A recap of the Thoreau family holiday celebrations, spanning two states, several species, and a dozen bottles of wine, shall be presented in a seasonally-appropriate Twelve Notes of Christmas format, so as to combat my desire to ramble, and ease your ability to comprehend the insanity. And thus, we begin.
1) Twas the night before Christmas, and it was not a mouse, that my aunt and uncle showed up with at my grandmother's house: It was actually a Labrador retriever, a stray cat, and a profanity-spewing African Gray parrot. That's right, for a one-night stay, my aunt and uncle insisted on traveling with their very own menagerie, as if the zoo-like atmosphere created by my family wasn't enough of the animal kingdom for the eve of the birth of Christ. The dog was pretty tame; the cat created minimal havoc beyond attacking and conquering all holiday foliage placed around the house; and the foul-mouthed parrot actively tried to assassinate my brother Jordie throughout dinner. He sat on top of his five-foot-tall cage (the parrot, not my brother), and whenever Jordie would walk by, look at him, or take a bite of his own food, the parrot would rear up all Dracula-like, spread his wings, and shriek obscenities at him, not unlike my boss. Apparently he understood the meaning of the middle finger, because Jordie's sole response of flipping him the bird would send him into a renewed parrot frenzy. It was not festive.
2) My aunt and uncle, who are awesome people but who are loud beyond the human range of hearing, became so raucous during our Christmas Eve Greek Feast that my dad began singing "Away In A Manger" and NO ONE COULD HEAR HIM. I could see his lips moving, and see him swaying to the beat, but he may as well have been Milli Vanilli-ing his chosen carol. It was at that point that Jordie texted me "we have to get out of here N.O.W.!!1!!!!!!"
3) When we finally departed the menagerie (the literal and figurative menageries), Lawyer Boy and I were unable to exit my grandmother's neighborhood due to the fact that the police had blocked off the only road out in response to a shots-fired incident. Oh yes. Baby Jesus, away in a manger, no crib for a bed, and while the angels are singing hark! SOMEONE STARTED A GUN FIGHT. We didn't know what was going on until we realized the police officer with the megaphone was yelling, "DROP THE GUN AND GET ON THE GROUND!" not "Merry Christmas to all! And to all a good night!" They were not, in fact, a blue-clad caroling group out for a holiday stroll-and-sing. However, if they had been, I would have fit in perfectly in my shiny blue cocktail dress. (It should also be noted that my grandmother's neighborhood is more suited to shiny blue cocktail dresses than gunfights, so we had not brought our Kevlar vests that evening.)
4) My favorite Christmas present was the Miley Cyrus Christmas card my brother got me, which plays a real recording of Ms. Cyrus herself singing "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" whenever I open it, which is extremely frequently. It lives on our fridge and I think if I open it one more time, the cat is going to take it to his litter box and do nefarious things to it. I'm summoning all my will power and trying to prevent this, so that in 18 months when pictures of Ms. Cyrus with a crack straw in her nose surface, I will have a real live Hannah Montana artifact. And bleeding eardrums.
5) The day after Christmas, LB and I packed up and made the six-hour drive down to Charleston, SC to visit his family for the holidays. The only noteworthy event from the trip down was when we stopped for gas in Emporia (aka Armpit Township, Virginia) and at a red light, sat behind a giant truck with the license plate CLETUS. The CLETUS plate sat proudly atop a trailer ball crowned by a shiny silver skull with glowing red eyes. This was immediately before we stopped at an Arby's noteworthy only for its musical selection, which sounded like a circus monkey raping a pipe organ while humming "Carol of the Bells." I somehow feel CLETUS was responsible for this.
6) My sister-in-law's husband surprisingly showed up with her for Christmas, and also surprisingly, was a pleasantly festive presence. This is surprising because for the last three years, he has hovered on the spectrum of humanity somewhere between "manic asshole" and "eternal douche," so even a journey into the territory of "marginal dillweed" would have been a welcome improvement. But since he all but candied his own yams and built keepsake toys for the wee ones, we were all happy. To quote Clark Griswold, that epic Christmas elf: "If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I would not be more surprised than I am right now."
7) When we arrived in the rather boring, rural suburb outside Charleston, we were forced to pile into the family Tribeca to take a suburban tour, at night. AKA, in the dark, AKA, after we had just driven for six hours. Apparently when LB told his parents repeatedly, "Grace gets carsick," what they heard was, "Grace loves to be folded up like an origami swan with seven other adults in a car that claims to seat seven, but only if those seven are Snow White's dwarves, to drive around East Jesus in the dark to glimpse the occasional Craftsman-style porch lantern. Also she likes to barf on your shoes/upholstery/children." That trip was not a merry dash through the snow.
8) The majority of our Christmas presents were gift cards to Lowe's or Home Depot, owing to the stupendously ugly nature of our house right now. On "Christmas morning" with his family, LB opened a Lowe's card that had a hammer festively attired in a red bow on the front, and his five-year-old adopted brother Tyler became so excited that he shrieked, "Mommy! LB got a HAMMER PRESENT CARD!!!!!" We have henceforth referred to all gift cards as Hammer Present Cards, and so it shall be forevermore!
9) A grand debate ensued around the Christmas tree when my youngest sister-in-law began debating with her mother whether or not her bee-hind was a Medium, per what the underwear my mother-in-law had bought her stated, or whether it was an Extra-Small, per the fantasies dancing like sugarplums in her head. This was an uncomfortable debate for everyone involved, including a moment when my mother-in-law challenged, "I dare you to get one buttcheek in an extra-small once you wash those!!" It culminated in all of us agreeing by secret ballot that the bee-hind in question was, in no way, an extra-small. Despite the conclusion, it remained awkward.
10) Speaking of bee-hinds that are no longer extra-small, in retaliation for having been abandoned to the care of the neighbors for a traumatic forty-eight hours, the cat chewed three holes in his bag of Meow Mix and devoured approximately four times his own weight in Mix in two days. We returned to find him awash in a sea of his own greed, yet thoroughly pleased with his exploits. Consequently, we have yet to be able to pick him up comfortably since. He could easily feed a family of twelve.
11) In the ten days I have been on vacay from work since Christmas, I have managed to stare at, rearrange, and kick around our bedroom (literally) the same overfilled basket of clean laundry, without ever putting them away in my closet or drawers. I couldn't be more proud of my own laziness if I had laid on the couch until my joints grew moss. I'll save that task for summer vacay when the higher humidity will facilitate quicker spore growth.
12) My New Year's resolution is to be more green, and reduce, reuse, recycle. Based on the amount of alcohol bottles that have already accumulated in the shiny new recycling bin, we may be getting a call from Central Virginia Waste Management regarding a possibly more productive resolution: AA.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Fa la la la left to my own devices...
I had high hopes for this weekend, really and truly. With the kickoff of the apple-bottom lawyer Christmas party, and the prospect of the entire weekend to do things at my own (totally ADD) pace due to Lawyer Boy's absence, I had visions of myself decking the halls, tying beautiful bows the size of a baby on all my precious gifts, and decorating cookies so beautiful they would sing their own Christmas carols.
Let's be real here. At least, I wish I had been when all those sugarplums and whatnot were dancing in my idiot head.
Friday night I did not sleep AT ALL, which is the kiss of death for me. While I'm normally the smiley happy elf of any event, anywhere, my jollitude largely depends on the quality of my sleep. If I don't sleep well, my elfish good nature morphs into Bitchy, the eighth dwarf, as well as the ninth and tenth dwarfs, Cranky and Shitty. Saturday morning, with LB having been up at the crackhead of dawn to leave town to help his parents move, I woke up with the aforementioned headache I had not earned, and downed a pot of coffee (that is real, people, I am NOT exaggerating) in my first attempt of the day to be human.
