Fun Facts

Inspired (read: big fat copycat) by my friend ET's blog, I decided to make my own fun-factoids-about-me-that-you-didn't-know-until-now-list. Here goes:
1. In the 8 months I worked for Polo Ralph Lauren, I was random drug tested 11 times.
2. I have never mowed the lawn.
3. I thought Nova Scotia was a made up place until a college geography class set me straight. When I was little, my Dad used to tell me that he was going to send me off to "Spy School" in Nova Scotia and I always thought it was a fake place he invented.
4. My Dad loves The Beach Boys so much that I thought he was actual member of the group until I saw an album cover when I was about 8 years old.
5. One summer in high school, I went 32 days without showering while on backpacking trip in Montana.
6. I hate feet. Mine own included.
7. I told my Brother the truth about Santa.
8. But I also showed him where my Dad kept his Playboy magazines.
9. I have a reoccurring dream which always ends with my teeth falling out.
10. No one in my family wants me on their trivial pursuit team. I don't have any sort of a poker face and always crack under pressure.
11. Growing up, I always wanted glasses and braces. Once I got them, I wanted nothing more than to be rid of them.
12. I admit, I am not a fan of old people.
13. Most of time, I feel fun on the inside but not on the outside.
14. People who are smarter than me intimidate me.
15. I am a die hard Cubs fan.
16. I was really disappointed to learn that my Dad is a White Sox Fan.
17. I wish, hope, and pray that I turn out like my Mom.
18. Both my Mom and Jason's Dad are identical twins.
19. I kiss my hand and then slap the roof of my car when I run a yellow light. It is something that my friend Andy and I have been doing since high school.
20. I have a cowlick at the nape of my neck.
21. About 5 years ago, I was locked inside a Harris Teeter grocery store after hours until the police came and busted me out. Long story.
22. My Husband is my best friend. Since the beginning of our relationship was long distance, it forced us to talk...A LOT.
23. In January I had Lasik surgery. I now see 20/15.
24. My Brother can also see 20/15, but without glasses or corrective surgery. This further fuels the rumor that he is better than I am, but I not buying it.
25. I wrote a book and I have never let anyone read it.
26. I am ashamed of about 75% of my college career.
27. One of my best friends growing up was also named Jenny. Her older brother nicknamed us "Jenny Germs". To this day, it still smarts.
28. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Not just because of the food, but because we have some great special Thanksgiving Day traditions in my family. And there are always door prizes.
29. I always stress out about cleaning for company, but I love to have people over to our house.
30. It took me 6 whole years to earn 1 whole college degree.
31. I am totally scared I won't be a good parent.
32. I am more petrified that I won't get the chance.
33. It has always been in my plan to adopt an Asian baby.
34. I watch a lot of crappy, I mean, Lifetime Television.
35. I have read Little Women over 60 times.
36. When I read The Shining, I ended up putting it in the freezer because I was so scared.
37. I have never seen The Wizard of Oz, It's a Wonderful Life, or The Sound of Music in their entirety.
38. Nor have I ever completed a game of Monopoly. I always quit before I lose.
39. Singing In the Rain is one of my all time favorite movies. Next in line is the Pride & Prejudice mini-series from A&E.
40. I have a freckle under my lip that people are consistently mistaking for chocolate.
41. I quit smoking right after I got married. I promised my Husband I would.
42. The first boy I ever kissed was Jon Wellner. It was in kindergarten. My first real smooch wasn't until the 8th grade. Same boy.
43. It is physically impossible to me to get to work before 8:15 AM.
44. I like to watch competitive eating contests. It's really a sickness, I know.
45. I am a compulsive hand washer and I also have a ritual of getting up to go to the bathroom at least 3 times before I settle in for the evening.
46. I never liked cats before I got Wrigley.
47. I have been a notary public since 2000 and haven't used it once.
48. It really bugs me when people talk in church. Sometimes I even "ssshhh" people.
49. I don't like swearing, it makes me feel dumb when I can't think of a more descriptive word.
50. I am directionally challenged. Seriously, I need a GPS implant or something. I don't do maps. East, West, Left, Right, North, South, it's all the same to me.
51. One of my pet peeves is animals dressed as humans. It really creeps me out.
52. It took me until adulthood to learn how to swallow a pill.
