Procrastination. How you gonna perfect it if you never practice?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Procrastination. How you gonna perfect it if you never practice?
Friday, September 28, 2007
Photos, clockwise from top: Butch at four, with his mother, Helen Gurley Brown; At three, already trying to start something--you can plainly see that his butt cheek is on my side; Easy Rider Butch; Miami Vice Butch; Butch with his trusty chihuahua caddy (and very possibly the reason for his golf score).
Thursday, September 27, 2007
My friend Tawana is having a difficult time of it as well, but she seems to believe that the breakdown of her heretofore fully-functioning filtering device has endowed her with special menopausal powers.
Apparently, she's become indestructible.
If I had tried any of the above, I would be escorted off the plane, carried away to jail, cursed, and asked to leave without my Diet Cokes.
Because you just can't pull that crap down here--special powers or no. If a flight attendant instructs you to close up your cell phone, you might buy some time with, "No thank you, I don't believe I care to," but you will do it, and be damn glad for the opportunity. Don't let the corn-pone accent fool you--folks around here just don't truck with any of that Northern sassiness.
Tawana's a transplant, so she knows this stuff. But she's allowed herself to forget, and has lost sight of the fact that you have to use the power of the dying ovum for good--never evil. Consequently, every time she comes home, I stay worried to death for her. I just don't think it's truly dawned on her that her special powers won't work here on her home planet of Kryptonite. One of these trips back, her old dried-up-Miss-Haversham eggs are going to get her into real trouble.
It's just a matter of time before someone wraps her up in her own cape and Billy Joe McAllisters her right off the I-40 Bridge. And I'm going to be powerless to do a thing about it.
photo, Laura Kennedy
*I will not be describing the conversation that took place on Wednesday between Tawana and a coworker when the latter made the unfortunate decision to park in Tawana's parking space because I love Tawana and don't want you to think she's an ass.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
"I'm sorry," she said. "But what does your friend being African American have to do with anything?"
Sometimes, I wish the stuff I made up was this good.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
But first (and the reason you need to know this will become apparent), I want to tell you that I earned a solid A in both Biology and Bio Lab. I was able to do so by virtue of the world's most primo set of flash cards--a full 8 1/2 inch stack of the most comprehensive cards ever compiled for Kirkpatrick's Biology course. I spent at least as much time during the semester creating these cards as I did studying them. This stack of cards was so perfect, in fact, that I was able to dine out on the price they fetched for the entirety of the following semester. For all I know, they are still in circulation. As I said, they were guaranteed grade-A flash cards.
Did you know that every man passes on to his male child an exact copy of his Y chromosome? That child then passes on the exact copy to his male child, and so on. So that, over the course of a thousand years, that same Y chromosome gets passed down through the generations, and unless a mutation occurs, all the male descendants possess an exact copy of Big Daddy's original Y chromosome?
This totally and completely blows my mind. I can't even get my hair to do the same thing two days in a row. And as for my progeny--most of the time she's trying to figure out which shopping mall I stole her from.
So way to go, men. Way to pass down your essence through the centuries. Now if I could just have a program please, so I can tell which of you are part of the same bloodline.
I think I may have finally figured out why I keep marrying the same men, over and over again.
photo, Jean Scheijen.
Monday, September 24, 2007
If I can't pick it up and deal with it while on autopilot, I just truck it out to the garage. This solution works fine for me as long as I don't have to put my car away. If I ever have to hide my ride from an ex-husband or the repo man, I'm going to be out of luck.
When I was a child, the men in my family would loll about on the porch while the women prepared the big holiday or Sunday meal. Once or twice a year, the opportunity presented itself for one or more of them to work just such a trade. By the time the food was on the table, my mother might discover that my father had traded her favorite end-table for a coon dog, or that she was now the lucky owner of a new (to her) horse-head-sized, acorn-shaped ashtray in exchange for the ladder she thought important to the repainting of the house but to which my father objected just on general principle. (I was never clear if it was the ladder or the painting assignment to which he objected.)
Anyway, I happen to know Tawana owns a painting that Carol absolutely abhors and an almost-empty garage. So I'm getting Carol on the phone right this second, and by the time Tawana reads this post, it will be too late. I'll have a mediocre painting I can hide behind a door, and Tawana can figure out what to do with twenty-seven years of bank statements.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Please don't tie up the phone. I'm expecting a call from AARP asking me to function as their spokesperson any moment now.