Before I continue, a word on helping people move. I fully comprehend that LB's parents gave him the gift of life, and refrained from beating his ass/leaving him outside overnight when he was crappy, and all that, but asking someone to drive four hours to help you move is on par with asking someone to assist you in giving yourself an enema. Everyone's glad when it's over, but no one is happy. Or smells nice.
Anyway, when I finally walked my groggy-yet-well-coiffed self (snaps to my friend Hayley, who did my hair so well for the party that the magnificence was in effect for over 28 hours of radiance) out of the house to finish shopping, I was fully expecting the mall to resemble The Apocalypse, or at least be uncomfortably jammed with The Velour-Cloaked Soccer Moms With Chicklet-Sized Cell Phones Driving a Chevy Mammoth Full of Aspiring Prostitute Ten-Year-Olds Dressed Like Rihanna With a Lisp and Muffin Top. But seriously, and I guess this is because I lit candles to St. J.C. Penney, Patron Saint of Retail Misadventures, it wasn't any worse than any other velour-cloaked Saturday at the mall (which is still no tray of cupcakes, but better than The Apocalypse...I think).
My first stop was to buy presents for my eight-year-old nephew, five-year-old niece, and nine-year-old Angel Tree giftee. My goal with buying gifts for my niece and nephew (aka my Rent-A-Babies) is to get something that they will love, that won't make my sister and brother-in-law hate me till the end of time. I may still be in the dog house for the gift I gave my nephew when he was three: It was this bad-ass saxophone kit, made of a bunch of separate made-for-small-hands pieces, that you could put together in a million different ways, and still play it like a saxophone. Unfortunately, no matter which way you put it together, it still sounded like a three-year-old playing a plastic saxophone. I think they would have appreciated a Komodo dragon more than that.
Oh yeah, and my other goal, which gets progressively harder each year, is to buy something that my niece will love, that won't encourage her to sell herself into prostitution by the age of 10. Bratz Dollz, I'm looking at you, with your tiny shiny skirts, LIFE-SIZE BOOBS, and vaginas for sale.
What I ended up finding for them was, as usual, something I want to buy for myself but exceed the weight limit for. I found blow-up sofas, one with the Batman logo, and one with the Disney princesses, all covered in allegedly flame-retardant yet still beautiful plush velvety goodness. CHECK! Even though I could technically fit if I put two of them together, I knew it wouldn't be a practical furniture investment for our living room since we sometimes have guests who need to sit down too. Also they were $10 each, which is steep compared to all the free stuff on Craigslist. And the stuff from Craigslist comes with free included health hazards.
The rest of my shopping was exponentially less awesome. It's never as fun to buy a grown-up sweater as it is to buy a gift that allows you to sit on Sleeping Beauty's face.
Before you have time to process what I just accidentally said, let's move on.
The zenith of my day was, without a doubt, when I got home and took the dogs for a walk. We have two labs, Breeze and Amor, who came from LB's parents' farm, who live in their own specially engineered house, complete with climate control, weather protection, yard, and beds that (apparently) double as late-night snacks. We walk them every day at least once, for the joy of seeing them romp, and the delight of clawing their poops into plastic bags. Amor is old--she's 16 and kind of slow, but way sweeter than most people I know. Breeze is 9, and she's an entire rave packed into an 85-pound bag of fur. Seriously, she's like walking a NASCAR. I let them out of their yard, and once I was able to manhandle Breeze off the roof, I leashed them and we set out. We walked along, fa la la, no problems, until calamity struck.
The only way I can describe what happened is this--picture this all happening AT THE SAME TIME. We happen to stop in front of a little old lady's house, the owner of which steps out of a car in front of it. Prancing out behind her is a Chihuahua tinier than a dinner roll dressed in a holly-printed blazer fully trimmed in white fur. Bear in mind here that together, Breeze and Amor weigh more than I do. SO, at the same time as Breeze lunges forward to go make aggressive friends with Sir Tinkerdoodle, Amor chooses RIGHT THEN to drop what can only be described as a full gallon of HOLY LIVING HELL on the little old lady's front lawn. Meanwhile the little old lady is eyeing my dogs, eyeing me, checking on Dinner Roll's general wellbeing, and suddenly decides to start a conversation with me about how nice the neighborhood is. All this while I'm holding off Breeze from loving the canine cornish hen to death with one hand, holding back Amor from rapidly vacating her recent calamity with the other hand, trying to scoop up said calamity with the toes on my left foot, and making pleasant conversation with my remaining 3.7 brain cells. Two minutes, one dislocated shoulder, and THREE plastic grocery bags later, I left the scene with two large dogs, zero dignity, and Cheeseball's holly blazer, which Breeze is keeping as a trophy of her love.
Last night was the cherry on top of a creamy delicious day. It was the first time I had ever stayed alone, overnight, in our super-old creaky-freaky house. I do not believe in ghosts per se, except I'm afraid of them, which makes no sense until it's midnight, you're by yourself, and you mistake the cat jumping off the bed for a crazed maniac stalking your virtue. My tolerance for all things "scary" has not evolved at all since I was five and was afraid of E.T. (Srsly, the scene where he runs shrieking out of the cornfields haunts me to this day.) I am extremely jumpy and do not watch anything scarier than "Casper." So my master plan was (surprisingly not to get so drunk I passed out dead) to fall asleep in front of the t.v. till I woke up incoherent and could stumble into bed, and right back to sleep.
This master plan was genius, really, until I happened to wake up on the couch at 12:17 during a commercial break, during a commercial for that movie "The Strangers," during a shot that was one of those scary sock-headed murderers peering in at Liv Tyler, during which she shrieks like a banshee. It rattled me to my core, causing me to tear upstairs, neglecting to brush my teeth or turn off the Christmas tree, before I leapt into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and remained in that exact position, breathing my own recycled air, until 7:30 this morning.
Needless to say, I woke up this morning the psychological equivalent of a hungover Dick Cheney. With a to-do list and a vendetta. And no staff. I fidoodled around the house, made a pan of baklava, and cleaned, before LB got home with a U-Haul full of heavy stuff I couldn't identify but still had to help unload (why I'm a magic wife: I had a bowl of homemade chili, and a plate of corn chips, cookies, fudge, and hot chocolate waiting for him when he got home). He was practically delirious from having worked at moving till 1am, slept on the floor, moved some more heavy crap, and then driven home. I was practically delirious from having not slept and the noise of the vacuum. Except he was wearing a beanie that made him look like a gnome, and I wasn't. It took us THREE HORRIBLE HOURS to unload all this ugly heavy crap like "table saws" and "lumber." After that I had to go to the grocery store, where I was in such a ridiculous mental state that had someone told me baked beans were essential to good pound cake, I would have bought a case. Of beans, not cake. Well, probably cake, too. I was pretty far gone.
FINALLY, we were done, there was delicious, delicious wine, and my aunt surprisingly brought over a half-dozen Christmas ornaments, which coupled with LB's safe arrival home, absolutely made my weekend. Lawyer Boy, sparkly ornaments, and wine. What else could I need?
I'll talk to you again once I've regained full mental function.
Let's be real here. At least, I wish I had been when all those sugarplums and whatnot were dancing in my idiot head.
Friday night I did not sleep AT ALL, which is the kiss of death for me. While I'm normally the smiley happy elf of any event, anywhere, my jollitude largely depends on the quality of my sleep. If I don't sleep well, my elfish good nature morphs into Bitchy, the eighth dwarf, as well as the ninth and tenth dwarfs, Cranky and Shitty. Saturday morning, with LB having been up at the crackhead of dawn to leave town to help his parents move, I woke up with the aforementioned headache I had not earned, and downed a pot of coffee (that is real, people, I am NOT exaggerating) in my first attempt of the day to be human.
