Saturday night was my birthday party, to celebrate the epic (not) milestone (not) that turning 26 years old is (not). Mostly I just wanted to have an excuse to cook a lot of food and have people over, and none of my friends have ever argued with an invitation to come eat my food. An invitation to come over to help me decide between "Creme Brulee" or "Endless Wheat" as a wall color, perhaps, but never an invitation to come over to actually ingest creme brulee or endless wheat, whatever endless wheat is. Aside from a recipe for gastric disaster, of course.
I had started cooking early last week so as to ensure that there would be enough food for everyone to consider nibbling between drinks, should they feel compelled to put their drinks down long enough to assemble a plate. I made Greek chicken skewers, enormous chocolate cupcakes, a giant lemon tart, and a slew of other things that no one would be able to taste once they had drunk enough to render their tongues plastic and numb. Additionally, I had made the party as eco-friendly as possible: The cocktail plates were all reusable, recycled glass, the beverage bottles were recyclable, and the wine was all sourced from criminal grapes who deserved to die. Eco-justice for all!
The first win for the evening was that I did not suffer a wardrobe malfunction, which I considered a real and frightening possibility as I slipped an apron that tied around my neck over my sundress, which also tied around my neck. Right before the first guests arrived, I was whipping a batch of chocolate frosting, and the chocolate frosting whispered to me that it wanted nothing more in life than to make sticky love to my Lily Pulitzer sundress. I couldn't have any such fraternizing on my personal person at the start of the party, so I threw on the apron to finish putting the food together. Amazingly, in a frenzy to later whip the apron off so as to appear party-ready, I managed to not untie the sundress AND the apron in a humiliating act that would have put my later plans to pop out of my own cake to shame. Not flaunting your birthday suit at your birthday party: WIN.
The second win was that approximately 647.2 people showed up, ebbing and flowing in and out of the front door constantly from 7 to 11 pm. It was all I could do to keep up with squealing at new guests, checking the drinks of the guests who were already cruising down the freeway to Bourbontown, and reminding LB to make sure he had on his tiara and birthday sash to jump out of my cake on cue. I started at least 877 conversations over the course of the evening, and by the time the last reveler wandered out the front door, I think I had only finished four of them. House full of friends: WIN.
At one point I happened to glance out the front window in time to see LB shepherding a tall couple through our front yard, thoughtfully showing them the progress we had made in the yard. (It should be noted that this was the only *thoughtful* occurrence of the evening.) I had no idea who these people were! Did we invite them? Do I even know them? I darted from window to window, trying to peek stealthily between the blinds without them noticing--which was probably a lost cause, since my sundress was louder than I could ever hope to be. After a few minutes of scrambling around the front of my house, I finally thought to open the door, to discover that the mystery party-crashers were, in fact, my godparents. Who, by the way, I had invited. And whom I was really excited to see, once I realized they weren't covert serial killers out to wreck my party. Because, you know, that happens.
The third win for the evening was the presence of Donkey Balls, the Super Bowl of yard games. Apparently in classy circles and/or Wal-Mart, this game is known as Ladder Golf, but when we met, it was introduced to me as Donkey Balls, and I think it might hurt the Balls' feelings if I were to rename it at this point in our relationship. We played with the Donk all throughout the night, including after dark, which was an accomplishment of Olympic proportions, since there is no light in our backyard. What is really the accomplishment is that no one got whacked in the face with a drunken Donk. At least, not in my backyard, and not on my watch. Excessive use of the word "Donk" in public: WIN.
Throughout the night, I gave house tours to a huge number of our guests. I had forgotten how many of our friends hadn't seen the new house, and by the end of the evening, I was a regular Debbie Docent, swinging my wine glass perilously through my prepared spiel about plaster walls and wrought iron. I really had the routine down, hitting the high points with booze-fueled fervor, until I took one of my friends on the tour late in the evening. As we walked into the first stop on the upstairs circuit, I hit my cue. "And this is our master bedroom," I said, strolling in to check my hair in the mirror. My bangs were striking out to form their own independent nation.
"Ohhh, I see," he said. "So this is where the magic happens!" Quicker than you can say three-legged giraffe, I shot back without even thinking about it, "Nope, that's the kitchen!"
What? I'm a good cook. Oh, and my friend to whom I fired that gem? My former boss, Michael Scott. He couldn't be but so surprised; I'm not much more of a normal human being at the office. I just drink less. Kinda.
All of our friends whose babysitters would turn into pumpkins at midnight had to punch out around 11:15, and those of us that stayed through the halftime show burned it down until THREE AM. The best part? I have absolutely no idea what we did until then. I know we played with the Balls, and I think I ate 45 cheese wafers, but the overarching theme here is that I am still not too old to think it was a little ridiculous. Eight-hour birthday festival: WIN.
We are so doing that again next year. Or next weekend. Once my liver has recovered, whichever comes first.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Kitty Poppins
As the owners/parents/slaves of one completely ridiculous cat, Lawyer Boy and I are well acquainted with the mania that is the feline mind. Mango chases dust particles around like they're criminals on the run from his fur-striped Miami Vice. He attacks our feet under the covers suddenly and without warning, when those same feet had served as pillows for the six hours immediately prior. He does whatever the hell he wants, whenever the hell he wants, and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.
Strangely, we're down with that.
I have seen Mango do some bizarre things in the two years that I've been his bitch, but ten minutes ago, he really topped himself. Allow me to set the scene for you: I'm sitting on the sofa in our living room that faces the fireplace and the TV. LB is lying on the couch next to me, and we're pretty dazed out.
All the sudden, we notice that Mango is standing on the logs in the fireplace, which by the way, is a total black hole of haunted soot. John Gotti could be up there for all we know. I have never looked our eighty-year-old chimney in the eye, and I do not intend to start.
So Mango is now standing on his back legs, lengthy orange body stretched out to his front paws placed on the filthy brick wall. All I'm thinking at this point is, snatch his orange ass as soon as he comes down, as I envision sooty black pawprints on my bedsheets and face. LB and I watched him, amused, as he meowed into the foul depths of the chimney and tried to get traction on the wall. Spider-Cat he is not.
And suddenly, in the midst of our snickering, Mango vanished up the chimney! He just disappeared, tiny orange feet flying up the chimney like a pad-foot Mary Poppins! It took LB and me a second to process what we had just seen, and then the panic set in. HOLY CRAP THE CAT JUST DISAPPEARED UP THE CHIMNEY!!!
Once we regained the ability to move, we both ran over to the fireplace, staring up into the black abyss. This may come as a shock, but looking up a dirty chimney at night does not afford one a great deal of visibility. However, there was ZERO CAT in the chimney! THE CHIMNEY ATE THE CAT! So now we know the chimney is, like me, a meatatarian.
After a minute of staring, our eyes adjusted to the dark, and we saw a twitching tail on the wall. Who knew there was a shelf in the chimney? Is there a shelf in your chimney? Who is seriously acquainted with chimney anatomy? Aside from Dick Van Dyke and those nice chimney sweeps, that is. But they are on vacay right now, so we have to rescue Mango on our own. After a few sweet words and a little begging, Mango was still unwilling to come down from his perch. However, as soon as we pulled out the camera to take a picture of his catfoolery to share with all of you, he leapt down quick as a...cat. And quick as a cat, I grabbed him to hose him off before he dappled my sheets with little foot kisses.
I would like to have no more surprises tonight. I would also really, really like to watch "Mary Poppins" now.
Strangely, we're down with that.
I have seen Mango do some bizarre things in the two years that I've been his bitch, but ten minutes ago, he really topped himself. Allow me to set the scene for you: I'm sitting on the sofa in our living room that faces the fireplace and the TV. LB is lying on the couch next to me, and we're pretty dazed out.
All the sudden, we notice that Mango is standing on the logs in the fireplace, which by the way, is a total black hole of haunted soot. John Gotti could be up there for all we know. I have never looked our eighty-year-old chimney in the eye, and I do not intend to start.
So Mango is now standing on his back legs, lengthy orange body stretched out to his front paws placed on the filthy brick wall. All I'm thinking at this point is, snatch his orange ass as soon as he comes down, as I envision sooty black pawprints on my bedsheets and face. LB and I watched him, amused, as he meowed into the foul depths of the chimney and tried to get traction on the wall. Spider-Cat he is not.
And suddenly, in the midst of our snickering, Mango vanished up the chimney! He just disappeared, tiny orange feet flying up the chimney like a pad-foot Mary Poppins! It took LB and me a second to process what we had just seen, and then the panic set in. HOLY CRAP THE CAT JUST DISAPPEARED UP THE CHIMNEY!!!
Once we regained the ability to move, we both ran over to the fireplace, staring up into the black abyss. This may come as a shock, but looking up a dirty chimney at night does not afford one a great deal of visibility. However, there was ZERO CAT in the chimney! THE CHIMNEY ATE THE CAT! So now we know the chimney is, like me, a meatatarian.
After a minute of staring, our eyes adjusted to the dark, and we saw a twitching tail on the wall. Who knew there was a shelf in the chimney? Is there a shelf in your chimney? Who is seriously acquainted with chimney anatomy? Aside from Dick Van Dyke and those nice chimney sweeps, that is. But they are on vacay right now, so we have to rescue Mango on our own. After a few sweet words and a little begging, Mango was still unwilling to come down from his perch. However, as soon as we pulled out the camera to take a picture of his catfoolery to share with all of you, he leapt down quick as a...cat. And quick as a cat, I grabbed him to hose him off before he dappled my sheets with little foot kisses.