53. I once drank beer from a paper cup while sitting in a McDonald's in Rome.
54. I had an imaginary friend named Commonwealth Edison. It's the name of the power company back home. My Dad was famous for coming home and saying "Why are all the lights on in here? Do you think I work for Commonwealth Edison?"
55. I break out in hives if I have to go to Wal-Mart, but I could spend hours and hours at Target.
56. I caught a foul ball at Wrigley field and gave it to a kid with a broken arm who was sitting near me. I almost kept it for myself. Almost.
57. Cartoons bother me. No particular reason, I just have never been keen on them.
58. Growing up, I wasn't allowed to watch the Peanuts, my Mom thought they were too mean to Charlie Brown.
59. My Mom relives the story of my birth every year. I love hearing about how I came into this world and I hope someday to have the same tradition with my children.
60. When I was first born, the nurses nicknamed me "the snorter" because I already snored.
61. I am an ENT doctors dream come true. I have had 9 sets of tubes and 2 sinus operations from the time I was small child up until a year ago May.
62. I love Hallmark cards. I even applied for a job as one of their greeting card writers, but was rejected.
63. My Great Grandmother is 101. She will be 102 this September.
64. I drive like a grandma. Even when learning how to drive, my Mom used to tell me to speed up and everyone still makes fun of my driving.
65. My four front teeth are fake. I knocked them out in the forth grade during a playground accident.
66. I knocked them out on my Dad's birthday.
67. I had a hernia operation when I was 4. I got it from playing Wrestle-Mania with my Dad.
68. All of my dolls were named Lindsay. There were just numbered versions. Lindsay 1, Lindsay 2, and so on.
69. While in high school, my Mom took the train downtown to work. Every day, I would drive my friends to school. BEFORE I had a valid drivers license or my own vehicle. It lasted almost 6 months before I got busted.
70. It took a long time for that story to be funny. My parents still don't see the humor.
71. Before the age of 12, I wanted to have the following occupations: an archaeologist, a gas station attendant, a cardiologist, a professional ice skater, a nurse, a scientist, a librarian, a helicopter pilot, a dancer, a nun, an umpire, and a grocery store cashier.
72. One of the above professions is still remains my secret dream.
73. The first R-rated movie I saw was Risky Business. I conned my Grandma into letting me watch it while my parents were out of town.
74. We don't have any fast food restaurants in the town where I grew up.
75. While in high school, my friends and I would sneak into fraternity parties at Northwestern University.
76. My first concert was Debbie Gibson. I went with my friend from summer camp and our Moms.
77. I can recite every single line from the movie Sixteen Candles. Call my bluff, I dare you.
78. All of the fish in our tank are named after Sopranos characters. This way when they die, I don't feel so bad.
79. I hate the word moist and also have an unexplained phobia of wet wipes.
80. During middle school, I had two unfortunate hair incidents. One involved a home perm and other was a result of Sun-In. Since then I have never had anything but a haircut.
81. I will never ever drink Scotch again. And that's a promise.
82. I won a free pizza every week for year from Pizza Hut.
83. I have seen the Pope twice. Once at the Vatican and also at the University of South Carolina while visiting colleges.
84. I think cheese should be a separate food group.
85. I like to eat cold Spaghetti O's.
86. I also think there should be a mandatory age limit on Trick or Treating.
87. While in college, I had an excellent fake ID with my picture on it.
88. In college, I spent one summer in Ann Arbor, MI with a friend instead of being a toll booth collector at home like my Dad wanted.
89. It was one of the best summers of my life.
90. My Brother and I got out braces off on the same day.
91. I have never gotten over my Grandpa Stirton's death.
92. I love bag pipe music even thought it always makes me cry.
93. I have never had a cavity.
94. I suck at wrapping Christmas presents or presents in general.
95. But I am really good at remembering birthdays, anniversaries, and other special days.
96. I have been to a drag queen karaoke bar in NYC.
97. I tend to yell at foreign people to get them to understand me.
98. I don't believe in ghosts, but I do believe in people's spirits.
99. All of my cars have nicknames. My current ride is the Ditka-Mobile.
100. Others have included: Sunshine, G.G. (Ghetto Glider), and Helmut
101. If I haven't made fun of you that probably means I don't really like you.