Before I continue, a word on helping people move. I fully comprehend that LB's parents gave him the gift of life, and refrained from beating his ass/leaving him outside overnight when he was crappy, and all that, but asking someone to drive four hours to help you move is on par with asking someone to assist you in giving yourself an enema. Everyone's glad when it's over, but no one is happy. Or smells nice.
Anyway, when I finally walked my groggy-yet-well-coiffed self (snaps to my friend Hayley, who did my hair so well for the party that the magnificence was in effect for over 28 hours of radiance) out of the house to finish shopping, I was fully expecting the mall to resemble The Apocalypse, or at least be uncomfortably jammed with The Velour-Cloaked Soccer Moms With Chicklet-Sized Cell Phones Driving a Chevy Mammoth Full of Aspiring Prostitute Ten-Year-Olds Dressed Like Rihanna With a Lisp and Muffin Top. But seriously, and I guess this is because I lit candles to St. J.C. Penney, Patron Saint of Retail Misadventures, it wasn't any worse than any other velour-cloaked Saturday at the mall (which is still no tray of cupcakes, but better than The Apocalypse...I think).
My first stop was to buy presents for my eight-year-old nephew, five-year-old niece, and nine-year-old Angel Tree giftee. My goal with buying gifts for my niece and nephew (aka my Rent-A-Babies) is to get something that they will love, that won't make my sister and brother-in-law hate me till the end of time. I may still be in the dog house for the gift I gave my nephew when he was three: It was this bad-ass saxophone kit, made of a bunch of separate made-for-small-hands pieces, that you could put together in a million different ways, and still play it like a saxophone. Unfortunately, no matter which way you put it together, it still sounded like a three-year-old playing a plastic saxophone. I think they would have appreciated a Komodo dragon more than that.
Oh yeah, and my other goal, which gets progressively harder each year, is to buy something that my niece will love, that won't encourage her to sell herself into prostitution by the age of 10. Bratz Dollz, I'm looking at you, with your tiny shiny skirts, LIFE-SIZE BOOBS, and vaginas for sale.
What I ended up finding for them was, as usual, something I want to buy for myself but exceed the weight limit for. I found blow-up sofas, one with the Batman logo, and one with the Disney princesses, all covered in allegedly flame-retardant yet still beautiful plush velvety goodness. CHECK! Even though I could technically fit if I put two of them together, I knew it wouldn't be a practical furniture investment for our living room since we sometimes have guests who need to sit down too. Also they were $10 each, which is steep compared to all the free stuff on Craigslist. And the stuff from Craigslist comes with free included health hazards.
The rest of my shopping was exponentially less awesome. It's never as fun to buy a grown-up sweater as it is to buy a gift that allows you to sit on Sleeping Beauty's face.
Before you have time to process what I just accidentally said, let's move on.
The zenith of my day was, without a doubt, when I got home and took the dogs for a walk. We have two labs, Breeze and Amor, who came from LB's parents' farm, who live in their own specially engineered house, complete with climate control, weather protection, yard, and beds that (apparently) double as late-night snacks. We walk them every day at least once, for the joy of seeing them romp, and the delight of clawing their poops into plastic bags. Amor is old--she's 16 and kind of slow, but way sweeter than most people I know. Breeze is 9, and she's an entire rave packed into an 85-pound bag of fur. Seriously, she's like walking a NASCAR. I let them out of their yard, and once I was able to manhandle Breeze off the roof, I leashed them and we set out. We walked along, fa la la, no problems, until calamity struck.
The only way I can describe what happened is this--picture this all happening AT THE SAME TIME. We happen to stop in front of a little old lady's house, the owner of which steps out of a car in front of it. Prancing out behind her is a Chihuahua tinier than a dinner roll dressed in a holly-printed blazer fully trimmed in white fur. Bear in mind here that together, Breeze and Amor weigh more than I do. SO, at the same time as Breeze lunges forward to go make aggressive friends with Sir Tinkerdoodle, Amor chooses RIGHT THEN to drop what can only be described as a full gallon of HOLY LIVING HELL on the little old lady's front lawn. Meanwhile the little old lady is eyeing my dogs, eyeing me, checking on Dinner Roll's general wellbeing, and suddenly decides to start a conversation with me about how nice the neighborhood is. All this while I'm holding off Breeze from loving the canine cornish hen to death with one hand, holding back Amor from rapidly vacating her recent calamity with the other hand, trying to scoop up said calamity with the toes on my left foot, and making pleasant conversation with my remaining 3.7 brain cells. Two minutes, one dislocated shoulder, and THREE plastic grocery bags later, I left the scene with two large dogs, zero dignity, and Cheeseball's holly blazer, which Breeze is keeping as a trophy of her love.
Last night was the cherry on top of a creamy delicious day. It was the first time I had ever stayed alone, overnight, in our super-old creaky-freaky house. I do not believe in ghosts per se, except I'm afraid of them, which makes no sense until it's midnight, you're by yourself, and you mistake the cat jumping off the bed for a crazed maniac stalking your virtue. My tolerance for all things "scary" has not evolved at all since I was five and was afraid of E.T. (Srsly, the scene where he runs shrieking out of the cornfields haunts me to this day.) I am extremely jumpy and do not watch anything scarier than "Casper." So my master plan was (surprisingly not to get so drunk I passed out dead) to fall asleep in front of the t.v. till I woke up incoherent and could stumble into bed, and right back to sleep.
This master plan was genius, really, until I happened to wake up on the couch at 12:17 during a commercial break, during a commercial for that movie "The Strangers," during a shot that was one of those scary sock-headed murderers peering in at Liv Tyler, during which she shrieks like a banshee. It rattled me to my core, causing me to tear upstairs, neglecting to brush my teeth or turn off the Christmas tree, before I leapt into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and remained in that exact position, breathing my own recycled air, until 7:30 this morning.
Needless to say, I woke up this morning the psychological equivalent of a hungover Dick Cheney. With a to-do list and a vendetta. And no staff. I fidoodled around the house, made a pan of baklava, and cleaned, before LB got home with a U-Haul full of heavy stuff I couldn't identify but still had to help unload (why I'm a magic wife: I had a bowl of homemade chili, and a plate of corn chips, cookies, fudge, and hot chocolate waiting for him when he got home). He was practically delirious from having worked at moving till 1am, slept on the floor, moved some more heavy crap, and then driven home. I was practically delirious from having not slept and the noise of the vacuum. Except he was wearing a beanie that made him look like a gnome, and I wasn't. It took us THREE HORRIBLE HOURS to unload all this ugly heavy crap like "table saws" and "lumber." After that I had to go to the grocery store, where I was in such a ridiculous mental state that had someone told me baked beans were essential to good pound cake, I would have bought a case. Of beans, not cake. Well, probably cake, too. I was pretty far gone.
FINALLY, we were done, there was delicious, delicious wine, and my aunt surprisingly brought over a half-dozen Christmas ornaments, which coupled with LB's safe arrival home, absolutely made my weekend. Lawyer Boy, sparkly ornaments, and wine. What else could I need?
I'll talk to you again once I've regained full mental function.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Lawyer Got Them Apple-Bottom Jeans
Before I go any further, I have to share with the world the fact that right NOW, on Fox News, they are interviewing a woman whose last name is Pennisi. PENNISI. My inner five-year-old could not be any more delighted right now.
Onward!
The firm Christmas party came and went, happily with no drama, trauma, wardrobe malfunctions, shocking pregnancy announcements, creepy coatroom trysts, or raining frogs. There was also no pâté, but I guess I can't have everything, all the time. I suppose. FINE. Geez, I get it. Whatever.