Did you know you can do something in your sleep and wake up the next morning looking like one of the zombies from Night of the Living Dead?
This morning, my right eye is bright red and filled with blood--and yet, I've suffered no trauma. As far as I can tell, I haven't yet had the stroke I keep threatening my writers with. And that aneurysm I've been expecting--the sudden pain in my frontal lobe that causes me to grab at my noggin and fall motionless to the floor--well, so far, that's just a dazzling, future opportunity.
According to the interwebs (my first source of information when yet another something new and frightening has just happened to my body), you can blow the blood vessels in your eye with a minor cough or sneeze. Just like that.
Now I don't just have to concern myself with the possibility of strangling on my own spit as I sleep and peeing the bed, I can stay awake nights wondering if a little bit of cat dander (or one of those marauding, killer, pillow feathers) is going to trigger a sneeze and blow my peepers right out of my head.
It just keeps getting better and better.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Suddenly, a car rounds the corner, driving much too fast. As it passes, an unknown female voice shouts, "You fat, stupid cow!" and the car speeds away.
My friend's daughter looks around, completely stunned, and I assume, praying that at least one other person is standing nearby so she can reassure herself that the insult was intended for someone else. It's already splashed up all over her; the most she can hope for at this point is a possible alternative target for the malicious stranger.
Unfortunately, the only other person in sight is a young man, leaning against the building and smoking a cigarette. She looks at him and he looks at her--for what feels like a very long time.
"Man, that's harsh," he finally says.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
And what do you care where it came from, as long as it's funny?
STORIES THAT WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT DIFFERENTLY IF THE PROTAGONISTS HAD HAD CELL PHONES BY PETER NORVIG
Hi, it's Patsy.
I went out walkin'
Out in the moonlight
Just like we used to do.
I'm always walkin'
Searchin' for you.
Yeah ... Uh-huh...
OK, I'll meet you there.
- - - -
ESTRAGON: You're sure it was this evening?
ESTRAGON: That we were to wait.
VLADIMIR: He said Saturday. (Pause.) I think.
ESTRAGON: You think.
VLADIMIR: I must have made a note of it. (He fumbles in his pockets, which are bursting with miscellaneous rubbish.) What'll we do?
(Beeping sound as ESTRAGON dials number.)
VOICE OF RECORDING ON PHONE: You've reached the number for Mr. Godot. Mr. Godot told me to tell you he won't come this evening but surely will tomorrow.
ESTRAGON: Well, shall we go?
VLADIMIR: Yes, let's go.
- - - -
News from Verona!
How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady?
Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet?
That I ask again,
For nothing can be ill if she be well.
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.
Her body sleeps in Capel's monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault
And presently took post to tell it you.
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.
Is it e'en so?
Then I defy you, stars!
But soft! What SMS through yonder RAZR breaks?
SMS ON ROMEO'S PHONE:
i'm ok --
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
photo, Deon Staffelbach
Monday, September 17, 2007
So for now, this is all you get. If you've got comments, let me have 'em. Obviously, I'm fearless.
photo, David Lok
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Hear a podcast of #88, Poke a stick in that puppy and give it to me to go (from 8/ 30/07):
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Friday, September 14, 2007
Then there's the lying and the stealing. Wait, I think I meant to call that the creative license necessary to make for a better story and the cultivation of ideas from my blogging friends. Yeah, that sounds better.
All of you, just relax. You just have to assume that if I haven't ruined your reputation, embarrassed you into hiding, or published your bank account or social security numbers over the course of 100 posts, you're probably safe.
Unless you think your social security number might get a laugh? Wait a minute, I may know how to write that...
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Here's the thing I can't stop thinking about. Every single day for 10 years this guy's wife is watching him get up from the couch and meander his way into the kitchen to pop up some corn. He probably even says something exactly like that on his way there. "Well. I think I'll just pop me some corn." Although he may say it like it just then occurred to him, he says it exactly the same way, every single day. Because when you're living with someone, eventually you notice that they have a tendency to do the same things, over and over again.