Mute

I have discovered that the primary reason that phones have a mute function is so that when someone says, "It's really a work in process" for the fourth time during a conference call, I can gently press the mute button and scream into the phone, "IT'S A WORK IN PROGRESS, YOU STUPID @#%%$$!!"

Because holding in rage is bad. The mute button: Preventing Aneurysms Since 1974.

When Doves Cry

Back when I was young and adorable, I was asked by a friend to attend a sleepover "lock-in" party at her church. My parents approved, obviously, as God would be monitoring the situation. Though my friend wasn't Presbyterian, she was a brand of religion known to be very restrictive and devout, which had the tempered blessing of my parents.
By restrictive, I mean that my friend wasn't allowed to get sexual education instruction at our school with the rest of class. She was made to sit quietly in the library while the rest of us sat stunned in front of a series of movies that made our stomachs knot. When she would walk back in the room every day after our sex education was complete, we'd all give her knowing glances even though we had no idea what the hell we just witnessed. All we knew was that we sure as heck weren't getting within ten feet of a penis. Turns out, those things inflate by themselves, my friends. I'll stick to my Sweet Valley High books, thankyouverymuch.
By devout, I mean that it was the goal of the flock of my friend's particular religion (and, I suppose, most religions) to spread their word like manure across the countryside. That's not a knock against her religion, it just that I'm from Illinois and we like to use manure in most of our analogies.
Anyway, there I was, sitting in a chair in front of two adult members of her congregation in the basement of a school or possibly a church or abandoned mental institution or slaughterhouse (my memory is fuzzy on this point), and they were discussing the finer points of their God (who, I believe it was implied, could totally kick the butt of my God). There seemed to be a distinct emphasis on this being the "locked-in" part of the evening. We'd had already been bowling, they had feed us, and given us plenty of sugary drinks. But now, as payment for the bowling, food, and drink, I was going to by-god hear about some salivationing. They read from the Bible, gave me my own copy of the entire Book of John (door prize), and asked what I thought about the whole wacky God thing. At some point during the conversation, I think I bought a timeshare in the Keys and agreed to finance an Ark of some kind.
Point is, they had done a decent job of brainwashing me. I literally drank the Kool-Aid. I began to hang out with my friend more and when I went over to her house one day, we began to talk about music. I knew there were certain things to which she was not allowed to listen, but I really didn't understand why.

Me: So what can you listen to? What do you have here in your collection?
Friend: I have some country and western stuff, I guess you'd call it. Cowboy stuff that my Dad used to listen to. Gene Autry. It's good. He sings about life and I can understand what he's saying.
Me: Yeah, but...like, what about more recent stuff? Do you listen to the radio?
Friend: Not much. Just a lot of wailing to me.
Me: But like, there's this new Prince record that's really cool. From his movie? Pretty much every song on it is a hit! You should listen. I can bring it over.

This is where the friendship took a decidedly negative turn. Based upon how red her face got and how she begin to stammer, you would've thought my head started spinning around right there in her parent's newly wood paneled rec-room.

Friend: Prince is...he's Satan in disguise. His music...it has hidden backward lyrics and turns people into children of Satan. You shouldn't listen to it. You'll go to...you'll....You're going to Hell.

And there it was.

Me: But, um...I mean, have you listened to it? Because it's pretty good. I don't think I into Satan now or whatever. I mean, it's got a good beat, ya know? When Dove's Cry? It's good. It's on the radio, so I don't think Satan is on it or whatever.
Friend: Satan is very tricky. Maybe you should go.

