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Symmetrical

Thursday, November 30, 2006

If you’ve signed up for the Holiday Card Exchange, the final lists went out last night. Check your spam filters!

I don’t know where the days are going. Each night, I don’t watch television or anything, just work on writing and whatnot and then all of the sudden, it’s 10:30 pm and way past my bedtime. Last night, I was up until midnight and had to practice self-hypnosis techniques in order to stop my brain from racing and get to sleep. Maybe my body is pissed off at the darkness and is rebelling against the circadian rhythms. I have no internal cues at this time of year. It’s gloomy and dark when I leave for work, pitch black for an hour before I leave at night. I haven’t needed sunglasses in weeks. Maybe not since I was in California.

I have to leave for Chicago this morning for a business thingy. Not Shermer, actual Chicago. I’m sort of stoked. And in a weird synergy, I’m going to be staying in the exact same hotel where we stayed on the exact same day last year. Which is going to be just strange and weird and maybe a little lonely, since my Foofy and Pie won’t be there and Een won’t entertain me by eating all the Chicago style pizza in the world and then a few more slices and also if I get lost, I won’t serendipitously find myself in Auroraillinois with my best friend acknowledging the fact that things happen for a reason and that reason is designer clothing at outlet prices. But I’m still looking forward to it, just the same, because I’m sort of an idiot about business travel in that I sort of love it and also I love Chicago. I’ll admit that now. I wasn’t ready to do that before, but I have enough room in my heart to love more than one city. And San Francisco still knows that I love it more.

Plus, I have a really great outfit to wear tomorrow, with really great pointy shoes and my MAC lipstick perfectly matches my nail polish, which is all shades of awesome. And tonight, I’m going to have all the world to pick for dinner and maybe I’ll dine on goat cheese covered in lavender-infused maple syrup at Ralph Lauren or maybe I’ll go to Red Fish Grill or maybe I’ll just hang out in my hotel room and stare out over the twinkle lights in Grant Park at a cold and lonely Lake Michigan and pretend that I’m important. Or maybe I’ll just go visit the sharks. Maybe that.

It’s supposed to snow today. The last snow of last winter happened while I was driving around Michigan Avenue. It’s silly, this constant looking for symmetry, and yet I am always watching for traces of patterns.

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Strange as angels

Monday, November 27, 2006

Last night while I was trying to fall asleep and not think about the raging headache I spent all of Sunday pretending didn’t exist (because that which does not kill you is usually something that you can ignore and hope it goes away), I was thinking about what I needed to write down in here and how I should just get up already and walk into my office and write it (headache) down so that I (ow) didn’t forget it but if I did do that, then I’d most assuredly be awake (dull throb) all night and never be able to fully invest myself into my little mind movie in which I am rescued from the ocean by Russell Crowe who is the captain of a ship and who has a ponytail and a shirt that has a habit of falling open sometimes to expose his Russell Crowe chest hair and also breeches. Tight breeches.

So I figured that I’d remember and then of course, now it is morning and the headache has sort of given up and gone back to whatever hell inside my brain it came from and took along with it everything I planned to write about here. That’s a really horribly constructed sentence. Ha!

I spent the entire holiday weekend doing a lot of nothing. Or rather, catching up on a million little things around the house and also, having horrible cramps. I spent the entirety of Thursday sitting on the chaise with a heating pad toasting my abdomen and having nothing more to show for it than a canker sore from mainline Advil and also the fact that I made it through all 26 episodes of How I Met Your Mother in one sitting. Or mostly one sitting, since I did have to get up and moan dramatically at Esteban every now and then, as is my way. You know, it’s clear that I was born to be a consumptive Victorian heroine. I was totally robbed.

I also made it through my Netflix pile, which is sort of amazing, considering that it’s been sitting untouched for weeks and months. One of the DVDs was “Just Like Heaven”, added to the queue during my brief Mark Ruffalo crush. It was predictable and mushy and aside from the fact that ghost Reese Witherspoon’s lip gloss was incredible and also managed to change from scene to scene (seriously, I have to find out where she got it, because it was sort of this great pinky apricot that had depth and reminds me of my perfectly glossed lip effect that required $80 worth of product to achieve a completely natural mouth that had just perhaps chomped on really sweet ripe strawberries and then had a messy swig of Bellini) but also because there was another love interest in the movie in that it was set in San Francisco and many outdoorsy scenes were perfectly shot to show the city’s best angles in just the perfect flattering light. And those evil tricks made me emotionally connected to the story, because who can blame an ethereal Reese Witherspoon for her reluctance to leave that place? Not me.

