ve been meaning to write. Or read US Weekly. Whatever.

Checking in with Down There

2006-10-26T13:46:00.000+01:00

As I mentioned in my last post, I went to the gynecologist the other day (or as she’s known to some*, the va-jay-jay doctor). I have heard that some porn contains elaborate scenarios involving visits to the gynecologist. Clearly, these scenarios were dreamed up by men, because I think that most women will agree that going to the gynecologist is completely unsexy.

My doctor is pretty cool and she makes the experience as pleasant as possible. This time wasn’t too bad. My lady parts are apparently in fine working order.

This year’s nurse was a huge improvement over last year’s, the one who didn’t seem to notice that I don’t weight 224 pounds.** When she asked if I used street drugs, I said (honest answer), “No.”*** And every year I wonder, does anyone actually answer “yes” to that question? I know you aren’t supposed to lie to the doctor, but I can imagine most people don’t want to deal with any Judgy McJudgerson attitudes.

I asked my doctor about a minor concern that I’ve had recently. I’ve noticed a few stray hairs on my face, some in potentially mustache form. Luckily, there are only a few of them, and they are blonde, so they’ve pretty unnoticeable. She said it was probably nothing to worry about since I don’t have any other odd symptoms and that this is just “something that happens” as you get older. “Older”? That’s a dagger in the heart. She went on to say that it would probably be worse if I weren’t on the Pill. So, going off the Pill to get pregnant would make me both fat and hairy? Fantastic. Another reason not to reproduce. I told her I wasn’t too concerned about it, since “the hairs are blonde, which is kind of funny because I’m not blonde anywhere else.” Then I felt sort of dumb for saying that, because considering where she had just been looking, she knows quite well that I’m not blonde anywhere else.

*And by “some,” I mean “me.”
**I’m actually considering embracing the whole “massive weight loss” thing, because then, when I look in the mirror and think, “Princess, you really need to lose five pounds,” I can reply, “What the hell are you worried about, princess? You’ve already lost almost 100 pounds. Go have that ice cream sundae. You totally deserve it.”
***Every year when I’m asked this question, I consider saying something along the lines of, “Yeah, but only coke and smack. No crack. Because crack is whack.” I never say this, because I am guessing medical personnel probably don’t consider drugs a laughing matter.

The Dominatrix Upstairs

2006-10-24T23:02:00.000+01:00

I’m suffering from major writer’s block these days, and all my attempts at long, meaningful posts are going nowhere, so it’s all short notes.

1. My long-time readers (both of you) may remember an incident from last year where I went to the gynecologist for my annual exam and a possibly blind nurse’s aid recorded my weight as 224 pounds. Even with really heavy shoes, a few cameras on me, and my big bones, I am far from being 224 pounds. I went back to the doctor today for this year’s annual exam. Everything looks fine, but they still haven’t figured out how to fix my record. On the up side, everyone is totes impressed with my massive weight loss.

2. I’m pretty sure my upstairs neighbor is a dominatrix. Early every morning, I can hear her clacking around in high heels. It seems to be the first thing she puts on in the morning. Perhaps this is normal for others, but shoes are usually at the end of my morning routine. She makes all sorts of weird noises day and night, as if she is dragging furniture around the floor. There’s another noise I often hear that sounds like some kind of metal being dragged across the floor. So, here is my theory: She’s a dominatrix and is running a business out of the apartment. She wears high heels 24/7 because, hello, have you ever seen a dominatrix not in heels? The furniture dragging sound must be her moving her torture equipment around. And the metal being dragged across the floor? Clearly, that’s the sound of the chains she uses to imprison her submissives. Please admire my Nancy Drew-like detective skills.

3. Fall makes me think of college, because fall was always really beautiful in the town where I went to school. Thinking of college made me think of this guy that I had a crush on for like three days in college. I got over it when I realized he was really boring. Recently, I heard that he’s a darling of the neocons for his rather reactionary views on certain subjects, so it doesn’t seem that we would have much in common these days. I saw a picture of him, and although it was only from the neck up, his head was twice the size it was in college, leading me to suspect a really significant weight gain. Here’s to no longer having bad taste in men.