I could tell she needed a very hot shower. Or a bath in holy water. Cleansing needed to be performed, that much was clear. I was pretty confused, so I did what any decent young Christian person would do in order to get back on the path of righteousness. I sprinted home on my bike and played Purple Rain backwards on my parent's record player. I couldn't really make out much, but it turns out at the end of Darling Nikki, there are backmasked lyrics wherein he says "Hello, how are you? I'm fine because I know that the Lord is coming soon, coming, coming soon. Ha ha ha ha ha." It's definitely freaky and undoubtedly the work of Satan. Also the work of Satan.. that stuff Nikki does with the magazine. It's dirty and definitely not appropriate for someone just beginning his or her sexual education.
The reason that this story has jumped to the top of my mind recently (besides hearing When Doves Cry on three serperate occasions on three different radio stations during the last 72 hours) is that it seems that my musical heroes have to die, reinvent/"sell out", or fade away. I mean, come on, if you would've said that Prince would have played halftime at the Super Bowl twenty years ago, there would have been rioting in the streets. And the Red Hot Chili Peppers closing the Grammy Awards? Twenty years ago, they never would've gotten past security. I can't fault them for shape-shifting (because Satan loves the shape-shifting), but it's all-of-the-sudden very bizarre to me. To put it more succinctly, I am getting old and not happy about it. Fat a lot of good it did to devote my life to Satan when I listened to Purple Rain backwards. I never even got my autographed " I (Heart) Satan" T-shirt. Total gyp.

You Learn Something New Every Night

I found out that my sneakers impersonate my cat in the middle of the night. Even if nobody sees you, there is no way to recover a cool swagger after petting your sneakers.

Wrigley & Tabitha

Please Don't Go My Way

I wish I had a better picture of this event, but I think the one below will suffice: Let's chat about this. Prince Charles? Looks fine. Dignified. Prince Charles-y. Nice suite, good haircut. No problem. Geri Halliwell? Well, the hair's a little poofy, but otherwise, nicely played, Ginger Spice. Especially considering you could have dragged your Union Jack mini-dress out of storage. Lionel Richie? I thought you were dead, so well done there. Which brings us to Lenny Kravitz:
Lenny, Lenny, Lenny. Lenny. I know we don't have a monarchy in the United States or anything, but Prince Charles is a dignitary of some sort, so could it really hurt you to dress appropriately? I do see you've put on your most formal Bedazzled denim jacket for the event, but would it have killed you to take off your gigantic bug's-eye sunglasses for like five minutes? Could you have possibly foregone your usual macrame wear for the event? And, I hate to ask it, but--the hat? What have you got in there? Blunts? A teapot? A very small, very quiet baby? How on earth did you get past security in that thing? Trust me when I tell you that, if you persist in wearing such ridiculous get-ups, no one is going to go your way.

Which leads me to this:
I will admit, this is a nice chest. Even though I generally can't stand Lenny, I can appreciate a six-pack when I see one. I will even date myself by telling you that I have seen him live in concert. He was the opening act for the Tom Petty Full Moon Fever Tour during my freshman year of high school. Two things stand out vividly from that experience. First, my Ma was seated three rows behind us at the amphitheatre. At the time, it was completely mortifying, but in retrospect, I really need to give her props for sitting through an undoubtedly painful three hours that she will never get back. Then my brother swiped my coveted concert T-shirt. The same T-shirt that I was supposed to wear proudly down the halls of higher learning, boldly proclaiming that was cool enough to actually go to a concert. Maybe that's why I was never cool? Can I go ahead and blame Lenny for my high school angst?
In addition to sabotaging my high school cool factor.... Lenny is wearing wings. He is wearing a gigantic man-sized tassel, some jeans, and wings. And the sunglasses that make him look faintly alien, in combination with the wings that he is wearing. Because he is, indeed, wearing wings. Scaly-looking wings.
Unless you are an angel, a bird, or a maxi-pad, you should not have wings.