I would like to have no more surprises tonight. I would also really, really like to watch "Mary Poppins" now.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Bed Bath and Birthday
I had promised in my last post to share with you what my parents had bestowed upon me for my birthday at a later date, and I am here tonight to fulfill my promise to you. I know, right? Now, your heart can go on.
For my birthday, I had asked my family for gift cards to Bed Bath and Bedazzled, so I could buy the one essential appliance my kitchen still lacked: a food processor powerful enough to puree the entire Garden of Eden in one pulse. I will henceforth refer to the food processor as "procsy," since that is what I call it as a loving term of endearment. I spend a huge amount of time in my kitchen -I have lost valuable hours of sleep during the workweek to the creation of perfect cheese wafers- and had noticed that many recipes for pie crust and other flaky necessities require a procsy. It's apparently the only way to get a perfect pastry, as we all know that when Ma Ingalls was loading up the covered wagon for the great trek out of the Big Woods, she made sure to nestle the procsy next to the heirloom china and handmade quilts. And those back-issues of Us Weekly about Britney Spears' mental collapse. Man, Ma Ingalls did love her some Brit-Brit.
Mom and Dad started off my proscy piggy bank with a Bed Bath and Bediculous gift card Monday night, and Tuesday night the whole family assembled like a well-dressed religious cult at my grandmother's for dinner. After roast turkey and enough fresh vegetables to regulate the Dallas Cowboys (and possibly their entire fan base), I was allowed to ravage the pile of presents. I received not only enough Bed Bath and Bespeckled gift cards to claim my procsy, but also a cake pan that produces a giant cupcake, and a fabulous striped silk Coach purse, which my cousin Wayne picked out for me. I do love my tiny purses. Wayne feeds my addiction for smaller and smaller handbags, and if this progression continues, I will eventually be carrying a thimble by a shiny leather handle. In a fashionable color, natch.
After I had moved all of my necessities (keys, wallet, phone, and 26 lipsticks) into my new Coach Chicklet, I dragged Lawyer Boy straight to Bed Bath and Bewitched, where I followed the siren song of the small appliance section. I located and immediately pounced upon the procsy I had preselected online, only to discover that it cost a full hundred dollars less than what I had remembered! Remember the part where I said I had enough gift cards to cover the full cost of the procscy? Remember how freakdiculous I am about kitchen gizmos?
At the realization that I had a hundred extra dollars to marry with small appliances, I about near fell over, right after I stopped running around and shrieking with glee, which caused LB to head for the shower curtain section, where he wrapped himself in as many curtains as possible to hide from anyone who knew he was with me.
Once I picked myself and my handbag up off the floor, I settled on the pasta machine attachment for my stand mixer. I love my stand mixer so much Ipractically cuddle it to sleep every night, and because I have no social life and a minimal grasp on normalcy, I had recently decided I wanted to make my own pasta. My insanity knows no bounds. What, like you're surprised?
New appliances in hand and pie-eating grin stretched from ear to ear, LB and I proceeded to checkout, and to take our new baby home for the first time. We had previously installed the carseat per the manufacturer's instructions, so the procsy had a safe and snuggly ride home.
I promise to be a good mom, as long as it doesn't wake me up crying in the middle of the night.
For my birthday, I had asked my family for gift cards to Bed Bath and Bedazzled, so I could buy the one essential appliance my kitchen still lacked: a food processor powerful enough to puree the entire Garden of Eden in one pulse. I will henceforth refer to the food processor as "procsy," since that is what I call it as a loving term of endearment. I spend a huge amount of time in my kitchen -I have lost valuable hours of sleep during the workweek to the creation of perfect cheese wafers- and had noticed that many recipes for pie crust and other flaky necessities require a procsy. It's apparently the only way to get a perfect pastry, as we all know that when Ma Ingalls was loading up the covered wagon for the great trek out of the Big Woods, she made sure to nestle the procsy next to the heirloom china and handmade quilts. And those back-issues of Us Weekly about Britney Spears' mental collapse. Man, Ma Ingalls did love her some Brit-Brit.
Mom and Dad started off my proscy piggy bank with a Bed Bath and Bediculous gift card Monday night, and Tuesday night the whole family assembled like a well-dressed religious cult at my grandmother's for dinner. After roast turkey and enough fresh vegetables to regulate the Dallas Cowboys (and possibly their entire fan base), I was allowed to ravage the pile of presents. I received not only enough Bed Bath and Bespeckled gift cards to claim my procsy, but also a cake pan that produces a giant cupcake, and a fabulous striped silk Coach purse, which my cousin Wayne picked out for me. I do love my tiny purses. Wayne feeds my addiction for smaller and smaller handbags, and if this progression continues, I will eventually be carrying a thimble by a shiny leather handle. In a fashionable color, natch.
After I had moved all of my necessities (keys, wallet, phone, and 26 lipsticks) into my new Coach Chicklet, I dragged Lawyer Boy straight to Bed Bath and Bewitched, where I followed the siren song of the small appliance section. I located and immediately pounced upon the procsy I had preselected online, only to discover that it cost a full hundred dollars less than what I had remembered! Remember the part where I said I had enough gift cards to cover the full cost of the procscy? Remember how freakdiculous I am about kitchen gizmos?
At the realization that I had a hundred extra dollars to marry with small appliances, I about near fell over, right after I stopped running around and shrieking with glee, which caused LB to head for the shower curtain section, where he wrapped himself in as many curtains as possible to hide from anyone who knew he was with me.
Once I picked myself and my handbag up off the floor, I settled on the pasta machine attachment for my stand mixer. I love my stand mixer so much I
New appliances in hand and pie-eating grin stretched from ear to ear, LB and I proceeded to checkout, and to take our new baby home for the first time. We had previously installed the carseat per the manufacturer's instructions, so the procsy had a safe and snuggly ride home.
I promise to be a good mom, as long as it doesn't wake me up crying in the middle of the night.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Happy Birthday To Meeeeeee
Well, today I turned the big 2-6, which is only slightly less underwhelming than discovering on my 21st that the bathrooms in bars I was newly permitted into were just as horrific as those found in bars that had previously admitted my underage ass. I would like to beseech bar-going ladies worldwide to stop decorating the stalls in Early Modern Gastric Violence, and to ask if anyone has ever gotten a call-back on a number scrawled in lipstick across the soap-splattered mirrors.*
I would like to thank everyone who made my birthday so lovely, for ignoring my variety of attempts to downplay my day. It usually surprises people that I don't make a big deal out of my birthday, since I talk a lot (perhaps you noticed) and I like to tell everyone everything that's going on (perhaps you noticed). I just don't like to throw out my princess day to everyone, everywhere,** because I don't want anyone to feel like they have to make a big deal out of me, just because I said so. However, it is perfectly acceptable for me to rub the tiara of my Annual Princess Day all over Lawyer Boy, because he signed up for a lifetime of my ridiculous antics when he said I do. And no, I did not make him. I just told him what to wear and where to wear it and what to say and when to say it, is all.
LB had gotten me my big birthday present, a pink vintage bicycle, a few months ago. I wanted a bike so I could show the whole Greater Richmond Metropolitan Area what an unrepentant dork I am by riding my bike to the grocery store, shiny purple helmet complementing the shiny pink paint on my trusty steed. However, the bike didn't come with a basket, so until this morning, when I unwrapped my present, I looked like this gentleman, trying to cart all my necessities back from Kroger:
Clearly my hair has more volume than his, but the idea is the same. Now I have a basket, which magically compresses my 14 refrigerator boxes full of strawberries and organic milk into a compact load. I feel so much safer traveling now!
Thanks to the firm-wide birthday list, my coworkers knew it was my birthday, and they came out in full force. Particular thanks are in order to Ghost Baker's mom, for the cupcake-art birthday card, Sharon for the alarmingly abundant amount of fresh-baked doughnuts, and Melissa for the pan of gooey, underbaked brownies. (Please note that Melissa is apparently my only friend who is not a hyperlink.) I would also like to thank my boss for walking into my office at 9am and groaning his way through "Happy Birthday," in its entirety, by way of celebration. That is far and away a much better present than letting me leave an hour (or seven) early on my princess day. Totes.
Mom and Dad came over to hug me in celebration of the fact that they spawned me, and to give me my present, which I will tell you about tomorrow, when it will make much more sense. Suffice to say that it is a further extension of my personal rampant dorkery. While they were here we drank wine, stood in my backyard, and freely donated our blood to the local mosquito population. We're so kind.
My birthday dinner was crunchy beef tacos, which LB was more than happy to produce as a surprise for me. I've eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world, I make up my own recipes, and I've even single-handedly catered several events, but few things make me happier than the results of an Old El Paso Taco Dinner Kit. I can't explain it; it's just happiness in a crispy browned shell. Add to that a glass of wine, a cup of ice cream, and the man I love, and that's a recipe for birthday bliss.
I will fill you in on more birthday festivities tomorrow, after the big family celebration at my grandmother's. For now I am too sleepy and happily relaxed to do much more than curl up with the cat, the man, and a glass of Zinfandel. Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who made my birthday so wonderful.
And for those of you who haven't yet found a way to celebrate me--now is an excellent time to start. You still have a few hours till midnight.
*Sidebar to 540-956-2345: You never returned my voicemail.
**Apparently I had forgotten that Facebook reminds everyone, including the unborn and the socially dysfunctional, of the anniversary of my debut.
I would like to thank everyone who made my birthday so lovely, for ignoring my variety of attempts to downplay my day. It usually surprises people that I don't make a big deal out of my birthday, since I talk a lot (perhaps you noticed) and I like to tell everyone everything that's going on (perhaps you noticed). I just don't like to throw out my princess day to everyone, everywhere,** because I don't want anyone to feel like they have to make a big deal out of me, just because I said so. However, it is perfectly acceptable for me to rub the tiara of my Annual Princess Day all over Lawyer Boy, because he signed up for a lifetime of my ridiculous antics when he said I do. And no, I did not make him. I just told him what to wear and where to wear it and what to say and when to say it, is all.