I managed to stick to some of my cardinal rules, including not getting as drunk as everyone else there, not doing the Macarena, and not having awkward conversations with people I only pretend to know. Despite the temptation, I largely refrained from dancing. Three of the four people on the floor at any given time were a former Miss Virginia runner-up, a former Latin dance champion, and a really hot chick, and as much as I love to dance, my best moves best resemble an epileptic hyena, and I knew the competition would smoke me right in front of my husband, my boss, and that guy who loves my boots. While I tap-danced on the sidelines, Lawyer Boy busily played poker at the faux-gaming tables with both his share of faux money and mine. I'm as good at poker as Britney Spears is at motherhood, so allowing me to gamble is the equivalent of using the faux money to line the cat's litter box. My laziness/apathy was richly rewarded at the end of the evening, when Lawyer Boy came in third for the evening and won a $50 department store gift card, which I immediately secreted away in my bra. Ah, I love marriage!
The one shocker of the evening was watching one of the senior partners in the firm WORK IT to that song that goes "shorty got them apple-bottom jeans (JEANS!), boots with the fur (WITH THE FURRRR!!!!)" and discovering that he knows ALL the words, which is like finding out your grandmother is pen pals with Jenna Jameson. WRONGGITTY WRONG WRONG. His dance moves were no better than my own hyena seizures, but he infused them with confidence and flair and a Rudolph tie, none of which I had included. I had to eventually stop watching, because my Freaktastic quota had been met for the next full year, and I was concerned that I was starting to look like a total creeper watching the Latin dance champ work it.
As a result of the merrymaking and hobnobbing and boots with the furrrrrrr, today I have a headache I feel like I didn't earn, and an urgent need to finish Christmas shopping. If I don't maul someone immediately upon entering the Black Death Vortex of Doom that is the mall parking lot, I hope to be done before the New Year.
Onward!
The firm Christmas party came and went, happily with no drama, trauma, wardrobe malfunctions, shocking pregnancy announcements, creepy coatroom trysts, or raining frogs. There was also no pâté, but I guess I can't have everything, all the time. I suppose. FINE. Geez, I get it. Whatever.
I managed to stick to some of my cardinal rules, including not getting as drunk as everyone else there, not doing the Macarena, and not having awkward conversations with people I only pretend to know. Despite the temptation, I largely refrained from dancing. Three of the four people on the floor at any given time were a former Miss Virginia runner-up, a former Latin dance champion, and a really hot chick, and as much as I love to dance, my best moves best resemble an epileptic hyena, and I knew the competition would smoke me right in front of my husband, my boss, and that guy who loves my boots. While I tap-danced on the sidelines, Lawyer Boy busily played poker at the faux-gaming tables with both his share of faux money and mine. I'm as good at poker as Britney Spears is at motherhood, so allowing me to gamble is the equivalent of using the faux money to line the cat's litter box. My laziness/apathy was richly rewarded at the end of the evening, when Lawyer Boy came in third for the evening and won a $50 department store gift card, which I immediately secreted away in my bra. Ah, I love marriage!
The one shocker of the evening was watching one of the senior partners in the firm WORK IT to that song that goes "shorty got them apple-bottom jeans (JEANS!), boots with the fur (WITH THE FURRRR!!!!)" and discovering that he knows ALL the words, which is like finding out your grandmother is pen pals with Jenna Jameson. WRONGGITTY WRONG WRONG. His dance moves were no better than my own hyena seizures, but he infused them with confidence and flair and a Rudolph tie, none of which I had included. I had to eventually stop watching, because my Freaktastic quota had been met for the next full year, and I was concerned that I was starting to look like a total creeper watching the Latin dance champ work it.
As a result of the merrymaking and hobnobbing and boots with the furrrrrrr, today I have a headache I feel like I didn't earn, and an urgent need to finish Christmas shopping. If I don't maul someone immediately upon entering the Black Death Vortex of Doom that is the mall parking lot, I hope to be done before the New Year.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Check Your Dignity At The Door
Amigos, I apologize for my absence. I’ve been off doing big important things, like decorating the cat for Christmas, and trying to get in the holiday spirit without getting any on the rug. Related to both getting in the spirit AND spilling it on the rug, tonight is the Law Firm Christmas Party. I’m so excited! I love getting dressed up, making fun of the festive outfits of my coworkers while challenging them to tequila shots, and watching the drunken receptionist karaoke. And also drinking till I am capable of talking to my boss.
For all the flack they receive, company Christmas parties are really pretty predictable: If you work for an uptight, structured company, you’re going to have an uptight, structured Christmas party, with two drink tickets apiece and a cheese centerpiece shaped like Santa (the nausea factor inherent to man-shaped food is apparently lost on mid-brow caterers). It’s also probable that the secretary whose workday outfits most closely resemble a blood clot will make a splashy entrance in a holiday outfit most closely resembling a sequined blood clot. The two-martini-lunch CEO will inevitably show up five martinis into a seventeeni-martini-evening, hobnobbing with all the eligible cleavage in the room. Really, there are never surprises. Just Kodak moments for future reference and blackmail.
If there’s one wild card factor in the whole Macarena-infused evening, it’s the Shocker Drinkers of the party. Every company has at least three—the mousy individuals who look like the hardest beverage they ever kick back is WILD Berry Crystal Light, who morph into hard-swilling martini fiends (not vampires) under the mirror ball and down enough liquor to KO Ted Kennedy. Then they do such delightfully festive things as leading the conga line (being sure to include the waitress with the shrimp cocktail), raising a Christmas toast in jolly limerick form, and in an act that would make PETA proud, puking in the coat closet on the boss’ wife’s 67-pound mink jacket.
Ah, the Shocker Drinkers! How I love them! They bring joy, surprise, and hilarity to any holiday gathering. They’re also my people. I love them because I am one of them. Because I’ve never worked for a company that didn’t have an open bar Christmas party, each year has afforded me the opportunity to drink like I stole fourteen coworkers’ drink tickets at a tamer party. (If I were to attend a tamer party, damn straight I’d steal coworkers’ drink tickets. I don’t get dressed up for free, people.) So this year, to try to keep myself a bit more in line than Pauly Shore at a keg party, I’ve come up with a list of Do’s and Don’ts for myself.
Don’ts
Drink so much that a heartfelt chat with the Chairman of the Board seems necessary and appreciated
Drink seven glasses of champagne before realizing that there is actually food at the party—then eschew food in favor of seven more glasses of champagne
Ask the bartender to screw the “wimpy” champagne flute, save everyone time, and just serve yours in a beer stein
Do the Macarena, under any circumstances whatsoever
Stalk the waitress carrying the bacon-wrapped scallops until she gives you the tray
Tell your boss that “everyone would love you more if you just chilled the eff out. And I just love your shoes!”
Do
Not drink so much that all chats become “heartfelt,” then “emotional,” then “completely incoherent”
Not drink so much that the Macarena seems de rigueur
Not, under any circumstances, talk to your boss, the Chairman of the Board, or that fierce-ass divorce attorney who hates all people worldwide
Not tell the rotund attorney that if he just sat down, you’d spread the word that he was playing Santa that evening and find someone to sit on his lap
So with me largely (hopefully) sober and not picking fights and/or causing mayhem, calamity, and frogs to rain from the sky, this should be a pretty tame evening. I did get one awesome challenge for a party activity, which some well-hidden part of me had enough common sense to turn down: My friend Gray told me he’d give me $100 if I could eat a pound of pâté in an hour. This seemed like a good idea for two reasons. 1) I LOVE PÂTÉ, and 2) I would love $100! I could see myself smoothly cruising around the party, chatting with all the nice folk while nibbling pâté off a cocktail plate. Then! Every ten minutes or so, I’d do a lap back by my table, where a bedazzled poinsettia discreetly concealed my brick of animal mousse, refill my plate, and continue around the party circuit till an hour had passed, my pâté had been eaten, and Gray gave me my victorious $100 right before my heart screeched to a halt, my abs exploded, and an entire pig leapt, squealing, from my stomach. It was a foolproof plan! Then Gray had to go and rain destruction on my plan, when he said the only way he would agree was if I did it while seated at a table by myself, behind a velvet rope. It never even occurred to me that he probably couldn’t procure a velvet rope, but despite his offer of letting me keep the rope if I won, I had to turn it down. How could I hobnob effectively if I were stuck at a table by myself???