The Boy Who Cried Urgent

I'm in a happy mood at the moment. Sure, lots and lots of work, but it's generally OK, and we managed to do some remarkable things over the weekend like actually going to the supermarket and put something resembling food in the fridge. We also had a wonderful Sunday celebrating Father's Day with the Beale Family. Jason's sister, Kristi, came into town for a surprise Father's Day visit and a good time was had by all. Please watch video of Kristi surprising Dad Beale here. It is absolutely hysterical and I only wish he had something in his hands to drop!
But there are two flies in this ointment. They are both work-related, but I'm pretty sure this is annoying in any context. First, the person who 95% of the time sends their emails with the high priority red exclamation mark attached. Needless to say, approximately 1% of the emails he sends are in any way actually urgent by a reasonable person's standards. This is truly annoying and ultimately self-defeating, because it rapidly becomes a case of The Boy Who Cried Urgent. By now, I automatically ignore the red exclamation point and assume it's just of normal priority. The one or two times there's actually some genuine urgency in the matter-which, I might add, is in no way indicated in the text of email, just in the exclamation mark WHICH HE ATTACHES TO EVERY EMAIL-they've been shuffled to the top of the pile.
However, The Boy Who Cried Urgent has nothing by way of ability to build resentment when compared to Mr. Co-Dependent. I have worked on orders with this person for about a couple years now, and I have noticed this habit in the past, but was never aware of its full extent until recent weeks when a large project/order has been in front of us. Every single time he sends me (and I assume everyone else) an email, he calls me to tell me he's sent an email. Even when we have communicated by email several times during the day, so he knows the system is working fine, he still calls. Often, he calls before I have even seen the email because of a quirk in our server (one I appreciate) which only delivers email to me every ten minutes. In those cases, usually asks me the question he asked in the email and I answer it because it's simple, or can't answer it because I haven't seen the email, and the conversation is just hanging there in it's complete pointlessness.
That is a frustrating waste of time and energy surely, but that's not what pushed me over the edge into resentment. What pushed me over the edge were these last few days. This particular co-worker has my mobile number from our company phone list. We keep a phone list for the service techs, computer folks, in case of inclement weather, or generally emergency situations. It has never bothered me to put my number on the list and there have been a few occasions when work has called me for various reasons. Until now:
Saturday Night 6:30 PM. We were having a family cookout at the Beale House celebrating family and friends being in town for the Fathers Day weekend. I am smack in the middle of making homemade Father's Day cards with my nephews. Basically, knee-deep in crayons and glitter. Phone rings. I look at the number, I know who it is, and I answer it because he's never abused the phone privilege before so maybe it's urgent. No. He's calling at 6:30 on a Saturday Night, in order to....you guessed it....tell me he's sent me an email.
Monday 12:15 PM. I have freed myself from the office for literally half an hour to grab a sandwich, go out, and run by Target for a sympathy card. When I get back to the office there's an email, and of course a voicemail on my work phone telling me he's sent an email. It's not until later in the day, when I get a call from Jason, that I notice a missed call and voicemail on my cell phone as well. I check the time and listen to the message. Sure enough, while I was at lunch with my cell buried deep in my bag so I couldn't hear it, he left a message on my cell saying that he's left a message on my office voicemail saying he had sent me an email. AND OH MY GOD. I MIGHT LOSE IT.
Last Night 9:30 PM. Jason is watching TV and I am sitting at the computer contemplating how to post a video from this past weekend on the blog. The phone starts to ring. Guess who? And guess what? Yes, he's calling me to tell me that we both received an email on this order and that he is going to review it now. That's very nice, I say. Bye-Bye, I say. I then turned down the volume on the phone permanently.
He's already called me this morning (call time 8:30 AM) to apologise for calling last night and to confirm he's emailed his comments on the order. I politely but firmly, noted that I haven't read his email yet and would get back to him when I do. Eventually. After I've dealt with the 700 things in my inbox and on my desk, including, as it turns out, two emails from The Boy Who Cried Urgent.
And I would like to thank you, blog readers, because now that I have vented here, I am less likely to hurt Mr. Co-Dependent during the day. I hope. When I get back from lunch, Mr. Co-Dependent and I are going to have a chat about being less needy. Or maybe I should send him an email and then call him to let him know that I sent the email. After that I will leave a message on his cell phone to prepare him for this chat.