LB had gotten me my big birthday present, a pink vintage bicycle, a few months ago. I wanted a bike so I could show the whole Greater Richmond Metropolitan Area what an unrepentant dork I am by riding my bike to the grocery store, shiny purple helmet complementing the shiny pink paint on my trusty steed. However, the bike didn't come with a basket, so until this morning, when I unwrapped my present, I looked like this gentleman, trying to cart all my necessities back from Kroger:
Clearly my hair has more volume than his, but the idea is the same. Now I have a basket, which magically compresses my 14 refrigerator boxes full of strawberries and organic milk into a compact load. I feel so much safer traveling now!Thanks to the firm-wide birthday list, my coworkers knew it was my birthday, and they came out in full force. Particular thanks are in order to Ghost Baker's mom, for the cupcake-art birthday card, Sharon for the alarmingly abundant amount of fresh-baked doughnuts, and Melissa for the pan of gooey, underbaked brownies. (Please note that Melissa is apparently my only friend who is not a hyperlink.) I would also like to thank my boss for walking into my office at 9am and groaning his way through "Happy Birthday," in its entirety, by way of celebration. That is far and away a much better present than letting me leave an hour (or seven) early on my princess day. Totes.
Mom and Dad came over to hug me in celebration of the fact that they spawned me, and to give me my present, which I will tell you about tomorrow, when it will make much more sense. Suffice to say that it is a further extension of my personal rampant dorkery. While they were here we drank wine, stood in my backyard, and freely donated our blood to the local mosquito population. We're so kind.
My birthday dinner was crunchy beef tacos, which LB was more than happy to produce as a surprise for me. I've eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world, I make up my own recipes, and I've even single-handedly catered several events, but few things make me happier than the results of an Old El Paso Taco Dinner Kit. I can't explain it; it's just happiness in a crispy browned shell. Add to that a glass of wine, a cup of ice cream, and the man I love, and that's a recipe for birthday bliss.
I will fill you in on more birthday festivities tomorrow, after the big family celebration at my grandmother's. For now I am too sleepy and happily relaxed to do much more than curl up with the cat, the man, and a glass of Zinfandel. Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who made my birthday so wonderful.
And for those of you who haven't yet found a way to celebrate me--now is an excellent time to start. You still have a few hours till midnight.
*Sidebar to 540-956-2345: You never returned my voicemail.
**Apparently I had forgotten that Facebook reminds everyone, including the unborn and the socially dysfunctional, of the anniversary of my debut.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Eye Am An Ass
I used to work in customer service. The year right out of college that I spent working at what I would politely call a daily bucket of suck taught me a very important lesson about getting what you want out of people who can help you. If you give customer service a reason to hate you, they probably can't do a thing about it without getting fired--which is, in fact, sometimes their goal. They can throw darts at your file, they can put the phone on mute and hiss like a feral cat in heat at you, and they can fart in your general direction, but ultimately, they have to help you.
But, if you're nice to them, you might get a little something extra, just for being a cut above the average mouth-breathing teleclown. This was the angle I was trying to work tonight when I decided to email the customer service elves at 1-800 Contacts to get some clarification on why, time and time again, they insist on squatting on my order for at least a week before they ship it. I was hoping that maybe, by working my inherent charm and feminine wiles, I could perhaps con them into upgrading my order to overnight shipping, or even kicking it out the door before the summer solstice.
I think I failed.
Here is what I sent them, unedited for your judgment.
Hello 1-800 Contacts,
I have a question about the order that I just placed, and I'm hoping you have the correct answer for me. While the order status page shows that it will ship in 2-3 business days, the information under one of the specific products I ordered (toric lenses) is showing that it won't ship until June 26. What's up with that? I don't know who to believe. I'm hoping it's the 2-3 business days option, because frankly, I rely upon the speediness and presumed prompt service of internet ordering to allow me to indulge my inner procrastinator, and wait until my last pair is practically a couple of crunchy cornflakes before I reorder. Waiting until June 26, and then waiting another five to seven business days for FedEx to drop-kick them over to me, is really going to cramp my style. I really don't like wearing my glasses to work. Hence, you know, contacts.
If we can step back and refocus for a minute, there's a bigger picture I'd like to take a gander at. This is the fourth time I've ordered this same product from your fine e-stablishment, and every single time, I get an email the day after I place my order, telling me that my order will be delayed for at least a half a lunar cycle. Is there an ongoing hostage situation with the toric lenses that I, as a concerned citizen of the world, need to be aware of? I'd be more than happy to do my part to help liberate them in advance of June 26. It just really takes the quickness and convenience out of quick and convenient internet ordering to be hit with a lethargic ten-day lead time every single time. I want to trust you, 1-800 Contacts, I really do. Just give me a sign.
Speaking of, my birthday is June 22. Any chance these could ship out by the time I blow out the candles?
Thanks for your help,
Grace
My God. It seemed perfectly reasonable when I wrote it, but after hitting send, I realized that there are only two ways this can end: They completely ignore my email and the resulting desire to drive out here and bitch-slap me, or they ship my lenses early. After having licked them.
But, if you're nice to them, you might get a little something extra, just for being a cut above the average mouth-breathing teleclown. This was the angle I was trying to work tonight when I decided to email the customer service elves at 1-800 Contacts to get some clarification on why, time and time again, they insist on squatting on my order for at least a week before they ship it. I was hoping that maybe, by working my inherent charm and feminine wiles, I could perhaps con them into upgrading my order to overnight shipping, or even kicking it out the door before the summer solstice.
I think I failed.
Here is what I sent them, unedited for your judgment.
Hello 1-800 Contacts,
I have a question about the order that I just placed, and I'm hoping you have the correct answer for me. While the order status page shows that it will ship in 2-3 business days, the information under one of the specific products I ordered (toric lenses) is showing that it won't ship until June 26. What's up with that? I don't know who to believe. I'm hoping it's the 2-3 business days option, because frankly, I rely upon the speediness and presumed prompt service of internet ordering to allow me to indulge my inner procrastinator, and wait until my last pair is practically a couple of crunchy cornflakes before I reorder. Waiting until June 26, and then waiting another five to seven business days for FedEx to drop-kick them over to me, is really going to cramp my style. I really don't like wearing my glasses to work. Hence, you know, contacts.
If we can step back and refocus for a minute, there's a bigger picture I'd like to take a gander at. This is the fourth time I've ordered this same product from your fine e-stablishment, and every single time, I get an email the day after I place my order, telling me that my order will be delayed for at least a half a lunar cycle. Is there an ongoing hostage situation with the toric lenses that I, as a concerned citizen of the world, need to be aware of? I'd be more than happy to do my part to help liberate them in advance of June 26. It just really takes the quickness and convenience out of quick and convenient internet ordering to be hit with a lethargic ten-day lead time every single time. I want to trust you, 1-800 Contacts, I really do. Just give me a sign.
Speaking of, my birthday is June 22. Any chance these could ship out by the time I blow out the candles?
Thanks for your help,
Grace
My God. It seemed perfectly reasonable when I wrote it, but after hitting send, I realized that there are only two ways this can end: They completely ignore my email and the resulting desire to drive out here and bitch-slap me, or they ship my lenses early. After having licked them.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Vampire Insurance
Alright amigos, today I was going to tell you all about my fancy new home-improvement project. You know, the one that I am miraculously and shockingly still not sick of, despite having spent all weekend baking like a brick-oven pizza in the summer heat so that I could cover my legs and some of the furniture in oil paint and mosquito kisses.
Instead, today I was beset by a calamity of such a staggeringly large consequence, both mentally and physically, that it wiped my mind squeaky clean of any other possible ramblings. Today I had to face my worst fear, in my own home, with Lawyer Boy holding my hand, and the cat shrieking nearby like a drunken banshee.
Today a woman came to my house to steal my blood. WITH HER FANGS.
Okay, fine. She was a nurse, it was for life insurance, and she used a handy-dandy disposable needle -the darling of the medical profession- which I can only assume was for efficiency, since biting me on the arm is not exactly a sure thing. Mostly because I squirm. But seriously, having blood taken is one of my worst fears: You can give me a shot, poke my eyes, and dig to China using all manner of tools, but do not try to stick things into my veins. I don't care if it hurts or not. I have a phenomenal pain tolerance, but my tolerance for things, metal things, violating my sacrosanct tubular parts is low, because I get all worked up thinking of holes being poked up in my insides. And then I get whiny, testy, frantic, and desperate.
LB had given me fair warning that the nurse was coming to steal my fluids, which gave me ample time to get myself fully worked into a lather over the procedure. By four o'clock this afternoon, fellow office-dwellers wandering by my bat cave had a front-row view of a harrowed Grace, showing a bit too much of the whites of my eyes and pulling out my own hair, strand by frantic strand. I was going to die. I was just going to straight-up die.
By the time I got home, I was so nervous that my fingernails had turned blue and my extremities were the texture and temperature of raw oysters. I paced the floor like a rabid dog awaiting the arrival of the vampiress. I envisioned the evening devolving into a scene like something from The Shining, wherein the nurse, wielding an intravenous line like a garden hose, chased a hospital-gown-clad me through the neighborhood, while I shrieked "you'll nevah take me aliiiiive!" and tried to find a mature boxwood to hide behind. The hospital gown got involved in my nightmare because clothing that made a centerpiece of my crack is the only thing that could have made this scenario worse. The neighbors would be horrified at my immaturity and pasty rear. We would have to move.