It should also be noted that Gray told me he once ate a fried seahorse only because “I for some reason thought it would taste like a cracker.” Apparently it did not, unless your usual crackers taste like salt and King Triton’s armpit. Maybe I should not take Gray’s money. I will, however, take another glass of champagne!
For all the flack they receive, company Christmas parties are really pretty predictable: If you work for an uptight, structured company, you’re going to have an uptight, structured Christmas party, with two drink tickets apiece and a cheese centerpiece shaped like Santa (the nausea factor inherent to man-shaped food is apparently lost on mid-brow caterers). It’s also probable that the secretary whose workday outfits most closely resemble a blood clot will make a splashy entrance in a holiday outfit most closely resembling a sequined blood clot. The two-martini-lunch CEO will inevitably show up five martinis into a seventeeni-martini-evening, hobnobbing with all the eligible cleavage in the room. Really, there are never surprises. Just Kodak moments for future reference and blackmail.
If there’s one wild card factor in the whole Macarena-infused evening, it’s the Shocker Drinkers of the party. Every company has at least three—the mousy individuals who look like the hardest beverage they ever kick back is WILD Berry Crystal Light, who morph into hard-swilling martini fiends (not vampires) under the mirror ball and down enough liquor to KO Ted Kennedy. Then they do such delightfully festive things as leading the conga line (being sure to include the waitress with the shrimp cocktail), raising a Christmas toast in jolly limerick form, and in an act that would make PETA proud, puking in the coat closet on the boss’ wife’s 67-pound mink jacket.
Ah, the Shocker Drinkers! How I love them! They bring joy, surprise, and hilarity to any holiday gathering. They’re also my people. I love them because I am one of them. Because I’ve never worked for a company that didn’t have an open bar Christmas party, each year has afforded me the opportunity to drink like I stole fourteen coworkers’ drink tickets at a tamer party. (If I were to attend a tamer party, damn straight I’d steal coworkers’ drink tickets. I don’t get dressed up for free, people.) So this year, to try to keep myself a bit more in line than Pauly Shore at a keg party, I’ve come up with a list of Do’s and Don’ts for myself.
Don’ts
Drink so much that a heartfelt chat with the Chairman of the Board seems necessary and appreciated
Drink seven glasses of champagne before realizing that there is actually food at the party—then eschew food in favor of seven more glasses of champagne
Ask the bartender to screw the “wimpy” champagne flute, save everyone time, and just serve yours in a beer stein
Do the Macarena, under any circumstances whatsoever
Stalk the waitress carrying the bacon-wrapped scallops until she gives you the tray
Tell your boss that “everyone would love you more if you just chilled the eff out. And I just love your shoes!”
Do
Not drink so much that all chats become “heartfelt,” then “emotional,” then “completely incoherent”
Not drink so much that the Macarena seems de rigueur
Not, under any circumstances, talk to your boss, the Chairman of the Board, or that fierce-ass divorce attorney who hates all people worldwide
Not tell the rotund attorney that if he just sat down, you’d spread the word that he was playing Santa that evening and find someone to sit on his lap
So with me largely (hopefully) sober and not picking fights and/or causing mayhem, calamity, and frogs to rain from the sky, this should be a pretty tame evening. I did get one awesome challenge for a party activity, which some well-hidden part of me had enough common sense to turn down: My friend Gray told me he’d give me $100 if I could eat a pound of pâté in an hour. This seemed like a good idea for two reasons. 1) I LOVE PÂTÉ, and 2) I would love $100! I could see myself smoothly cruising around the party, chatting with all the nice folk while nibbling pâté off a cocktail plate. Then! Every ten minutes or so, I’d do a lap back by my table, where a bedazzled poinsettia discreetly concealed my brick of animal mousse, refill my plate, and continue around the party circuit till an hour had passed, my pâté had been eaten, and Gray gave me my victorious $100 right before my heart screeched to a halt, my abs exploded, and an entire pig leapt, squealing, from my stomach. It was a foolproof plan! Then Gray had to go and rain destruction on my plan, when he said the only way he would agree was if I did it while seated at a table by myself, behind a velvet rope. It never even occurred to me that he probably couldn’t procure a velvet rope, but despite his offer of letting me keep the rope if I won, I had to turn it down. How could I hobnob effectively if I were stuck at a table by myself???
It should also be noted that Gray told me he once ate a fried seahorse only because “I for some reason thought it would taste like a cracker.” Apparently it did not, unless your usual crackers taste like salt and King Triton’s armpit. Maybe I should not take Gray’s money. I will, however, take another glass of champagne!
Monday, December 1, 2008
OM-eff-G
I just accidentally ate an entire pineapple for dinner.
Tomorrow is going to be rough. I can feel it in my bones.
And other areas.
Tomorrow is going to be rough. I can feel it in my bones.
And other areas.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Merry Christmas! Wait...you do Christmas, right?
While Lawyer Boy continues to paint our dining room, I have been charged with ordering our annual Christmas card to send to those we love and/or feel badly about having not seen all year. I love picking out a photo for the card for the inherent narcissism it involves: "Here, you can put me on your fridge!" Picking the photo was easy, since there aren't too many pictures of us both looking sporty this year. And as much as I always want to include the cat in the picture, I feel that's one step closer to taking pictures of us in matching reindeer sweaters, and that's a road I just can't travel down. Also, we have a friend who is afraid of cats like the cast of the new "90210" is afraid of eating, so I'd feel bad sending her a card that would make her shriek (wrong holiday). So here's the photo I picked, from a friend's wedding:
Please note that if it weren't for that little blue snippet of dress showing at the top, I'd look completely nude in this picture. Now there's a holiday greeting we could all get behind! "Check out THESE tidings! Love, The Thoreaus."
Now, on to the hard part: the message. I could always put individual thought and heartfelt sentiment into each card, and order them with just the photo, but when I can send everyone the same message and hope it strikes the right note of Christmas joy in each of them...why? We realized we only have one friend who's only Jewish on our list--we have several who light the menorah next to the Tannenbaum--so we decided we would stick to "Merry Christmas." And that's as far as I've gotten with the message.
Some discarded options include:
May the misteltoe be good to you this year. Get it! Get it! Love, The Thoreaus.
Wishing you the warmest of Christmas greetings, and the smallest of tree fires. Love, The Thoreaus.
Merry Christmas! Please turn your house off so we can sleep. Love, The Thoreaus.
Hoping you have a merry Christmas, and enjoy the enclosed Chia-Tree. Love, The Thoreaus
Merry Christmas from the Thoreaus. No, we aren't having kids yet.
Lawyer Boy has taken over this project.
Please note that if it weren't for that little blue snippet of dress showing at the top, I'd look completely nude in this picture. Now there's a holiday greeting we could all get behind! "Check out THESE tidings! Love, The Thoreaus."Now, on to the hard part: the message. I could always put individual thought and heartfelt sentiment into each card, and order them with just the photo, but when I can send everyone the same message and hope it strikes the right note of Christmas joy in each of them...why? We realized we only have one friend who's only Jewish on our list--we have several who light the menorah next to the Tannenbaum--so we decided we would stick to "Merry Christmas." And that's as far as I've gotten with the message.
Some discarded options include:
May the misteltoe be good to you this year. Get it! Get it! Love, The Thoreaus.
Wishing you the warmest of Christmas greetings, and the smallest of tree fires. Love, The Thoreaus.