She watches as he takes the package out of the wrapper, punches open the microwave, squints at the bag for a really long time to be sure that he's reading the This Side Up properly, sets it into the oven, and then jabs COOK-3-0-0-START. He's doing it and she's watching him do it at least once, sometimes twice, every single live-long day.
When the popping stops, he opens the bag and puts his nose down into all that third-degree-quality, pseudo-butter-smelling steam that's pouring up out the top. Each. And. Every. Time. And maybe he's scalded the brains right out of his frontal lobe a couple of times, but by the time he's popping again, he's forgotten, and so he just keeps right on poking his naked nose right down into that bag. His wife may have even said on occasion, "You know, that can't be good for you."
What she's not saying, but is almost certainly thinking by about the twenty-second thousandth time she's seen him do this, is that she's going to either by-God kill him dead or die herself if she has to watch this whole process go down even one more time.
Because that's just how it is when you're living with someone.
photo, Leonardo Morales
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
I have a friend who buys a new car every couple of years; she starts researching in the Spring, and then, right before the new models come out in the Fall, she has her car detailed and heads over to the dealership to negotiate a really smart trade.
I, on the other hand, simply wait until somebody points out that my tires are going bald. Someone will have to call this to my attention though, because unless something is demanding to be fed, petted, or paid, I can't be bothered. And anybody knows that it's way more fun to buy a new car than a new set of tires. Or to have the air conditioning serviced.
So once I've decided to buy a new car, I usually just pull into the first lot I pass on my way home from work. I will stop to grab the maps, emergency tampons, and CDs from the glovebox, but other than that, they take possession of the car in its functioning condition. In other words, I let them deal with the empty Diet Coke bottles and Hostess Cupcake packages rolling around in the back. And on the passenger side floorboard. And in the trunk.
As someone who loves being the center of attention, I know that nothing gets folks' attention like a business transaction in the thousands of dollars. There's no competing with that easy, back-and-forth banter that happens when one person knows the other is about to make them a lot of money. I knew I could pretty much count on getting to a quick first-name basis with a perfectly dressed, perfect stranger, provided I was willing to give him a copy of my driver's license, registration, and proof of insurance. Which, it so happens, I most certainly was.
But oh, but what an unfulfilling major-purchase experience I had. Perhaps my salesperson should give up his career in the car business and go back to college. True, he did make the sale, but you should know that I was pretty much prepared to make a deal with a monkey, provided he had the keys and was authorized to give the go for a test drive. But this guy? He totally ruined the very best part of the whole process.
He Ma'amed all the flirt right out of me.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
will have to do until the
mailman brings your gift.
21 years' old
what an excellent reason
to walk to the bar.
Pure grain alcohol
and a birthday pinata
aren't a good combo.
Friday, September 7, 2007
And then I found this comment from BJ Leiderman on the dirtyfrenchnovel blog (relax; it isn't):
Many thanks for listening,
Thursday, September 6, 2007
On Monday, I bought a new car.
On Monday night, I ate something evil.
On Tuesday, I threw up in my new car.
On Wednesday, I prayed for death.
The culprit? A corn dog.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
If there had been a man who was convenient to call, I would have phoned one up this weekend to accompany me to the car lot. I fully expect the NOW people to demand their membership card back since I've said that out loud, but it does seem to me that after all these years of giving them my money, they could have at least sponsored some sort of legislation that would enable me to walk into a car dealearship without automatically loosing 15 IQ points.
A girl with burnt hair, no eyebrows, and no ride doesn't really have the 15 points to spare.
photo, Constantin Jurcut
Monday, September 3, 2007
I went to fetch a Diet Coke from the machine on Friday afternoon and by the time I had returned, one of the designers had fashioned a Christmas card holder from my new Coach handbag. It's very cleverly done, and I'm sure will come in quite handy when all those season's greetings come pouring in, but now I don't have anywhere to carry my keys.
Fortunately, they've asked for my help finding people with Christmas ideas. This would be a good time to come to my rescue while also getting your name and idea published. There's no compensation if your idea is chosen, but you will get published credit, and then you'll be famous. Sort of.
Take a minute to consider the questions below and email your responses to one or more of them to me at email@example.com.
2. What tips do you have to share about preparing for the Christmas holidays that help make them less stressful?