I was marginally pacified when the nurse arrived, curls falling across her forehead and a VCU Research Science Division nametag pinned to her fairy-tale printed scrubs. "Live happily ever after!" they cheerfully advised me. At that point, I would have been happy just to live ever after, period. Fortunately, my inner psychopath had not overshadowed my manners and I offered her brownies, scones, and something to drink. She politely declined, screwing my chances of bribing her into taking the cat's blood instead of mine. Do you think Meow Mix is alarmingly high in cholesterol?
In order to suss out my chances for survival, I questioned her very honestly. "Monique," I said calmly. "I am not good at giving blood. Are you really, really good at taking blood?"
Monique looked at me and smiled. "I've worked in pediatrics for fourteen years."
"Thank God!" I exclaimed. "You're used to my people!"
In order to spare her from extended periods of time spent in the company of the more extreme reaches of my personality, I suggested that we kick off the festivities with a little bloodletting. Surprisingly, she agreed, which meant I was suddenly face-to-face with my arch-nemesis, hollow needles. I took a seat at my dining room table, usually the site of festive dinners and celebratory toasts. What if I died in this chair? LB would never again be able to host a dinner party at this table. I gave her my arm, having agreed to let her stick the wee (she promised it was wee!) needle wherever she found the "juiciest" vein. I grasped LB's hands, preparing to transfer the pain to his willing self, and looked away from my victimized arm.
"OW! Ow, Grace! STOP!" LB shrieked, his hands trapped in my death-grip. "She hasn't even stuck you yet!" He pulled one of his hands back to reveal red half-moons etched into his flesh by my fingernails. The price of my love is steep.
He was still gently harassing me for making him the victim when Monique stuck me. When she told me that she was done, I didn't believe her. She couldn't be done. Nothing had hurt. I hadn't felt a jab, hadn't felt an intravenous vacuum stealing my personal blood. "Here," she said, putting a cotton ball into my free hand. "Hold that right there in your elbow," she instructed, pressing my fingers to the minute red dot in my skin.
"Monique?" I asked quiveringly.
"Yes?" she replied, efficiently packing my personal blood samples into the box with my paperwork.
"I love you," I confessed, so relieved that I had survived unscathed that, had she asked me right at that moment to bear her children, I would have agreed in a heartbeat.
As long as it didn't involve giving blood.
Instead, today I was beset by a calamity of such a staggeringly large consequence, both mentally and physically, that it wiped my mind squeaky clean of any other possible ramblings. Today I had to face my worst fear, in my own home, with Lawyer Boy holding my hand, and the cat shrieking nearby like a drunken banshee.
Today a woman came to my house to steal my blood. WITH HER FANGS.
Okay, fine. She was a nurse, it was for life insurance, and she used a handy-dandy disposable needle -the darling of the medical profession- which I can only assume was for efficiency, since biting me on the arm is not exactly a sure thing. Mostly because I squirm. But seriously, having blood taken is one of my worst fears: You can give me a shot, poke my eyes, and dig to China using all manner of tools, but do not try to stick things into my veins. I don't care if it hurts or not. I have a phenomenal pain tolerance, but my tolerance for things, metal things, violating my sacrosanct tubular parts is low, because I get all worked up thinking of holes being poked up in my insides. And then I get whiny, testy, frantic, and desperate.
LB had given me fair warning that the nurse was coming to steal my fluids, which gave me ample time to get myself fully worked into a lather over the procedure. By four o'clock this afternoon, fellow office-dwellers wandering by my bat cave had a front-row view of a harrowed Grace, showing a bit too much of the whites of my eyes and pulling out my own hair, strand by frantic strand. I was going to die. I was just going to straight-up die.
By the time I got home, I was so nervous that my fingernails had turned blue and my extremities were the texture and temperature of raw oysters. I paced the floor like a rabid dog awaiting the arrival of the vampiress. I envisioned the evening devolving into a scene like something from The Shining, wherein the nurse, wielding an intravenous line like a garden hose, chased a hospital-gown-clad me through the neighborhood, while I shrieked "you'll nevah take me aliiiiive!" and tried to find a mature boxwood to hide behind. The hospital gown got involved in my nightmare because clothing that made a centerpiece of my crack is the only thing that could have made this scenario worse. The neighbors would be horrified at my immaturity and pasty rear. We would have to move.
I was marginally pacified when the nurse arrived, curls falling across her forehead and a VCU Research Science Division nametag pinned to her fairy-tale printed scrubs. "Live happily ever after!" they cheerfully advised me. At that point, I would have been happy just to live ever after, period. Fortunately, my inner psychopath had not overshadowed my manners and I offered her brownies, scones, and something to drink. She politely declined, screwing my chances of bribing her into taking the cat's blood instead of mine. Do you think Meow Mix is alarmingly high in cholesterol?
In order to suss out my chances for survival, I questioned her very honestly. "Monique," I said calmly. "I am not good at giving blood. Are you really, really good at taking blood?"
Monique looked at me and smiled. "I've worked in pediatrics for fourteen years."
"Thank God!" I exclaimed. "You're used to my people!"
In order to spare her from extended periods of time spent in the company of the more extreme reaches of my personality, I suggested that we kick off the festivities with a little bloodletting. Surprisingly, she agreed, which meant I was suddenly face-to-face with my arch-nemesis, hollow needles. I took a seat at my dining room table, usually the site of festive dinners and celebratory toasts. What if I died in this chair? LB would never again be able to host a dinner party at this table. I gave her my arm, having agreed to let her stick the wee (she promised it was wee!) needle wherever she found the "juiciest" vein. I grasped LB's hands, preparing to transfer the pain to his willing self, and looked away from my victimized arm.
"OW! Ow, Grace! STOP!" LB shrieked, his hands trapped in my death-grip. "She hasn't even stuck you yet!" He pulled one of his hands back to reveal red half-moons etched into his flesh by my fingernails. The price of my love is steep.
He was still gently harassing me for making him the victim when Monique stuck me. When she told me that she was done, I didn't believe her. She couldn't be done. Nothing had hurt. I hadn't felt a jab, hadn't felt an intravenous vacuum stealing my personal blood. "Here," she said, putting a cotton ball into my free hand. "Hold that right there in your elbow," she instructed, pressing my fingers to the minute red dot in my skin.
"Monique?" I asked quiveringly.
"Yes?" she replied, efficiently packing my personal blood samples into the box with my paperwork.
"I love you," I confessed, so relieved that I had survived unscathed that, had she asked me right at that moment to bear her children, I would have agreed in a heartbeat.
As long as it didn't involve giving blood.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Projects I Will Soon Tire Of
I love a good project--craft project, not sketchy government housing. While I do consider myself at least somewhat creative, and start a variety of intriguing craft projects throughout the year, I am not exactly known for an unyielding tenacity* to stick with it till the end and finish the job. This explains the four half-scarves, one half of a baby blanket, and one sleeve of a sweater that I started knitting, only to get bored, go looking for snacks, and return to the projects six months later to discover that it was no longer scarf season, the baby was now a toddler, and I no longer felt that my wardrobe required a sage green sweater.
My completely ADD lifestyle wouldn't be quite so problematic if I didn't insist on starting every project that scampers through my brain like a deranged Martha Stewart, crooning siren songs of nubbly knitted blankets and hand-stamped monogrammed stationery. Do you know what concentration and skill it takes to create hand-stamped monogrammed stationery? Yeah, me neither. I totally bought the supplies, then lied down for a nap and awoke to a new me, one who did not give a crap about notecards any more. Whatever. Post-Its get the job done, the new me stated lazily.
So when I told Lawyer Boy last weekend that I wanted to sand and refinish our bedroom furniture, color me blown-away blue when he actually agreed to letting me take an orbital sander to the oak furniture his parents had given us. Maybe he's excited that I'm getting into power tools. Maybe he's thinking that this time, I'll stick with it till the touchdown dance in the end zone.
Maybe he thinks the furniture is as butt-fugly as I do.
Not that there's anything wrong with your bedroom looking like it belongs to a nine-year-old boy who loves camp-outs and digging for worms--if you are a nine-year-old boy who loves camp-outs and digging for worms. LB's parents had bought this furniture for him when he was in elementary school, and when he started Lawyer Boy School and had zero furniture to his name, they gave it to him for his apartment. As much as I'm not a huge screaming fan of this furniture, I have to admit that it was a step up from LB keeping his t-shirts rolled up like sushi in a Tupperware bin.
The furniture is boxy, chunky, and varnished a dark oak color. No, it is not the ubiquitous 80s-kids-bedroom cargo furniture that deserves only to be used for firewood. I stared at it, silently hating it and vowing to burn it like a witch at the stake, for years, until I finally realized: The furniture itself is not ugly. I don't like the color at all, but structurally, the furniture has an old-fashioned, wooden trunk-y look to it, which could play very well into the "French country romantic" theme that I'm allegedly using for our bedroom. I say allegedly, because right now all I've got is a chandelier, a fantasy, and a working knowledge of the words for many pieces of furniture in French.
So I thought to myself, "Grace, we are a crafty being. We have, at summer camp 12 years ago, painted picture frames with tempera paint and only gotten paint under six of our fingernails and on four other campers. We are, therefore, completely qualified to attack real furniture with violent weapons, and finger-paint colors onto it." I figured out what colors I would use, if I had grown-up paint skills, and took my proposal to LB.