Merry Christmas! Please turn your house off so we can sleep. Love, The Thoreaus.
Hoping you have a merry Christmas, and enjoy the enclosed Chia-Tree. Love, The Thoreaus
Merry Christmas from the Thoreaus. No, we aren't having kids yet.
Lawyer Boy has taken over this project.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Happy Holidays! Love, Brasso
After the Pigfest 2008 that yesterday was (I'll write more about Thanksgiving later--a full-length entry about my family will take more time, and wine, than I can pour into it right now), Lawyer Boy and I kicked off the holiday season today the way many people do: we started our holiday cooking. By cooking the hardware for all the doors in our bedroom.
By way of quick and dirty background, Lawyer Boy and I recently bought a great house that was built in 1930. The house has been entirely untouched since the glory days of Prohibition, and so a lot of people who've come by have called it "a diamond in the rough." I just call it "effin' ugly." The entire interior of the house was painted institutional mint green, which has driven us crazier than Miley Cyrus ever could hope to. Mint green. I can’t wait to (never ever ever so help me Baby Jesus in the manger) see you again.* It’s an awesome house, but it needs help, as did the original owners when they lacked all sense and reason and painted over every single doorknob, hinge, outlet, and light switch cover in the entire house. Sparkly glass doorknobs? Lovingly glazed with mint green. Solid brass hinges? Beautifully highlighted with EFFING MINT GREEN. So in trying to rid the house of the Great Depression, we had to take apart all the working parts of the doors and get the nasty lead paint off all of them.
And when I say “we,” I mean Lawyer Boy. So far we’ve only made it through the doors in our bedroom, but since he can actually tell a screw from a hinge**, he was charged with taking them apart, after which he laid at my feet a billion sticky, gunky pieces of brass, like so many preschoolers’ fingers.*** We had been told that the best way to strip off old paint from metal was to boil the pieces with a little detergent, so we sacrificed one of our soup pots and set that bitch to roast.
Word to the wise: NEVER BOIL SOAP IN YOUR HOUSE ON PURPOSE, no matter how tempted you may be by the delicious scents they put in the dish soap. (I get that—I too have been tempted by Dawn’s Country Apple.) It smells like death and bad breath and is DISGUSTING. Also I can’t imagine what kind of lethal chemicals I inhaled today. I keep waiting to grow a third eye out the side of my head, which is kind of exciting, except my hair is very thick, so it’s unlikely that I would be able to see out of it. Anyway, we boiled the paint off, and after two hours of scrubbing, rubbing, and emptying six bottles of Brasso****, we had shiny, original hardware, which meant we could move onto our next project: Kilz-ing the living room.
Kilz is a nasty chemical that is somehow still the BOMB. It kilz stuff like mildew leftover from WWII and serves as primer, and makes you feel like maybe, one day, your whole house won’t be seafoam green like a bad bridesmaids’ dress. Putting Kilz on the walls is actually a very cleansing process, not unlike a baptism at church, after which they give you delicious wine. Except at my house/church, they don’t make you sit through the baptism, and only then give you the wine as a reward for sitting through it. Here at the
Slowly but surely, we’re moving along. While everyone else is buying six big-screens on sale at Wal-Mart and making turkey con carne al dente a la francais out of yesterday’s leftovers, Lawyer Boy and I are proudly getting in the spirit by getting high off chemicals that you, too, can purchase at the grocery store! We’ve got brand names, if you’re interested. I'm just sayin.
So I leave you now with the warmest of holiday tidings, as I go forth to continue my holiday cooking. Tomorrow’s recipe: peanut butter cheesecake with chocolate-mint paint glaze.
*Why yes, that song IS on my ipod! Right between Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” and
**I can tell a screw from a hinge, but only when presented to me in the context of a cocktail. Like I know there’s no such thing as a “hingedriver.”
***Have you ever held hands with a preschooler? So you know what I’m talking about with the gunk and slime and possibly ebola therein.
****I don’t normally give financial advice, but y’all, buy stock in Brasso. Based on our consumption alone, they’re gonna do some mad crazy business in the next quarter, and I recommend you get in while you can.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The Only Thing You Have to Fear Is Fear Yourself
I came home in the middle of the day today for lunch, and discovered that I'm an idiot. Twice over, actually. If that's not holiday magic, I don't know what is. In broad daylight, on a Monday, in a neighborhood where the most dramatic thing to happen is one neighbor's lab pooping on another neighbor's lawn/toddler, I pulled up to my house and attempted to park in front of it, except there was a small, shady-looking black Saturn right in front of my house (and by "shady looking," I mean "not mine"). I parked behind it and eyed it warily, like a bulemic at a buffet, sizing it up. I eventually determined that the only thing this could mean was that someone was in my house, waiting to take my stuff, my cat, or my sweet, sweet virtue. I walked up to the house, looking stealthily in all the windows, unlocked the front door, and went ahead and dialed 911--I didn't hit SEND. I just felt like, should a masked man jump out from my coat closet and grab me, it would be a wonderfully practical idea to be able to hit send and just like that! Police would swarm around and I would be saved!
Nevermind that in a situation as minorly stressful as a departmental meeting, I can forget such simple details as my own job title, objectives, and at times, name. Clearly, if I were attacked by a Midday Masked Man, I would possess the clear presence of mind to call the police.
I grabbed the cat as soon as I walked in, confident that my sharply-honed attack cat would alert me to any Midday Masked Men and vanquish them on the spot. What he was really interested in was tummy rubs and a refill of his food bowl, as if he couldn't live off his own personal fat reserves for at least six days. We prowled through the house, cat-man and I, acutely tuned to any and all disruptions in the normal state of the house (and one of us purring--but only when he rubbed me in just the right spot). We left no stone unturned, and SURPRISE! found nothing.
Relieved but disappointed, I fed the attack cat, ate some lunch, and went back to work. It was only on my way back to work that I realized what a doofus I was.
Really, if you were going to break into a house to lie in wait to do something nefarious or eat all the ice cream in the house, would you park in front of the house in the middle of the day?
Criminal mastermind I am not.
Nevermind that in a situation as minorly stressful as a departmental meeting, I can forget such simple details as my own job title, objectives, and at times, name. Clearly, if I were attacked by a Midday Masked Man, I would possess the clear presence of mind to call the police.
I grabbed the cat as soon as I walked in, confident that my sharply-honed attack cat would alert me to any Midday Masked Men and vanquish them on the spot. What he was really interested in was tummy rubs and a refill of his food bowl, as if he couldn't live off his own personal fat reserves for at least six days. We prowled through the house, cat-man and I, acutely tuned to any and all disruptions in the normal state of the house (and one of us purring--but only when he rubbed me in just the right spot). We left no stone unturned, and SURPRISE! found nothing.
Relieved but disappointed, I fed the attack cat, ate some lunch, and went back to work. It was only on my way back to work that I realized what a doofus I was.
Really, if you were going to break into a house to lie in wait to do something nefarious or eat all the ice cream in the house, would you park in front of the house in the middle of the day?
Criminal mastermind I am not.
I Told The Butt Doctor I was In Love With You
After a great period of intense panic, yesterday I found the box containing all of my winter boots--not like snow boots, but you know, cute leather boots that you're not embarrassed to own or wear in public. A minor crisis had erupted at my house when I realized I couldn't find any of them after we moved. I knew they were all in the same box, and I took solace in the fact that wherever they were, they had each other, but that did not put them on my feet, and given the fact that my packing habits make as much sense as Bjork's fashion selections, I held out no hope of finding them before Easter. I decided to look anyway, and I started in the Hall of Unopened Boxes, or as it's better known, the basement. I plowed through hiking gear, boxes of books, and finally came upon my old footlocker from summer camp. In this most reasonable of places to pack winter footwear, I found my boots. I found all three pairs of boots, along with four scarves, a pair of pajama pants, two mortar-and-pestle sets (one for emergencies), and eight soup mugs. I can't WAIT to see where we packed the baby!