Craptastic Numbered Post 82

2006-10-17T23:02:00.000+01:00

1. Lord Kissington is recovering from a nasty stomach bug. He lost 5 pounds. Is it wrong that I am totally jealous?

2. Kim Jung Il’s little uniform jacket would be so much kickier if it didn’t have those elastic patches on each side of the waist. If I had the chance to talk to Kim Jung Il, I would say:

“Kim, you don’t mind if I call you Kim, right? Kim, you’ve got a very unique look. You’re rocking the poufy hair and the teensy high heels. It works for you. But the elastic tabs have got to go. It’s the Korean dictator jacket equivalent of mom jeans. Oh, and lay off those nuclear tests already.”

3. Does anyone else think the Others on Lost are living in some sort of Utopian free love experiment gone bad? It seems like Ben/Henry Gale and Juliet (already can’t stand her) used to have something going on. And that chick who came down into the hatch was all like, “What’s going on here?” in a jealous fashion. That same chick later kissed that chucky dude who was bossing around Sawyer (and you just know Sawyer is not going to forget that). Just a thought?

4. Martin O’Malley is kind of handsome, in a clean-cut politician sort of way. He’s probably a douchebag though, since that seems to be the way of politicians. But he’s just handsome enough to make me wish he’s not a douchebag. Every time I see his commercials, I say “That is a handsome politician,” and Lord Kissington looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

5. Spellcheck will try to tell you that douchebag should be two words, but I really think that’s just wrong. (Spellcheck will also try to tell you that you are spelling Spellcheck wrong, but they can just suck it.)

6. This year for Halloween, I am looking for people to help me make one of my long-time dreams come true. I want to get a group of seven people together and go as the cast of Gilligan’s Island. My wardrobe is ideally suited to play Ginger (and my competition moved to another country). Sadly, the best choice for Gilligan also moved to another country. Any help would be appreciated.

DC Confidential

2006-10-13T14:18:00.000+01:00

Back in the day, Ann Landers used to occasionally put a “confidential” message at the end of her column. I assume that these were messages to people who didn’t want their letters published. The messages were usually cryptic and read something like:

Confidential to Skokie, IL:

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

I’ve decided to take a stab at my own version of this feature. These messages are directed to people who haven’t asked for my advice, but who are sorely in need of it. Also, my messages will be far less cryptic than Ann’s.

Confidential to woman walking in front of me on 13^th St, 10/11, 6:15 p.m.:

If you must wear white after Labor Day (and I’m really begging you not to), for the love of God, please buy a thong in an appropriate color. Hint: white or beige would work. Hot pink or black is a no no. Maybe you want to show off your thong, but trust me, this is just not appropriate in the workplace.

Confidential to the angry blonde on the elevator in my building this morning:

Banging hard on the “Lobby” button six times in a row isn’t going to make the elevator move any faster. In fact, if the elevator is anything like me, it will probably go even slower, just to spite you.

Confidential to the douchebag driver at the intersection of 13^th and I Streets the other morning:

You may think you are not a complete douchebag because you didn’t honk at the elderly man on a walker who was crossing the street at a snail’s pace, but inching your car closer and closer to him in an attempt to make him move faster is just as bad. He couldn’t move any faster than he already was and you just freaked him out. There’s a special place in hell for you. Or, to put it another way, here’s hoping karma comes around and bites you in the ass big time.

Fashion Trends I Just Cannot Get Behind

2006-10-12T15:31:00.000+01:00

I’m actually enjoying fashion at the moment. There are tons of clothes I like out there, and I’ve been shopping quite a bit lately and not finding it the frustrating experience that I usually do. There are of course some trends I can’t really get into, like skinny jeans, but if you have legs like Kate Moss, then I figure what the hell.

But there are two trends that I just cannot get behind.

1. Ankle boots worn with skirts and dresses. This look is everywhere* at the moment, and it makes me nuts. Unless you have superskinny, extralong legs, this is just not a flattering look. It tends to cut the leg off at an awkward point and makes woman look short and stumpy. I’m short enough already; I don’t need shoes that add to the effect. So, I’ll be wearing knee high boots with my skirts and dresses.