No, I did not get him drunk before I asked him. Even sober, he was surprisingly amenable to the suggestion--probably because we are too cheap to buy entirely new bedroom furniture. We decided we would complete the entire project -sand, prime, paint, and crackle-coat paint- on the mirror that goes with the set first, so that if it wasn't actually a good idea, we could just set the mirror on fire, scatter the ashes to the wind, and pretend the whole thing never happened. If all goes well, the furniture will be painted espresso brown, with an ivory crackle-coat overtop that only vaguely resembles peeling sunburn.
If all does not go well, we'll have to confess to my mother-in-law, whom I love dearly, that we maybe-sort-of-on-accident ruined all the furniture, which she loves dearly. In that case, I will blame the whole thing on LB, since I will likely only be interested in this project for another .16 minutes of the 47 remaining hours of work we have left on it. Actions speak louder than words, amigos: If he was the one who carried out the bulk of the destruction, then the fact that I was the one to verbalize the plan in the first place means nothing.
I'm telling you all this so that, should you not hear from me again this weekend, you will know that the orbital sander won the battle and I am no longer an animate being with working fingers. Either that, or I sanded for five minutes, got bored, chased a butterfly through the yard, and headed off for a picnic, returning home later to the realization that I would much rather throw my own pottery than refinish furniture. I think we have some clay in the basement...and pottery wheels are on sale at Michael's right now...
*Dear Everyone Who Uses The Linguistic Abomination "stick-to-it-iveness": I would like to introduce you to the real English word that means the same thing. It is tenacity. Stick-to-it-iveness is not only cumbersome and annoying, it is unnecessary, as we have a word that has been blessed by Pope Merriam-Webster and legitimized into our language.
End grammatic rant.
My completely ADD lifestyle wouldn't be quite so problematic if I didn't insist on starting every project that scampers through my brain like a deranged Martha Stewart, crooning siren songs of nubbly knitted blankets and hand-stamped monogrammed stationery. Do you know what concentration and skill it takes to create hand-stamped monogrammed stationery? Yeah, me neither. I totally bought the supplies, then lied down for a nap and awoke to a new me, one who did not give a crap about notecards any more. Whatever. Post-Its get the job done, the new me stated lazily.
So when I told Lawyer Boy last weekend that I wanted to sand and refinish our bedroom furniture, color me blown-away blue when he actually agreed to letting me take an orbital sander to the oak furniture his parents had given us. Maybe he's excited that I'm getting into power tools. Maybe he's thinking that this time, I'll stick with it till the touchdown dance in the end zone.
Maybe he thinks the furniture is as butt-fugly as I do.
Not that there's anything wrong with your bedroom looking like it belongs to a nine-year-old boy who loves camp-outs and digging for worms--if you are a nine-year-old boy who loves camp-outs and digging for worms. LB's parents had bought this furniture for him when he was in elementary school, and when he started Lawyer Boy School and had zero furniture to his name, they gave it to him for his apartment. As much as I'm not a huge screaming fan of this furniture, I have to admit that it was a step up from LB keeping his t-shirts rolled up like sushi in a Tupperware bin.
The furniture is boxy, chunky, and varnished a dark oak color. No, it is not the ubiquitous 80s-kids-bedroom cargo furniture that deserves only to be used for firewood. I stared at it, silently hating it and vowing to burn it like a witch at the stake, for years, until I finally realized: The furniture itself is not ugly. I don't like the color at all, but structurally, the furniture has an old-fashioned, wooden trunk-y look to it, which could play very well into the "French country romantic" theme that I'm allegedly using for our bedroom. I say allegedly, because right now all I've got is a chandelier, a fantasy, and a working knowledge of the words for many pieces of furniture in French.
So I thought to myself, "Grace, we are a crafty being. We have, at summer camp 12 years ago, painted picture frames with tempera paint and only gotten paint under six of our fingernails and on four other campers. We are, therefore, completely qualified to attack real furniture with violent weapons, and finger-paint colors onto it." I figured out what colors I would use, if I had grown-up paint skills, and took my proposal to LB.
No, I did not get him drunk before I asked him. Even sober, he was surprisingly amenable to the suggestion--probably because we are too cheap to buy entirely new bedroom furniture. We decided we would complete the entire project -sand, prime, paint, and crackle-coat paint- on the mirror that goes with the set first, so that if it wasn't actually a good idea, we could just set the mirror on fire, scatter the ashes to the wind, and pretend the whole thing never happened. If all goes well, the furniture will be painted espresso brown, with an ivory crackle-coat overtop that only vaguely resembles peeling sunburn.
If all does not go well, we'll have to confess to my mother-in-law, whom I love dearly, that we maybe-sort-of-on-accident ruined all the furniture, which she loves dearly. In that case, I will blame the whole thing on LB, since I will likely only be interested in this project for another .16 minutes of the 47 remaining hours of work we have left on it. Actions speak louder than words, amigos: If he was the one who carried out the bulk of the destruction, then the fact that I was the one to verbalize the plan in the first place means nothing.
I'm telling you all this so that, should you not hear from me again this weekend, you will know that the orbital sander won the battle and I am no longer an animate being with working fingers. Either that, or I sanded for five minutes, got bored, chased a butterfly through the yard, and headed off for a picnic, returning home later to the realization that I would much rather throw my own pottery than refinish furniture. I think we have some clay in the basement...and pottery wheels are on sale at Michael's right now...
*Dear Everyone Who Uses The Linguistic Abomination "stick-to-it-iveness": I would like to introduce you to the real English word that means the same thing. It is tenacity. Stick-to-it-iveness is not only cumbersome and annoying, it is unnecessary, as we have a word that has been blessed by Pope Merriam-Webster and legitimized into our language.
End grammatic rant.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Fumbled by Facebook
If you are reading this on Facebook, where it appears that this is just a random "note" that I, for whatever reason, threw onto my profile, please visit my actual blog for the rest of my ramblings. I tied the blog to Facebook thinking it would give a wee snippet of each post and direct readers to the blog itself, but it does no such thing.
There's a shock. Me, thwarted by technology again. The internet remains a tricky, magical creature full of surprises.
There's a shock. Me, thwarted by technology again. The internet remains a tricky, magical creature full of surprises.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Balls--Lots of Tiny Balls
Last week my coworker Sharon commissioned me, likely against her better judgment, and possibly after much pleading on my part, to make the cake for her son's end-of-season baseball party. In my free time, when I'm not harassing the cat, harassing Lawyer Boy, or making fart jokes, I love to bake and decorate cakes. I've mostly been commissioned to make them for showers at the office, either bridal or baby, and frankly, I would like some credit for politely abstaining from writing "Way To Spawn!" on the cakes for the fetus-themed fetes.
Last summer, my girlfriends asked me to make a cake for our friend Erin's lingerie shower, and I obliged by baking up a full-figured corset, slathered in creamy frosting and practically bursting from real womanly curves, made possible by my mad skills in creating 3-D cake-boobs. I was so proud of her, my delectable lingerie, that I named her Tammy Sue. Seriously, can you blame me?
In case you're curious, "EK" would be Erin's new monogram after her wedding. It did not stand for "Extreme Kurves" or "Extra Klassy." Clearly I am not so fantastic at drawing with frosting, but I am extremely skilled at frosting rosettes, and also very enthusiastic about cramming as many of them into a given space as possible. Poor Tammy Sue apparently has chicken pox. Or, more appropriately, the herp.
This time around, Sharon had told me that her son's team was the Yankees, so I tried to work around that. I looked up the professional Yankees' team logo...
...and immediately nixed that as a design option. While it would be very authentic, it would more likely than not look like a big gum-paste penis sporting an Abe Lincoln top hat by the time I had recreated it, and no parent wants to explain that fumble to their 10-year-old son. And that just does not scream CELEBRATION, unless you are a patriotic porn star. I pondered the design some more, even contemplating borrowing the 3D boob effect from Tammy Sue to produce a 3D baseball, but I had to nix that idea after I determined it was impractical to make an entire batch of cake batter for one 3-inch-round ball. It was impractical, because I would have eaten the remaining cake in one sitting.
I finally decided to keep it simple and write "Yankees 2009" on top of a white cake, bordered by baseball stitching and blue dots. I know, it's simple, but the less I had to screw up, the less I could screw up. I frosted the cake smooth, piped a long border of blue dots around the bottom, and wrote the words across the top in a script similar to the logo, being careful to actually spell the words right. Sharon said she had dreamed before I gave her the cake that I had horribly misspelled YANKEES, which, knowing me, is a somewhat reasonable fear. I took extra precautions to ensure that I did not write YANKLES or YANKIES, because blue writing on a white cake is like giving birth--once it's out, you can't take it back. I carefully stitched red piping along the top of the cake for the baseball stitching, and I was done!
Because it's so cute, and because I know how much you're just dying for more glamour shots, here's a side view:
I was so proud of myself, I just had to share with someone, and it was completely impossible for me to wait 26 more minutes before I would drop the cake off to Sharon. So I called my mom and squealed a lot.
"Mom, it turned out so well. It's so cute! And I didn't smear blue icing anywhere!"
"That's great!" she replied. "What does it look like?"
"Well," I wound up for my dramatic monologue. "It's white, and it says YANKEES 2009 in dark blue across the top, and then I used red frosting to stitch all around the top edge like a baseball, and then I bordered the entire bottom with blue balls. Oh God." I am what is known as an external processor, meaning things do not often fully register to me until I have said them out loud. Therefore, all the time I had spent conceptualizing "blue ball border" and then thinking "careful with the blue balls" as I had piped them onto the cake, it had not actually occurred to me that I was ringing a cake with blue balls. As soon as the words left my lips, though, I realized exactly what I had done.
"So you're giving blue balls to an entire baseball team?" Mom said. I could hear her starting to laugh, hard, at my blunder. "Way to go, Grace!"