In a way, the movie became a bit painful, like looking at the wedding pictures of your ex-boyfriend. One of the things that I wrote in my offline journal during my last trip was an entire question of whether or not I should just stop visiting San Francisco because each time I feel more as though I belong there and each time it is acutely more painful to leave it. But also, the striking difference between my online and offline journals is how obnoxiously writerly the prose is, as though I think myself a beat poet and the lines of my Moleskine are a hushed audience waiting to give me snaps. I never intend it to be that way, but when I reread, I almost dislocate my eye sockets from all the furious rolling. Why do my internal thoughts come out with a cadence, exactly, especially since I don’t think in poems and refuse to go gentle into that good night? Why the ta tah ta tah ta tah daaaaah? And crazy slant rhymes? Why? Who do I think I am–Jewel? Even so, when watching movies that are in love with San Francisco, I can see Obnoxious Serious Writer Girl’s point because unlike the headache, it’s an ow that is more difficult to ignore.

Also, I don’t know if I’ve ever written about this on this page, but about a year ago, I had a major epiphany and it is this:

“Just Like Heaven” is my favorite song of all time.

I always knew that I loved the song but it took 15 years before I was really feeling that I could commit to it. I don’t know why it was such a relief and I doubt that I had realized that this unanswered question of ‘What Is Your Favorite Song?’ was causing me low level stress for years on end. I think it was just the certainty, like the moment you realize that the person you’re with is The One. The one that you’re never going to get sick of. The one you can wake up to every morning of every day for the rest of your life. “Just Like Heaven” is my One True Song. I’m sure that this says a lot about me somehow, in some way, and I could probably fill fifteen loopy pages in my Moleskine that will make me snort with derision in four months but there it is. I’m not ruling out the notion that a 45-year-old Weetabix will change her mind and say that it’s “Such Great Heights”. But at this point, you can show me how you do that thing and I promise you. I promise.

The Comments want to know what your favorite song of all time is. And if you say some song from within the last year, then we’ll know you’re only fooling yourself.

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Skim Wine?

Friday, November 24, 2006

Weetabix : Did you get milk at the store?
Esteban : Um, no.
Weetabix : See, I knew that you’d forget something on the list.
Esteban : I did not. It wasn’t on the list.
Weetabix : It most assuredly was on the list.
Esteban : No, I think you’re mistaken.
Weetabix : Hmph. Get the list.
Esteban : You doubt?
Weetabix : I doubt.
Esteban : You’re going to feel really badly when you find out how wrong you are.
Weetabix : Right, except that I wrote the list.
Esteban : Here you go.
Weetabix : Er….
Esteban : Hmmm?
The Grocery List : Angel Hair Pasta… Parmiggiano Reggiano (The real kind that you have to grate, not plastic fake cheese!)… Organic Eggs (brown if possible) … Skim Wine?… Turkey Pepperoni… Garlic… Cool Whip.
Weetabix : Well…
Esteban : Yes?
Weetabix : Skim wine?
Esteban : I wondered about that.
Weetabix : I started to write Skim Milk, but apparently changed my mind to Wine Question Mark. Did you get some wine?
Esteban : We have a ton of wine.
Weetabix :Yeah, but nothing that goes with Thanksgiving Spaghetti
Esteban :Nothing? There has to be something.
Weetabix:Oh, is that a white Lambrusco? That will work. Throw that in the freezer?
Esteban : Ok. Oh, they didn’t have the brown eggs, so I got organic white eggs instead.
Weetabix : That’s ok.
Esteban :What did you need Cool Whip for?
Weetabix : For the pumpkin pie I’m going to make for dessert.
Esteban : Can’t we eat ice cream with it?
Weetabix : You can. I like Cool Whip better, plus it’s non dairy. Did you get some?
Esteban : No.
Weetabix : It was on the list.
Esteban : Unlike the milk.
Weetabix : I’m sorry. You were right. Although I DID start to write it. I should get half credit.
Esteban : Ahem.
Weetabix : Want to see my boobs?
Esteban : (emphatically) What list?