I'm With The Band

Step One: Find photo of random walking red carpet in something questionable:


Step Two: Hit Google, Wikipedia, and the like to find out who I'm dealing with. This particular subject is identified by my photo source as "singer". Must make sure she's not actually some semi-famous New York bad-ass punk who always dresses like this, thus saving myself comments informing me that she's, you know, some semi-famous New York bad-ass punk who always dresses like this...OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW THAT? Etc.
Step Three: Discover a distinct lack on information on our subject. Her official site has no "news", no "bio", and no "discography" information. I don't know who she is, but her people seem to be falling down on the job.
Step Four: Google informs me that she has attended events with Britney and that she used to play keyboard in Ashlee Simpson's "band." So....probably not an an awesome underground rocker known primarily for eschewing conventional standards of dress, often via leggings that appear to have done hard time wrapped around the brake pads of a cross-town bus, right? PS: I might own Ashlee's first album, so I'm not judging.
Step Five: Reassured that I'm not accidentally mocking someone who's devoted her whole life to the avant-garde or who is ACTUALLY seriously blind, I feel totally free to point out that she's literally wearing my gym shorts from high school.
Step Six: Hit "publish".

Dear Diary

This entry was mentally written prior to Miss Hilton's recent return to the pokey. It was originally titled:
"Being Behind Bars Does Not Mean Being a Bartender"
Things just have a habit of springing open around Paris Hilton, but this time, it wasn't her legs: The haughty heiress walked out of her prison cell after serving only five days of her already-reduced 23 day sentence. The Big House was causing her mental distress, she claims, so Paris will return to her own big house and wear a kicky anklet for the next 40 days. So what really happened? Until her hyped prison diary is somehow released, nobody will know-which is why I am so fortunate to have uncovered some exclusive excerpts:
Day One
6 AM: It's so gross here, Diary. They gave me something called a "cavity search" without even buying me a cocktail.
6 PM: Ew. They just bought dinner to my cell, and my lawyer is totally a liar because it is so not the same thing as room service. There was a HOT DOG involved. I am going to refuse to eat. I'm totally going to be skinnier than Nicole when I get out of here. She's going to be so pissed. It will be awesome.
Day Two
3 PM: Some of the other girls in here are nice, Diary. Today in the yard during my hour of free time, the one they call "Nunchucks" told me she thought I had a pretty mouth.
11 PM: You know how, like, you always think of the perfect comeback a few hours too late? I totally did that. Instead of saying, "Are you a dude?", which made one of the guards run over and drag me back to my cell, what I SHOULD have said to Nunchucks was, "You should see it with lip gloss. Now shut up and get me a martini." Ha Ha! And people said Nicole was the funny one. WRONG. I am rad.
Day Three
10 AM: I hate Nicky. I asked her to bake a file in a pie and she just laughed at me and called me dumb. But I need to deal with two broken nails. WHO'S DUMB NOW, HUH?
4 PM: I miss brushing my hair 200 times a day. Can you believe they won't let me wear my extensions in here? Apparently, they are "worried" that someone might try to yank them out. I was all, "Like that doesn't happen to me every night at Hyde," but they totally wouldn't listen.
Day Four
2 PM: Dude. The grossest thing just happened, Diary. I can't even write it down, it's so bad. I grew HAIR. On my FACE, Diary. It's just there. Over my eyeballs. I begged the guard to file it down, shoot it, or something, but they wouldn't. I can't even look at myself in the reflection of the toilet water!
7 PM: I talked to Nunchucks in the yard today, and she told me that someone else told her that someone ELSE got out of here by pretending to have a total nervous breakdown, and I told her that I could totally do that because I've watched enough Lifetime Television for Women to know what they look like. So when I met with my lawyer today, I just looked all blank and acted the way Britney acted right before she shaved her head. He got totally nervous, then I started drooling, and he ran to get the guard. I am so out of here.
Day Five
3 AM: And they said I couldn't act.