Adding to my discomfort over my foul ball(s), when I dropped the cake off to Sharon, she had brought along her ten-year-old son, the Yankees player himself. He thought the cake was sooooo cool, which was extremely gratifying, until he said, "and look at the blue balls!" I could see Sharon's face over her son's head, and she was making that "do not laugh do not laugh your face can explode but you cannot laugh" face that moms are so good at.
In keeping with the baseball theme, do you think this was a home run, or a strike out?
Last summer, my girlfriends asked me to make a cake for our friend Erin's lingerie shower, and I obliged by baking up a full-figured corset, slathered in creamy frosting and practically bursting from real womanly curves, made possible by my mad skills in creating 3-D cake-boobs. I was so proud of her, my delectable lingerie, that I named her Tammy Sue. Seriously, can you blame me?
In case you're curious, "EK" would be Erin's new monogram after her wedding. It did not stand for "Extreme Kurves" or "Extra Klassy." Clearly I am not so fantastic at drawing with frosting, but I am extremely skilled at frosting rosettes, and also very enthusiastic about cramming as many of them into a given space as possible. Poor Tammy Sue apparently has chicken pox. Or, more appropriately, the herp.This time around, Sharon had told me that her son's team was the Yankees, so I tried to work around that. I looked up the professional Yankees' team logo...
...and immediately nixed that as a design option. While it would be very authentic, it would more likely than not look like a big gum-paste penis sporting an Abe Lincoln top hat by the time I had recreated it, and no parent wants to explain that fumble to their 10-year-old son. And that just does not scream CELEBRATION, unless you are a patriotic porn star. I pondered the design some more, even contemplating borrowing the 3D boob effect from Tammy Sue to produce a 3D baseball, but I had to nix that idea after I determined it was impractical to make an entire batch of cake batter for one 3-inch-round ball. It was impractical, because I would have eaten the remaining cake in one sitting.I finally decided to keep it simple and write "Yankees 2009" on top of a white cake, bordered by baseball stitching and blue dots. I know, it's simple, but the less I had to screw up, the less I could screw up. I frosted the cake smooth, piped a long border of blue dots around the bottom, and wrote the words across the top in a script similar to the logo, being careful to actually spell the words right. Sharon said she had dreamed before I gave her the cake that I had horribly misspelled YANKEES, which, knowing me, is a somewhat reasonable fear. I took extra precautions to ensure that I did not write YANKLES or YANKIES, because blue writing on a white cake is like giving birth--once it's out, you can't take it back. I carefully stitched red piping along the top of the cake for the baseball stitching, and I was done!
Because it's so cute, and because I know how much you're just dying for more glamour shots, here's a side view:
I was so proud of myself, I just had to share with someone, and it was completely impossible for me to wait 26 more minutes before I would drop the cake off to Sharon. So I called my mom and squealed a lot."Mom, it turned out so well. It's so cute! And I didn't smear blue icing anywhere!"
"That's great!" she replied. "What does it look like?"
"Well," I wound up for my dramatic monologue. "It's white, and it says YANKEES 2009 in dark blue across the top, and then I used red frosting to stitch all around the top edge like a baseball, and then I bordered the entire bottom with blue balls. Oh God." I am what is known as an external processor, meaning things do not often fully register to me until I have said them out loud. Therefore, all the time I had spent conceptualizing "blue ball border" and then thinking "careful with the blue balls" as I had piped them onto the cake, it had not actually occurred to me that I was ringing a cake with blue balls. As soon as the words left my lips, though, I realized exactly what I had done.
"So you're giving blue balls to an entire baseball team?" Mom said. I could hear her starting to laugh, hard, at my blunder. "Way to go, Grace!"
Adding to my discomfort over my foul ball(s), when I dropped the cake off to Sharon, she had brought along her ten-year-old son, the Yankees player himself. He thought the cake was sooooo cool, which was extremely gratifying, until he said, "and look at the blue balls!" I could see Sharon's face over her son's head, and she was making that "do not laugh do not laugh your face can explode but you cannot laugh" face that moms are so good at.
In keeping with the baseball theme, do you think this was a home run, or a strike out?
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Lawyer Boy: Man of Ginormous Style
I am married to a clothes tyrannosaur. I think Lawyer Boy passed Clothes Horse for the win about two years ago, when he added "Clothes For Playing Lawyer" to his already-burgeoning wardrobe of "Clothes For Bumming On The Beach" and "Clothes For Drinking In." I don't know why I even bother doing laundry, because I think he is trying to single-handedly bankrupt Tide by owning enough boxer shorts to sustain his ass (literally and metaphorically) for a month straight.
One of the challenges of moving into an eighty-year-old house has been cramming all of our stuff into the trial-sized storage space provided. It is a little-known historical fact that, prior to 1940, Americans were elves. Thus the closets in our house, which was completed in 1930, are luxuriously sized to hold a full four-season wardrobe for every member of the fashion-forward elf family. This true historic fact also explains how the cast of Munchkinland was assembled for The Wizard of Oz: Warner Brothers just rolled out a yellow brick road down Main Street USA and filmed the citizens going about their day, singing joyfully and hatching babies out of eggs.
Zip ahead almost eighty years and enter Twenty-First Century Lawyer Boy, luxuriously sized for the 21st century and fully equipped to practice law, mow the lawn, walk the dog, and drink mojitos on the beach, every single day for a month, all while looking sporty and all without having to learn how to turn on the washing machine. Trying to cram all his clothes into one elvin closet was the equivalent of trying to cram a jelly doughnut into a Discman. Now I know why he doesn't know how to turn on the washing machine--in eight months, he has not once run out of clean clothes. He just learned how to turn on the vacuum last weekend. Baby steps, amigos.
Before you think I'm a mean hag just out to trash my husband, he does know how to work the tile saw, Sawz-All, orbital sander, hedge clippers, and a variety of other things that I generally ignore. We have an agreement wherein he does not have to do housework and I do not have to touch icky things. But my concern remains that if something were to take me away from the house for an extended period of time, the cat-hair tumbleweeds on the floor would grow into full-blown housecats, screaming for food, before he would notice there was a problem.
I will not lie and pretend that I do not own six pairs of taupe pants, four white shirts, and an equally essential number of pointy-toed shoes, but thanks to my loving husband, my clothes and accessories live safely in the bureau and closets in our bedroom. Upon moving into the antique house, LB graciously gave me control of both midgetine closets in the master, opting to take the dresser and closet in the guest bedroom for his own. Retrospectively, I know that he did this so that, in the privacy of a room I rarely enter, he could detonate his atomic wardrobe, showering clothes, shoes, belts, and cuff links helter-skelter across the floor and all over the furniture.
The gig was up yesterday morning, when the hospital called to say that the guest bed had been admitted after having collapsed under the weight of fourteen hoodies and thirty-seven French-cuff dress shirts.
After breakfast and before he had time to sneak out on me, I herded LB into the guest room to dig through the wardrobe war zone and return the guest room to its stated purpose, a room that guests could sleep in. At that point, a room that guests could actually walk in would have been an improvement. We pulled through his clothing for several hours, separating the keeps from the donates, the trash, and the tell your grandmother to stop buying me sweaters, eventually narrowing the pool down to the lucky finalists who earned a place in the closet. After a bit more shuffling and a tearful goodbye when LB finally voted some worn-out nubby bits off the island, his clothes actually all fit in the closet. Well, closets--he has the closets in both our spare bedrooms. Like I said before, baby steps, amigos.
With his clothes safely wrangled into submission, I headed out to Bed Bath and Bewildered for a shoe rack for my own closet, which I was able to locate only after wandering through the china, crystal, small appliance, large appliance, bedding, bathing, and Roman antiquities sections. I picked one that would hold a reasonable amount of my unreasonable shoe collection and departed victorious. Upon arriving back home, I decided to play Rosie Riveter and put together the shoe rack myself. The box proudly stated NO TOOLS REQUIRED, which I quickly discovered was a lie as I struggled to snap the metal bars into the plastic ends, resulting in the metal bars not snapping into the plastic ends, and clanging into the floor. After a five-minute concert from the wind chimes from hell, I brought in a hammer. Violence is the answer, and I had that shoe rack assembled to withstand hurricane-force winds in a matter of minutes.
And then I discovered that the shoe rack did not actually fit into my closet. Not in any way, any direction, not even diagonally, which I knew would be obnoxious to live with, but which I was willing to live with if it would allow me to claim victory. No dice. Swearing like a sailor, I worked up every bit of elbow grease I could to pry apart the rack and jam it back into the box. Back to Bed Bath and Befuddled, except a different branch than the one I had previously patronized, since I was too embarrassed to hit the same store twice in one hour.
I got into the shoe rack section and stood before the completely overwhelming selection before I realized something crucial: I still had not measured the closet! Still had no idea what I was there for. Still special like a three-legged giraffe. I whipped out my phonette and dialed LB. "Hi sweetie, can you go upstairs and do me a favor?" He did, and he measured the closet for me.
"Can you also measure under our bed? I need some storage bins and forgot to measure that, too." So he sprawled under the bed to get its digits.
"Oh, um, and can you also measure the distance from the floor to the bottom of the guest bed mattress? I didn't measure that before last time either, and I bought the wrong size bed skirt." I would say that I owe him for this, but I had already spent several hours in the company of his gym shorts and wool jackets. Turnabout is fair play.
Finally, I bought what I needed for real, and headed back home. The new shoe rack fit into the closet, and I loaded it up with the twenty-four pairs of shoes that I consider essential. But I know the new rack would hold so many more pairs if they were tiny elf shoes.