2. Leggings. Where do I even begin with leggings. There are so many problems here. First of all, I wore them the last time they were in, and that’s probably reason enough to never touch them again. Also, I have a bad throw-up-a-little-in-your-mouth kind of memory about leggings. At my first job out of college, there was a woman who used to wear leggings to work every day, years past the point where they were considered even remotely fashionable. She wore them in place of pants, not underneath a skirt. She was very overweight. And did I mention that the leggings were white and two sizes too small for her? So, when I see even a very skinny woman wearing tasteful black leggings, all I can think of is this woman. And besides, Lindsay Lohan has totally been rocking the leggings lately, and she’s not really someone whose fashion sense I want to emulate.

Can’t a Girl Buy Some Cheap Clothes Without Having Her Eardrums Assaulted?

2006-10-11T22:58:00.000+01:00

I really haven’t had much to write about recently, and this weekend didn’t help that at all, since I was sick for most of it. I had a migraine that lasted 24 hours, a stomach bug, and a weird backache that made me miserable for two days and then abruptly disappeared. By Monday, I felt that I had to drag myself out of bed and do something. Lord Kissington wanted to see The Departed. I just couldn’t do it, since I have this thing about Hollywood remakes of foreign films, the thing being that I can’t stand them. The Departed is a remake of Infernal Affairs, which I love. And I know it’s Scorsese, and I’ve heard it’s great, but I just wasn’t feeling it. So, we went to the Chinatown theater, and while he was seeing his remake, I watched The Last Kiss, chosen mainly because I had very low expectations for it and it wouldn’t require much thinking on my part. Sadly, the joke was on me. As the opening credits rolled, I learned The Last Kiss is a remake of an Italian film. D’oh.

My film was shorter than LK’s, so I killed some time at H&M while I was waiting for him. As I was standing in line, someone further back in line started cursing up a rather nonsensical blue streak. He seemed to be screaming something about not being made of fucking money and he wasn’t going to be buying his lady friend any fucking pants and what was her fucking problem and what the fuck was she talking about. I didn’t want to make eye contact, but I took a surreptitious glance at the couple. They were probably at least in their 50s, way outside the traditional H&M demographic (I should know, I’m probably a few years past their target customer). The woman was completely ignoring him, which gave me the feeling that she’d heard it all many times before. In fact, all the customers and employees were attempting to ignore him, although really, he was so loud and so obnoxious that people three blocks away could have heard him. I got up to the counter and was paying for my items, and he and his companion moved up to the next register.

Then things got even more interesting. It seems the man wanted to pay for a pair of jeans that he had already changed into. The woman behind the counter was trying to explain why he couldn’t do this, since she needed to remove the security tag and she couldn’t do that with him in the jeans. She asked him to change back into his original pants, but his companion said, “Oh, he already got rid of those.” The woman behind the counter was incredulous and I had to agree with her. Where did he dispose of his pants? It’s not as if H&M has super helpful dressing room attendants who are just waiting to take away your unwanted items. The man kept insisting that there was no problem and he hoisted his leg up on the counter and told the woman to just remove the tag that way. She kept trying to explain to him why this wouldn’t work (I really don’t think it would. The security device removal thing is in the counter and you have to press the tag down pretty hard to get it to come off. I’m not sure this guy’s leg would have stretched far enough.) I left while this was still going on, but I felt really bad for the cashier. Shopping at H&M is unpleasant enough, I can only imagine how much fun it is to work there.

It Would Be So Much Worse If I Had Cable

2006-10-05T23:09:00.000+01:00

Despite my resolve to get back to blogging regularly, it’s been a little difficult. I seem to lack the motivation to gather my thoughts in a coherent manner. So, if what follows doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, I apologize.

Yesterday was just a lousy day. I felt sick, I couldn’t seem to get anything done, and I managed to give myself a splinter at work (at my non-manual labor job). I finally decided to go home sick.

I spent much of the afternoon obsessing over the splinter. Tweezers didn’t seem to be doing the trick, so I attacked it with a needle (sterilized with alcohol, of course, I’m not as nuts as I sound). I have no idea if I’ve actually gotten the splinter out. Should I be worried? My mother has always insisted that splinters are totes dangerous and will lead to blood poisoning, but other, less hypochondriacally inclined people have told me that the splinter usually works itself out eventually. I’ve decided to go with that theory.