Gone Postal

Part One. Part Two:

_
Yesterday Evening 6:30 PM- Dick Smith knocked on our front door to inquire if we had heard the commotion and then pointed to the carnage across the street. "Crazy woman done struck again." he informed us. Apparently, their stalker didn't take being served with a restraining order that afternoon very well. Dick and Jane told us that she came barreling down the street, took out the mailbox, and then just cruised off into the sunset. She even left an imprint of her bumper on the post. Poor bastard of a box was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dick also said that last week she (she being the deranged loon) sent them a certified letter asking them to pay for the cost of her late husbands funeral. We were told the circumstances surrounding his departure were totally shady, allegedly having something to do with drugs and police brutality. I am certain that we aren't being told the full story, but Dick wouldn't elaborate, no matter how many leading and probing questions I asked. He mouth was closed as tightly as Paris Hilton's house arrest ankle bracelet (which hindsight tells me wasn't quite the metaphor I had hoped for). I am now forced to draw my own conclusions. I have never know Sharon Stone to be described as a large woman with wild dark hair, but maybe she bulked up for the part. However, I am having a tough time imagining her driving an American car....

Babs

For a while now, word on the street was that my Ma had read the blog. This rumor was confirmed yesterday afternoon:

Mom: I read your your...um...diary..last night.

Me: Diary? (Dear God, It's me Jenny. Listen, did I leave a little something under the mattress?) Do you mean my Blog?

Mom: Yeah. I don't like to use that word.

Me: What word? Diary?

Mom: No

Me:Read?

Mom: No

Me:Blog?

Mom: Yes and it's a little racy.

Me: Racy. Seriously? You should see what other people blog about. It's all out there. I mean, IT'S ALL OUT THERE. You wouldn't believe..

Mom: I know and that stuff should really be private. But it's funny. You are a very clever girl.

Me: Not really, you are just saying that because you are my Mom. You have to. It's like a Mom law or something.

Mom: No I don't. I could lie.

Me: Are you lying now?

Mom: No, I never lie. You know that.

Me: But you just said...nevermind....thanks, what do you mean racy?

Mom: You know, talking about things that we don't want everyone to know about (spoken in a hushed "she has cancer" kind of whisper)

Me: Everyone? Speaking of...guess what? I even got a comment from someone in Indonesia. I told Jason "Look someone reads my blog in Indonesia!" and he is all "Ah, yeah. That would be spam." Way to burst my bubble dude.
Mom: That's exactly what I mean, I don't like that.

Me: Indonesian people? Mom. Come on. It's 2007, get with the program.

Mom: No, the comments. I was going to comment, but I didn't want to sign up for anything and you can't comment with signing up.
Me: What do you mean sign up for anything? You can comment under anonymous and leave your name.
Mom: But what if I want to remain anonymous?
Me: Do you know the denfinition of anonymous? Then don't write your name.
Mom: Fine. I will leave a comment but with my name that says I want to remain anonymous.
Me: Okay, but I think you might be missing the point. So do you really think it's funny?
Mom: Uh-huh. Except all that stuff that should be private, try to tone it down. Just write about the funny stuff. Keep it breezy.
Me: Funny as in Ha-Ha, funny you should mention that, or funny as in Ross's face?
Mom: Stop it. You know what I mean. Just listen to me, I am your Mother, for the love of Pete.

Speaking of funnies, here are a couple stories that I heard this week:

1.) A few days ago, my friends Kelly and Jenn took their kids to the Natural Science Center here in town. They just opened a new petting zoo and it's all the rage amongst parents in these parts. During their adventure, Kelly's son Nathan got nipped in the bum by a peacock as he was passing through one of the exhibits (please read full details in her blog). Not to worry, he is just a toddler so there was no damage done thanks to his diaper running interference. However, since then Nathan keeps saying "I not LIKE that cock! I not LIKE that cock!" in random public places. Now that's racy....
2.) Today is Jason's birthday. We just got home from a nice meal with the Beale Clan. They have been the subject of previous blog entries, so you know how hilarious I find them. We went back to their house for some cake and ice cream after dinner. While chit-chatting, they started talking about their neighbor. You know, the one who has kept a cat on a chain in their backyard for years. For real. Apparently, sometimes the neighbor even walks said cat on a leash. But here's the kicker: They have a dog inside the house. True Story. I think I might actually be speechless. And that like never happens to me. Ever.