Today's outfit was planned around my favorite camel boots, as an expression of the sheer joy that overcame me when I finally found them. The knee-high-boots-with-above-the-knee-skirt look is big at my office, which I guess beats out the striped-clown-pants-with-beaded-tunic look that was big at my old office, so I threw on a tan wool skirt and called it art. I feel like it's really easy to cross the line from "winter chic" to "winter sex for sale" with the boots-and-skirt look, but I maintain that it's impossible to look slutty in anything wool, unless they start making assless chaps out of wool (never say never, people). So I threw on my coat and walked out the door, feeling confident that I at least looked this side of colorblind today. I had forgotten about Roger.
Roger is an attorney at my office who has a strange and perplexing obsession with my clothes, which is strange and perplexing because my morning routine consists of trying to determine which of the pieces of clothing I've meticulously stored on the bedroom floor look least crumpled. He's always telling me how nice I look, but then continuing the dialogue with detailed questions about where I get my clothes, how I know what looks good together, and other questions to which the best answer is "magic." By the way, Roger is married--to a woman who is a colorectal surgeon, which is always the first thing he tells people about her, and which I find endlessly hilarious. I think if you're not going to just throw out "butt doctor," then a simple "she's a surgeon" would suffice. I knew that the first Running of the Boots of the season was going to spark a reaction of epic proportions in Roger, but I really wanted to wear them today, and if I'm not going to let a "firm Internet use policy" stop me from blogging, then I am certainly not going to let a "middle-aged voluntarily bald attorney" stop me from the glee of boots.
Roger noticed my boots first thing, natch, while I was in the kitchen making my first (of seven) cup of tea for the day, and his reaction was everything you'd expect in watching a five-year-old boy discover a BB rifle under the Christmas tree. "WOW, your boots are AWESOME!!!" he threw at me. "Thanks," I said. "These are my favorites." "I can see why!" he grinned back at me. This was starting to get weirder. Steep, my little tea bags, steep, and free me from the prison of the kitchen! "You know what look I really love?" he asked. I resisted the urge to say, "bondage?" and let myself be led down this path. "What?" I asked.
"Stiletto boots. I just go crazy for those!"
What, exactly, is the right answer to that? "That's awesome; thanks for letting me know! I'll be sure to wear those tomorrow."
Or maybe, "On you, or on me?"
Or, "I sooooo wanted a pair of those this season, but Whores For Less was out of my size."
Regardless of what would have been the best approach, my overwhelming tendency to fire off whatever pops into my head went into overdrive, and before I could even spellcheck it, what flew out of my mouth was, "Those make you look like you're selling sex for crack."
The most unexpected climax of the day? Roger looked at me, all but winked, and said, "Right," with a little half-grin, the grin that precedes lip-licking. At that point, I learned that it is, in fact, possible to run at rather great speeds in knee-high boots, as I careened back to the safety of my office.
I feel like now is maybe the point where I should set some kind of boundaries in our relationship. I'm just not sure if that boundary should be, "no, we are never going on a date," or, "no, you can't ever borrow my boots."
Today's outfit was planned around my favorite camel boots, as an expression of the sheer joy that overcame me when I finally found them. The knee-high-boots-with-above-the-knee-skirt look is big at my office, which I guess beats out the striped-clown-pants-with-beaded-tunic look that was big at my old office, so I threw on a tan wool skirt and called it art. I feel like it's really easy to cross the line from "winter chic" to "winter sex for sale" with the boots-and-skirt look, but I maintain that it's impossible to look slutty in anything wool, unless they start making assless chaps out of wool (never say never, people). So I threw on my coat and walked out the door, feeling confident that I at least looked this side of colorblind today. I had forgotten about Roger.
Roger is an attorney at my office who has a strange and perplexing obsession with my clothes, which is strange and perplexing because my morning routine consists of trying to determine which of the pieces of clothing I've meticulously stored on the bedroom floor look least crumpled. He's always telling me how nice I look, but then continuing the dialogue with detailed questions about where I get my clothes, how I know what looks good together, and other questions to which the best answer is "magic." By the way, Roger is married--to a woman who is a colorectal surgeon, which is always the first thing he tells people about her, and which I find endlessly hilarious. I think if you're not going to just throw out "butt doctor," then a simple "she's a surgeon" would suffice. I knew that the first Running of the Boots of the season was going to spark a reaction of epic proportions in Roger, but I really wanted to wear them today, and if I'm not going to let a "firm Internet use policy" stop me from blogging, then I am certainly not going to let a "middle-aged voluntarily bald attorney" stop me from the glee of boots.
Roger noticed my boots first thing, natch, while I was in the kitchen making my first (of seven) cup of tea for the day, and his reaction was everything you'd expect in watching a five-year-old boy discover a BB rifle under the Christmas tree. "WOW, your boots are AWESOME!!!" he threw at me. "Thanks," I said. "These are my favorites." "I can see why!" he grinned back at me. This was starting to get weirder. Steep, my little tea bags, steep, and free me from the prison of the kitchen! "You know what look I really love?" he asked. I resisted the urge to say, "bondage?" and let myself be led down this path. "What?" I asked.
"Stiletto boots. I just go crazy for those!"
What, exactly, is the right answer to that? "That's awesome; thanks for letting me know! I'll be sure to wear those tomorrow."
Or maybe, "On you, or on me?"
Or, "I sooooo wanted a pair of those this season, but Whores For Less was out of my size."
Regardless of what would have been the best approach, my overwhelming tendency to fire off whatever pops into my head went into overdrive, and before I could even spellcheck it, what flew out of my mouth was, "Those make you look like you're selling sex for crack."
The most unexpected climax of the day? Roger looked at me, all but winked, and said, "Right," with a little half-grin, the grin that precedes lip-licking. At that point, I learned that it is, in fact, possible to run at rather great speeds in knee-high boots, as I careened back to the safety of my office.
I feel like now is maybe the point where I should set some kind of boundaries in our relationship. I'm just not sure if that boundary should be, "no, we are never going on a date," or, "no, you can't ever borrow my boots."
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The "Real" Answer from the "Lawyer"
Lawyer Boy has informed me that there is an actual answer to the below-referenced mindfuck--one that does not involve goose slave labor OR vacuum-sealed Ziplocs. So naturally, I was skeptical. Here's the "real" answer: You put the goose in the boat and take it across the river and dump it on the bank. You go back and get the grain, and take that across the river, BUT THEN, when you drop the grain on the bank, you put the goose back in the boat, and take him across to where the fox is waiting. You chuck the goose on the bank, and put the fox in the boat, take him across and dump him with the grain, and then go back and get the goose, and go about your business and get them to help you find a date, which is the only reason I can find for why you'd travel with a couple of animal companions.
A few observations: 1) My way still takes less time, and builds muscle mass on that delicious goose, and 2) If you could take an animal BACKWARDS with you in the boat, they should have said that! Pardon me for trying to be honest and solving the problem as it was presented to me.
A few observations: 1) My way still takes less time, and builds muscle mass on that delicious goose, and 2) If you could take an animal BACKWARDS with you in the boat, they should have said that! Pardon me for trying to be honest and solving the problem as it was presented to me.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Twilight My Candle, Baby
Old goal for Friday night: Paint bedroom doors
New goal for Friday night: Drink a bottle of Pinot and then go watch "Twilight."