When not mutilating my pinkie, I watched TV. For like 8 hours or something. My brain feels a lot mushier than when I started. Several hours of soaps produced a lot of head-shaking on my part. (Really, Jason? It’s just occurring to you that Elizabeth’s baby might be yours? How did you ever get to be number 2 in the local mob?)

By the time primetime rolled around, I had very little patience left for what awaited me. Last year, I kind of liked Bones. This year, it’s awful. They brought in that annoying woman as Brennan’s new boss, in a pathetic effort to make some sort of (painfully awkward) love triangle. And the plots, while not exactly brilliant last year, are just ridiculous. I can always figure out who the murderer is by midway through the show. And it’s not that I’m brilliant or psychic, it’s just the answer is painfully obvious.

So, by the time Lost came on, my patience had worn a bit thin. I was fairly excited for the new season. My favorite wacky hatch resident Desmond is now a regular cast member, and I was interested to see how they were going to follow up on last spring’s awesome cliffhanger.

Sigh. I had such high hopes, but they began to diminish rather quickly when I realized that it was going to be yet another Jack flashback. How many does this make? 12? Is there really anything more that we need to know about Jack? We know all about his daddy issues (is it just me or does everyone on this damn island have daddy issues?). We know that he was sad about his wife leaving him. We know that HE CRIES ALL THE FUCKING TIME. And it was just more of the same. More daddy issues. More ex-wife issues. And lots more crying. Enough with the crying already.

Jack seems to be building a bond with sensitive “Other” Juliet. I don’t know how I feel about Juliet. I mean, her favorite book is by Stephen King. Really? On the other hand, she totally burned Henry Gale/Ben by kicking him out of her book club.

I should really lay off the TV.

This Is Why I Prefer Not to Answer the Phone

2006-10-02T22:50:00.000+01:00

Generally, I try to avoid answering my land line at all, because hardly anyone calls me on it except my mother and telemarketers or people asking for money for various charities. But on a recent Sunday, I was expecting a call and I answered the phone, thinking I was safe because most people asking for money don’t bother you on Sundays, it being the Lord’s day and all. It was the Policemen’s Benevolent Association calling, wanting money. I find this particular charity a bit sketchy. They ask for me specifically by my first name (tricking me into thinking it’s someone I actually know for a few seconds, long enough to get me hooked), and they know my full name and address. My phone number is unlisted. I assume they are getting my info from the voter registration lists or the DMV, and I have to wonder why the hell the police are allowed to access that information for money-gathering purposes. I assume that the people that call are hired specifically for this purpose, as they are pushy as all get out and really good at squeezing money out of you. Once a few years back, I got a call from one guy who just wanted to send me some info about their programs so I could look it over and see if I wanted to donate. I agreed since it sounded harmless enough. Big mistake. A few minutes later, I got a call from one of their operators wanting to confirm my $50 donation. A few months back, I actually agreed to donate a small amount of money because the guy basically browbeat me into it and I would be supporting the wives and children of officers slain in the line of duty, and what kind of person wouldn’t want to support them? Anyway, back to the most recent call:

Bloodsucking caller: Hello, Ms. Tiara. We’d like to thank you for your generous support in the past. We’re asking for your support at the $55 level this time.
Me: No, I can’t afford to give again at this time*.
Bloodsucking caller: Ok, well, I’ll just put you down for $40 this time.
Me: As I said, I can’t afford to give again at this time.
Bloodsucking caller: Well, I’m sure you can donate $35, can’t you.
Me: No.
Bloodsucking caller: Well, last time you gave $27, so I’ll just put you down for that.
Me: How many times do I have to say no?
Bloodsucking caller (completely ignoring me): So, $27 it is.
Me: Arrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh. How many times do I have to tell you I’m not giving you any money. Leave me alone.

Then I hung up the phone.

I’m fully expecting to get a note in the mail saying that they are expecting my $27. And I imagine that donor list has a big black mark next to my name, because clearly I’m an evil bitch who hates the widows and children of officers slain in the line of duty and wants them to starve. Sigh.

*It’s been maybe three months since the last time. I see this as a once a year charity at best. Technically, I could afford the $27, but if I am going to give money, there are other organizations I would much rather give to, ones that don’t have super-aggressive, guilt-inducing phone solicitors.