One of the challenges of moving into an eighty-year-old house has been cramming all of our stuff into the trial-sized storage space provided. It is a little-known historical fact that, prior to 1940, Americans were elves. Thus the closets in our house, which was completed in 1930, are luxuriously sized to hold a full four-season wardrobe for every member of the fashion-forward elf family. This true historic fact also explains how the cast of Munchkinland was assembled for The Wizard of Oz: Warner Brothers just rolled out a yellow brick road down Main Street USA and filmed the citizens going about their day, singing joyfully and hatching babies out of eggs.
Zip ahead almost eighty years and enter Twenty-First Century Lawyer Boy, luxuriously sized for the 21st century and fully equipped to practice law, mow the lawn, walk the dog, and drink mojitos on the beach, every single day for a month, all while looking sporty and all without having to learn how to turn on the washing machine. Trying to cram all his clothes into one elvin closet was the equivalent of trying to cram a jelly doughnut into a Discman. Now I know why he doesn't know how to turn on the washing machine--in eight months, he has not once run out of clean clothes. He just learned how to turn on the vacuum last weekend. Baby steps, amigos.
Before you think I'm a mean hag just out to trash my husband, he does know how to work the tile saw, Sawz-All, orbital sander, hedge clippers, and a variety of other things that I generally ignore. We have an agreement wherein he does not have to do housework and I do not have to touch icky things. But my concern remains that if something were to take me away from the house for an extended period of time, the cat-hair tumbleweeds on the floor would grow into full-blown housecats, screaming for food, before he would notice there was a problem.
I will not lie and pretend that I do not own six pairs of taupe pants, four white shirts, and an equally essential number of pointy-toed shoes, but thanks to my loving husband, my clothes and accessories live safely in the bureau and closets in our bedroom. Upon moving into the antique house, LB graciously gave me control of both midgetine closets in the master, opting to take the dresser and closet in the guest bedroom for his own. Retrospectively, I know that he did this so that, in the privacy of a room I rarely enter, he could detonate his atomic wardrobe, showering clothes, shoes, belts, and cuff links helter-skelter across the floor and all over the furniture.
The gig was up yesterday morning, when the hospital called to say that the guest bed had been admitted after having collapsed under the weight of fourteen hoodies and thirty-seven French-cuff dress shirts.
After breakfast and before he had time to sneak out on me, I herded LB into the guest room to dig through the wardrobe war zone and return the guest room to its stated purpose, a room that guests could sleep in. At that point, a room that guests could actually walk in would have been an improvement. We pulled through his clothing for several hours, separating the keeps from the donates, the trash, and the tell your grandmother to stop buying me sweaters, eventually narrowing the pool down to the lucky finalists who earned a place in the closet. After a bit more shuffling and a tearful goodbye when LB finally voted some worn-out nubby bits off the island, his clothes actually all fit in the closet. Well, closets--he has the closets in both our spare bedrooms. Like I said before, baby steps, amigos.
With his clothes safely wrangled into submission, I headed out to Bed Bath and Bewildered for a shoe rack for my own closet, which I was able to locate only after wandering through the china, crystal, small appliance, large appliance, bedding, bathing, and Roman antiquities sections. I picked one that would hold a reasonable amount of my unreasonable shoe collection and departed victorious. Upon arriving back home, I decided to play Rosie Riveter and put together the shoe rack myself. The box proudly stated NO TOOLS REQUIRED, which I quickly discovered was a lie as I struggled to snap the metal bars into the plastic ends, resulting in the metal bars not snapping into the plastic ends, and clanging into the floor. After a five-minute concert from the wind chimes from hell, I brought in a hammer. Violence is the answer, and I had that shoe rack assembled to withstand hurricane-force winds in a matter of minutes.
And then I discovered that the shoe rack did not actually fit into my closet. Not in any way, any direction, not even diagonally, which I knew would be obnoxious to live with, but which I was willing to live with if it would allow me to claim victory. No dice. Swearing like a sailor, I worked up every bit of elbow grease I could to pry apart the rack and jam it back into the box. Back to Bed Bath and Befuddled, except a different branch than the one I had previously patronized, since I was too embarrassed to hit the same store twice in one hour.
I got into the shoe rack section and stood before the completely overwhelming selection before I realized something crucial: I still had not measured the closet! Still had no idea what I was there for. Still special like a three-legged giraffe. I whipped out my phonette and dialed LB. "Hi sweetie, can you go upstairs and do me a favor?" He did, and he measured the closet for me.
"Can you also measure under our bed? I need some storage bins and forgot to measure that, too." So he sprawled under the bed to get its digits.
"Oh, um, and can you also measure the distance from the floor to the bottom of the guest bed mattress? I didn't measure that before last time either, and I bought the wrong size bed skirt." I would say that I owe him for this, but I had already spent several hours in the company of his gym shorts and wool jackets. Turnabout is fair play.
Finally, I bought what I needed for real, and headed back home. The new shoe rack fit into the closet, and I loaded it up with the twenty-four pairs of shoes that I consider essential. But I know the new rack would hold so many more pairs if they were tiny elf shoes.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
The Escolar Escapade
Tuesday night, when my writing organs were all constipated and absolutely no creative thoughts were flowing through the pipes whatsoever, I did what any other writer would do when suffering from stubborn writer's block. I walked over to my neighbor's house, commandeered a rocking chair on their front porch, and drank a few of their beers while we shared stories of past episodes of violent gastric distress. I have no idea how we got started on this topic, but I think it may have been when Lawyer Boy reminded everyone of that time that I threw up everything that I had eaten in the past decade after a run-in with some particularly ferocious red-headed sluts.
In the course of trying to one-up each other with the most ridiculous Hurricane Colon story of the night, I brought forth the Escolar Escapade, a harrowing tale of what a fish called escolar will bring forth in your person (or rather, out of your person), should you choose to feast on its flesh. Erin, Edward, and LB unanimously declared the story so insane that they demanded I share it with all of you. It's part tale of intestinal pyrotechnics at their best, and part dire public service warning. Read on, for your own health.
One night a few months before I got married, while I was living with Mom and Dad, Dad brought home a huge paper package of fish from the local fishmonger (I could not resist using that word). He said it was called escolar, and it was a thick, white fish that none of us had tried before. He had been amazed that it was for sale on the cheap, but Freddy Fishmonger had assured him that it was just on special, and it was quite delicious--in other words, it wasn't on sale because it was weird and no one was buying it. Really.
Well, all of us are dedicated foodies, so we were delighted to have a new fish to try. Mom and I pulled together some side dishes; retrospectively, we should have cooked things that we thought we might never want to eat again after that night. Dad cooked the fish simply, as Fishmonger had instructed him to: Drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with a little salt and pepper, and broiled. We set the table with high hopes and hungry anticipation, topped off our wine glasses, and laid into the platter of fish. I had gone for a run just before dinner, and so was interested in eating an obscene amount of food, the amount most commonly seen on a linebacker's cafeteria tray; Dad is 5'11 and 185 pounds, so he chunked off a sizeable portion of escolar, too. Mom, who is apparently a culinary clairvoyant, took only the recommended portion for one person. We began to eat.
Even though I know all too well and all too painfully what would come to pass after the escolar dinner, thinking of how good that fish was makes my mouth water even now. It was the best fish I'd ever had. It was thick and juicy, buttery and supple, without any greasiness at all. Cooked with just the oil, salt, and pepper, it had only a mild fish flavor, and had a wonderful, bacon-y richness to it. We were all blown away by how good it was. So cheap, and the best fish we'd ever had! The best fish we'd ever had, and yet we'd never seen it on a restaurant menu! Never heard other foodies rave about it! How did no one else know the gourmet glory they were missing?
Apparently, everyone else had Googled escolar before they actually ate it, which was why they never ate it. Having not consulted the Google-y gods before dinner, we were unaware of the consequences of our actions, so Dad and I went back for seconds. Maybe thirds. Maybe we licked the platter, and fought over who got to nibble the remaining bitlets off the serving fork. It might have happened, is all I'm saying.
We cleaned up dinner, still raving about our fantastic fish find, still totally innocent to the horror that lurked right around the corner like an evil, greasy goblin.
Dad said later that he had started to feel nauseated about half an hour after dinner, so he took some Alka-Seltzer and went to bed. I didn't start feeling funky till right when I got into bed, but I chalked it up to the fact that I had overeaten like a piggy little puppy at an All-You-Can-Chow Pedigree buffet. I was nauseated, but unfortunately, not so much that I felt I couldn't go in to work the next day.
The next morning dawned as usual, and I wandered into the bathroom. What happened next was so beyond horrifying that it's difficult to describe without sending you running for the hills, with images worse than Britney Spears On Ice burned into your brain.
Unbeknownst to me the previous night, when I had tried to cram as much escolar into my mouth in the shortest amount of time possible, escolar is equivalent to eating a big, delicious, meaty laxative. Large portions of its flesh are completely indigestible, leaving your body with no choice but to turn itself into a loaded machine gun, expelling fish-fat with a force commensurate with actual warfare.
And this is no ordinary gastric warfare. The enemy fights dirty in this battle, and please bear in mind when I say what I'm about to say, that I am trying to be polite. When escolar begins to fire using you as the barrel of the gun, the end result looks like you opened a can of Orange Crush and poured it directly into the bowl of the toilet. All of it. Think for a second about the ensuing panic.
Escolar causes a condition called Kerriorrhoea, which is Hawaiian for "diarrhea Bazooka." It involves huge amounts of orange oil and worst of all, a slight inability to control its arrival. It also involves hiding in the bathroom all day, staying home from work, and trying to find a feminine way to explain to your girlfriends that you can't go on that weekend road trip you had planned, for fear of ruining the upholstery of the car.