Mischa, Mischa, Mischa

The other day, I was watching the reruns of The OC that they're currently airing on Soapnet, and thinking about Mischa Barton. Namely that even when she's dressed like a total nut job or delivering a less than stellar line-reading, you can't escape the fact that she is extremely pretty. Which does help her get away with these sorts of pantsual shenanigans:

I think my feelings on super-high-waisted pants are very well documented, but the issue with these, as far as I'm concerned, is less "Ooh, if these are totally accentuating HER tiny saddle bags, I'd look like I was stocking up for a trip on the Oregon Trail in them," and more that they're total Mom jeans. Not in the unflattering pleated Mom jeans sense, but in the sense that I am pretty sure my ACTUAL Mother wore a pair like these when I was in pre-school. So my reaction to them is very confused and visceral. On one hand, I think they're insanely unflattering and I hate them. On the other hand, I feel like I just had a nice long stint with finger paints, a peanut butter sandwich, a hug, and I'm ready for a nap. Which is quite pleasant really. I think I shall resolve this quandry with a little Seasame Street.


Okay, Granny Barton, turn up your hearing aid and have a listen: When Julie Andrews tore down the drapes and made them into children's clothes for those crooning moppets, she had the benefit of some very high-quality fabric to use in her forced improvisation. Do not try to achieve the same effect by ripping down your cheap mangy old kitchen curtains. For one thing, it's completely unflattering. For another, when you are skipping around a Swiss mountainside -yes, I noticed your frolicking sandals in your hand there- it's far too likely a gust of wind will catch your flimsy tent mini-dress and blow it up over your head, unveiling your girlie mysteries to whatever eager cows, goats, or roving bands of close harmony singers that might happen to be cavorting alongside you. Not to mention, chopping up your great-grandmothers good napkins just to make an ill-fitting vest seems a bit unnecessary. Is this all some kind of rage issue against your home decor? Perhaps you need to go stand in the time-out corner in your nursing home. Or be banned from Friday night bingo until you stop wearing flimsy household objects.

Ladies and Gentlemen, (props to the one guy who reads my blog even if it is my husband), I give you Mischa, demonstrating the latest in tourniquet-chic:
I have questions.
1.) At what point in her day did she say, "What this torn white tank really needs is a plaid diaper"?
2.) Can she please have a chat with her pelvic bone? It's an awful camera hog.
3.) Does she travel with sanitary seat liners?
4.) Don't you think Marissa Cooper would have worn these shorts....as a hat?
5.) When will someone tell her that being born with beautiful eyes, skin, hair, and bedding a string of gnarly boyfriends, is not actually a strategy for defying gravity?

Sigh. I guess we should just be thankful she's not parading around town with things tied to her head right?
Okay, one more question:
6.) When did "modern-day flower child with dash of Bjorn Borg" become a personal style?

Goldfrapp Yourself

I am mildly obsessed with English musician Alison Goldfrapp's name. Say it with me: Goldfrapp. It's so fun. It could work in so many contexts: as a replacement swear word ("Aw, goldfrapp, I dropped my feather boa into my drink"), a raunchy verb ("I went home with him and we goldfrapped for hours"), an obscure sport popular in Scandinavian countries ("Halla, I am Fjord Bjorn, zee Swedish national goldfrapp champion"), an expensive novelty iced coffee beverage ("I'll have a grande goldfrappuccino with whipped cream please"), the name of a dashing, authority-averse TV detective whose boss is always yelling at him ("Get...me...GOLDFRAPP"), the name of the aforementioned detective's villainous nemesis, frequently screamed at the skies while our hero kneels over a dead body and shakes his fist ("GooooldfraAAAAAPPPP!"), or even as a noun for something sort of squicky ("Shoot, I got goldfrapp all over my Jimmy Choos").Unfortunately, if she's not careful, it could end up in our lexicon as, "Oh my God, that woman is totally pulling a goldfrapp," or "I almost goldfrapped myself when I saw that shirt." Behold:

Business-disco wear created with a mosaic of sequins? This wouldn't even pass muster in Guys and Dolls On Ice, let alone the regular world. So sit down honey---you're goldfrapping the boat.