Right, srsly, am I the only one in the free world (and the prison one, too, from what I'm hearing) who was completely ignorant re: this whole Dracula-hottie craze till today? I vaguely remember hearing something about the books when they turned into a social force greater than Madonna's chesticles, and how they were inspiring mothers to have frank, real discussions with their teenage daughters about sex, but since I A) don't have teenage girls, and B) am pretty sure it would be considered odd if I started frank, real discussions about sex with random teenage girls, I moved along and forgot about it. THEN SUDDENLY BAM!!! The movie descended on the mortal world and I could no longer ignore it. I wish I could, because I try to steer clear of the emo-world at all costs, but much like the heroin-chic of the 90s, emo-chic is apparently where it's at.
In defense of the heroin chics, at least they shower.
Anyway, all I've gathered is that the movie is a hot-blooded fangsty romance centered around lusty glances and stolen kisses between an emo-girl and an emo-vampire, sprinkled generously with chalk dust and hair wax. Teen romances are always hilarious, and the hilarity can only multiply with the addition of -wait for it- FANGS. Really, people. High School Musical? Unintentionally hilarious. High School Musical with Zac Efron with fangs, as the world's first openly metrosexual vampire? I wouldn't even need wine to get through that one. Plus think of all the doors it would open for the *closeted* mextrosexual vamps. But I digress.
So far the best, and as far as I'm concerned, the most complete plot description ever that I've been able to find is this, from cleolinda.livejournal.com: “Yeah, it’s like, Bella wants to be a vampire but she doesn’t want to be a vampire before she’s had sex as a human, and Edward doesn’t want her to be a vampire but he wants to get married, but Bella doesn’t want to get married unless she can be a vampire, but Edward won’t have sex with her until they get married, and then you put the fox and the grain in the boat and you leave the goose back on the riverbank.” I really don't care what the plot is beyond that, although I know that by saying that, I open myself up to the emo-fans coming after me to slap me or Kill Me For Real.
What I really love is the reference to THE most effing awful mindfuck of a "brainteaser" (read: mindfuck) ever. Did you catch it? The part about the goose and the grain and the corn and the lass that loved a sailor. As I unfortunately recall from grade school AND law school prep, the real brainfart goes something like this (with minor editorialization): You have a goose, a fox, and a bag of grain on one side of the river. You have a lame, lame rowboat that can only hold you and one of the above-mentioned redneck travel accessories, and you have to get them all to the other side of the river. If you leave the goose with the grain and take the fox first, the goose will eat the grain. If you leave the fox with the goose, the goose will get sassy and the fox will eat it. How do you get them all across without one going all Neanderthal on another?
First off, let's be real. You're never going to get a date whether you get your amigos across the river or not, because no self-respecting chick dates a dude who drives a rowboat. But, given that you own both a fox AND a goose, your dating pool might look different than normal. So we'll spot you one for that. That's about as far as I ever got in solving this problem until today. This problem almost ATE MY SOUL until I figured out the answer. The real answer.
GEESE CAN SWIM, Y'ALL. Here's how you do it. You throw the fox in the boat and tell him that if he hits the goose one more time, you're turnin' this boat around. You put the grain in one of those vacuum-sealing bags that are so cool, just because they're cool (the ones that I maybe once tried to seal my hand into, just to see what it felt like). Then! You tie a rope to the goose, and make him pull your lame rowboat across as punishment for sassing the fox. BAM! Done! Problem solved, with enough time to go look for a date to bring home for dinner, when you cook the goose.
There. That problem may have stopped me from studying for the LSATs, but it's not stopping me from drinking a bottle of Pinot through a clear twisty straw, and going to make fun of randy albino fanged teenagers.
New goal for Friday night: Drink a bottle of Pinot and then go watch "Twilight."
Right, srsly, am I the only one in the free world (and the prison one, too, from what I'm hearing) who was completely ignorant re: this whole Dracula-hottie craze till today? I vaguely remember hearing something about the books when they turned into a social force greater than Madonna's chesticles, and how they were inspiring mothers to have frank, real discussions with their teenage daughters about sex, but since I A) don't have teenage girls, and B) am pretty sure it would be considered odd if I started frank, real discussions about sex with random teenage girls, I moved along and forgot about it. THEN SUDDENLY BAM!!! The movie descended on the mortal world and I could no longer ignore it. I wish I could, because I try to steer clear of the emo-world at all costs, but much like the heroin-chic of the 90s, emo-chic is apparently where it's at.
In defense of the heroin chics, at least they shower.
Anyway, all I've gathered is that the movie is a hot-blooded fangsty romance centered around lusty glances and stolen kisses between an emo-girl and an emo-vampire, sprinkled generously with chalk dust and hair wax. Teen romances are always hilarious, and the hilarity can only multiply with the addition of -wait for it- FANGS. Really, people. High School Musical? Unintentionally hilarious. High School Musical with Zac Efron with fangs, as the world's first openly metrosexual vampire? I wouldn't even need wine to get through that one. Plus think of all the doors it would open for the *closeted* mextrosexual vamps. But I digress.
So far the best, and as far as I'm concerned, the most complete plot description ever that I've been able to find is this, from cleolinda.livejournal.com: “Yeah, it’s like, Bella wants to be a vampire but she doesn’t want to be a vampire before she’s had sex as a human, and Edward doesn’t want her to be a vampire but he wants to get married, but Bella doesn’t want to get married unless she can be a vampire, but Edward won’t have sex with her until they get married, and then you put the fox and the grain in the boat and you leave the goose back on the riverbank.” I really don't care what the plot is beyond that, although I know that by saying that, I open myself up to the emo-fans coming after me to slap me or Kill Me For Real.
What I really love is the reference to THE most effing awful mindfuck of a "brainteaser" (read: mindfuck) ever. Did you catch it? The part about the goose and the grain and the corn and the lass that loved a sailor. As I unfortunately recall from grade school AND law school prep, the real brainfart goes something like this (with minor editorialization): You have a goose, a fox, and a bag of grain on one side of the river. You have a lame, lame rowboat that can only hold you and one of the above-mentioned redneck travel accessories, and you have to get them all to the other side of the river. If you leave the goose with the grain and take the fox first, the goose will eat the grain. If you leave the fox with the goose, the goose will get sassy and the fox will eat it. How do you get them all across without one going all Neanderthal on another?
First off, let's be real. You're never going to get a date whether you get your amigos across the river or not, because no self-respecting chick dates a dude who drives a rowboat. But, given that you own both a fox AND a goose, your dating pool might look different than normal. So we'll spot you one for that. That's about as far as I ever got in solving this problem until today. This problem almost ATE MY SOUL until I figured out the answer. The real answer.
GEESE CAN SWIM, Y'ALL. Here's how you do it. You throw the fox in the boat and tell him that if he hits the goose one more time, you're turnin' this boat around. You put the grain in one of those vacuum-sealing bags that are so cool, just because they're cool (the ones that I maybe once tried to seal my hand into, just to see what it felt like). Then! You tie a rope to the goose, and make him pull your lame rowboat across as punishment for sassing the fox. BAM! Done! Problem solved, with enough time to go look for a date to bring home for dinner, when you cook the goose.
There. That problem may have stopped me from studying for the LSATs, but it's not stopping me from drinking a bottle of Pinot through a clear twisty straw, and going to make fun of randy albino fanged teenagers.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Off And Running...Finally!
Word to the wise: If you create a blog, and then because, say, you move, get a cold, have someone in your family die (not on purpose), and then also coincidentally forget to post an inital entry for a few days, Blogger locks you down like a candy bar at fat camp. NO POSTS FOR YOU until they review your blog and realize you're not spam, but are in fact just a very nice person trying to write a heartfelt blog about the enchanting wonders of this sun-dappled world. Or you're me, and have more words to say than you can fit into any seven conversations, and so turn to the internet looking for an innocent ear to accost. So, after 14 days of waiting for them to free me, I now spring forth like a beautiful butterfly! BIENVENIDOS!!
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