The above-mentioned leakage actually happened to someone I know. I am not naming names, but he was half responsible for the miracle of life that was the birth of Grace.
On the upside, the effects of escolaritis will have leaked out of your system in around a day. On the downside, you'll never want to drink Orange Crush again.
But years later, you will still be thinking of how damn delicious that fish was.
We cleaned up dinner, still raving about our fantastic fish find, still totally innocent to the horror that lurked right around the corner like an evil, greasy goblin.
Dad said later that he had started to feel nauseated about half an hour after dinner, so he took some Alka-Seltzer and went to bed. I didn't start feeling funky till right when I got into bed, but I chalked it up to the fact that I had overeaten like a piggy little puppy at an All-You-Can-Chow Pedigree buffet. I was nauseated, but unfortunately, not so much that I felt I couldn't go in to work the next day.
The next morning dawned as usual, and I wandered into the bathroom. What happened next was so beyond horrifying that it's difficult to describe without sending you running for the hills, with images worse than Britney Spears On Ice burned into your brain.
Unbeknownst to me the previous night, when I had tried to cram as much escolar into my mouth in the shortest amount of time possible, escolar is equivalent to eating a big, delicious, meaty laxative. Large portions of its flesh are completely indigestible, leaving your body with no choice but to turn itself into a loaded machine gun, expelling fish-fat with a force commensurate with actual warfare.
And this is no ordinary gastric warfare. The enemy fights dirty in this battle, and please bear in mind when I say what I'm about to say, that I am trying to be polite. When escolar begins to fire using you as the barrel of the gun, the end result looks like you opened a can of Orange Crush and poured it directly into the bowl of the toilet. All of it. Think for a second about the ensuing panic.
Escolar causes a condition called Kerriorrhoea, which is Hawaiian for "diarrhea Bazooka." It involves huge amounts of orange oil and worst of all, a slight inability to control its arrival. It also involves hiding in the bathroom all day, staying home from work, and trying to find a feminine way to explain to your girlfriends that you can't go on that weekend road trip you had planned, for fear of ruining the upholstery of the car.
The above-mentioned leakage actually happened to someone I know. I am not naming names, but he was half responsible for the miracle of life that was the birth of Grace.
On the upside, the effects of escolaritis will have leaked out of your system in around a day. On the downside, you'll never want to drink Orange Crush again.
But years later, you will still be thinking of how damn delicious that fish was.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Fumbling at the DMV
Three states and my own beloved Dammit-We're-A-Commonwealth-Not-A-State recently passed legislation that banned smiling in driver's license pictures. I'm so glad that while the war on terror, the war on drugs, the war on illegal aliens, and the war on kids who wear their pants too low continue to rage, our legislators are taking the time to craft legislation governing the really important things in life. They claim that smiling in license pictures obscures certain points on your face that facial recognition software uses to...recognize...your face.
What, were you expecting it to whip you up a frappucino to turn that frown upside-down?
Seriously, between my name, social security number, fingerprints, address, and complete personal history, they still felt it necessary to frump me up for a picture in order to figure out who I am. I would rather they take gallons of my blood, at once, through a clear twisty straw, than force me to look dour in a photo that I cannot do over for ten years.
Then the more I thought about it, I realized they aren't telling me I have to be sad or boring. They're just saying I can't smile. Just that one thing, smiling, is banned like real nipples in a topless bar. (Welcome to Virginia, where the Puritans are still penning the laws with a quill and a vengeance!) There are many expressive faces I can flash for the camera, ensuring that my license photo adequately reflects who I am.
Thus I have created for you Grace's Guide to the DMV, a handy reference for anyone who might be forced to go hand over six hours of their lives while waiting for a shiny new license.
What, were you expecting it to whip you up a frappucino to turn that frown upside-down?
Seriously, between my name, social security number, fingerprints, address, and complete personal history, they still felt it necessary to frump me up for a picture in order to figure out who I am. I would rather they take gallons of my blood, at once, through a clear twisty straw, than force me to look dour in a photo that I cannot do over for ten years.
Then the more I thought about it, I realized they aren't telling me I have to be sad or boring. They're just saying I can't smile. Just that one thing, smiling, is banned like real nipples in a topless bar. (Welcome to Virginia, where the Puritans are still penning the laws with a quill and a vengeance!) There are many expressive faces I can flash for the camera, ensuring that my license photo adequately reflects who I am.
Thus I have created for you Grace's Guide to the DMV, a handy reference for anyone who might be forced to go hand over six hours of their lives while waiting for a shiny new license.
Grace's Guide to the DMV
A Handy Guide for Navigating Those Pesky New Rules
A Handy Guide for Navigating Those Pesky New Rules
Let's begin with a sampling of what is no longer allowed: Your Friendly Neighborhood Grace
Don't you bring that tricksy tramp 'round these parts again. We just can't trust those teeth.
Next, let's move into the examples of expressions that ARE allowed. Exhibit 1: Twilight Vampire Action Figure Grace is not banned.
Proof of familial relationship to Edward Cullen required before license will be issued.
Exhibit 2: Emotionally Fragile Grace is not banned.
Sugar, we didn't mean to say that you look fat. We just meant that maybe you should suck in your chin. And neck. And five jowls.
Exhibit 3: Grace Grace Beaver Face is not banned.
Please check large bags, backpacks, and residual pieces of dam that you may have on your person at the front desk.
I hope this brief guide will help you breeze through your next adventure at the DMV, jaws clenched against any possible glimmer of a smile, beaver teeth at the ready.
***
I'm vaguely concerned that I staged and posed for any/all of these pictures, but apparently not concerned enough to NOT publish them for the perusal of the whole wide Internets. Shame and I broke up a few years ago, and no way am I going back.
Don't you bring that tricksy tramp 'round these parts again. We just can't trust those teeth.Next, let's move into the examples of expressions that ARE allowed. Exhibit 1: Twilight Vampire Action Figure Grace is not banned.
Proof of familial relationship to Edward Cullen required before license will be issued.Exhibit 2: Emotionally Fragile Grace is not banned.
Sugar, we didn't mean to say that you look fat. We just meant that maybe you should suck in your chin. And neck. And five jowls.Exhibit 3: Grace Grace Beaver Face is not banned.
Please check large bags, backpacks, and residual pieces of dam that you may have on your person at the front desk.I hope this brief guide will help you breeze through your next adventure at the DMV, jaws clenched against any possible glimmer of a smile, beaver teeth at the ready.
***
I'm vaguely concerned that I staged and posed for any/all of these pictures, but apparently not concerned enough to NOT publish them for the perusal of the whole wide Internets. Shame and I broke up a few years ago, and no way am I going back.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Sage Words of Wisdom
If you're wondering why you haven't heard from me much recently, it's because I've been working of late on a column that someone actually asked me to write.
No, this person is not related to me by birth, marriage, or that summer-camp voodoo mess that made you blood-sisters for life, or until the next time you washed your hands.
Yes, I have been asked to refrain from dropping the f-bomb more frequently than tropical thunderstorms shower upon the rainforest.
I'm not sure who-all out there among you loyal chuggers of my Kool-Aid is a writer, so maybe this is just preaching to the choir, but writing. is. hard. Especially when you're worried that your new, specific audience will think you are any of the following: dumb, flippant, rude, arrogant, condescending, or at worst, a mean girl.
Fine, you guessed it. The White House hired me as a speech writer/style consultant.
When I was growing up I was always writing things, and I remember once wandering into the kitchen at home, having rammed head-first and at full speed into a cement writer's block in the middle of finishing a story for my creative writing class (which, by the way, broke my soul and kept me from writing for another eight years). My dad, one of the most creative people I know, asked me what was wrong. I told him that all I had to do was cap the story off and I could be finished, but it was just so hard to find exactly the right words. Or at that point, any words at all.
Dad looked at me and said, "Writing is easy. Just sit down and cut open a vein."
That is even more true advice than the time that someone told me that if you just don't touch your hair while it air-dries, you'll get the best curls ever.
I think of Dad telling me that every time I sit down to spew words, and they won't even trickle out. I feel like I'm sitting in front of the keyboard, trying to open a vein with a plastic picnic spork. Or, as a friend of mine from high school once called it, a bat-spoon.
Le sigh. Truth hurts.
No, this person is not related to me by birth, marriage, or that summer-camp voodoo mess that made you blood-sisters for life, or until the next time you washed your hands.
Yes, I have been asked to refrain from dropping the f-bomb more frequently than tropical thunderstorms shower upon the rainforest.
I'm not sure who-all out there among you loyal chuggers of my Kool-Aid is a writer, so maybe this is just preaching to the choir, but writing. is. hard. Especially when you're worried that your new, specific audience will think you are any of the following: dumb, flippant, rude, arrogant, condescending, or at worst, a mean girl.
Fine, you guessed it. The White House hired me as a speech writer/style consultant.
When I was growing up I was always writing things, and I remember once wandering into the kitchen at home, having rammed head-first and at full speed into a cement writer's block in the middle of finishing a story for my creative writing class (which, by the way, broke my soul and kept me from writing for another eight years). My dad, one of the most creative people I know, asked me what was wrong. I told him that all I had to do was cap the story off and I could be finished, but it was just so hard to find exactly the right words. Or at that point, any words at all.
Dad looked at me and said, "Writing is easy. Just sit down and cut open a vein."
That is even more true advice than the time that someone told me that if you just don't touch your hair while it air-dries, you'll get the best curls ever.
I think of Dad telling me that every time I sit down to spew words, and they won't even trickle out. I feel like I'm sitting in front of the keyboard, trying to open a vein with a plastic picnic spork. Or, as a friend of mine from high school once called it, a bat-spoon.
Le sigh. Truth hurts.
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