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Songs to Not Panic

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Right now, I’m listening to a lot of NPR, because it’s early winter. I think I do that a lot in early winter. NPR fits or perhaps rages against the pace of November. It’s as reliable as clockwork. I spent October listening to Coldplay and Death Cab and Stars (oh, how I love me some Stars’ I actually gloated when I walked into Torrid and they were playing “Endless Beauty” on the sound system. As though I discovered them or something when in actuality, I found out about them last year and then a week later, they had a song on The OC and then a month after that, the Lolla line up was announced and they were on it. During the afternoon, but still. It’s not like I’m bleeding edge or something. More like a serrated butter knife. Although, those can be quite sharp, especially in finer restaurants.

Sometime after I got the iFetus, I started making playlists labeled by the season, since it could only hold 4 gigs (Only, she says, as though her first PC didn’t come with a whopping 40 megabyte hard disk and she couldn’t imagine what she’d do with all that storage) and I had to be picky about what I ported over to it. So I did songs of the moment, Spring 2005, Chicago Trip, that kind of thing. Now, my Bean laughs at this conservation of space, since I can put the entire world in it (what will I ever do with all that storage?) and still have room to swing my arms and dance wildly. But I’ve stuck with this method of cataloging. It’s handy. The playlist of the moment are “Better Now?” and “Fall 2006”, the former containing songs that were supposed to buoy my head through the angst of the last few weeks, and the latter for those shiny little pearls that are catching my interest right now.

The great thing about this habit is that I can go back and listen to whatever it was I was listening to Summer of Love And Candy 2005 or Jan/Feb 2004 and be instantly transported to whatever mindset I was in during that time. There are little moments that have disappeared, even though it was only a year ago, and those are some nice moments. But when I listen to Fall 2005? Apparently I am a creature of habit. It’s entirely listenable right now, even the James Blunt. Go figure.

Fall 2006 has only got six songs on it, mostly because I was still listening to the “Summer 2006” and “JournalNon” playlists up until the end of October. I should really abandon poor Fall 2006, as it’s not got enough songs in it to really establish itself as a little time time capsule. And also, there probably aren’t any moments worth remembering attached to ‘Sexy Back’.

So they were interviewing Tom Waits on NPR and I kept wondering why I don’t listen to more Tom Waits. I always like his music and find what he does with his voice to be very interesting. I should stretch my tastes more. While my musical taste is certainly eclectic and what Esteban calls “undeniable Weetabixness”, I don’t really push myself very much. And then they played some Tom Waits and I realized what it was about him in particular: Tom Waits music is sort of scary. It scares me. Particularly, his take on Seven Dwarves “Heigh Ho Heigh Ho” song… he was sued by Disney because they claimed that he had changed the lyrics, except that he didn’t. He just added that undeniable Tom Waitsness that makes the music sort of unnerving. And that’s why I’ve fully intended to put a Tom Waits song on my Holiday Mix CD every year, but then it’s the first thing to go when I am trimming the song list to fit onto a CD. Because like Debussy, there is something inherently freaky about the music. So there.

About a month ago, Esteban lost his phone. He thought it was maybe at one of his Dorkathalons and I thought that it was in his office, which is already getting out of control after his late summer office purge. Honestly, the man is constantly losing things. We probably walk around the house once a week looking for where he left either his car keys or the remote control for the television (which has been found in his office, the bathroom, the kitchen and once, next to a package of cookies in the pantry). I’ve taken to claiming the good phone and taking it into my office, because otherwise he loses it and then we have to answer the phone via the speaker on the base, which always feels to me like a tangible sign that my life is out of control. I watch for portents everywhere. I know, I have issues.

His little Motorola was exactly like my previous phone. It’s not a bad phone, honestly. Other than its connectivity tantrums when I’d go to Chicago, I had been happy with it until I happened to fixate on the pink Razr the week that Esteban asked me what I wanted for an anniversary present. He complained about it, though, as is his way, until he lost the thing and had to go back to his Nokia, which then earned the endearing nickname ‘This Piece of Shit Nokia.’

He has been whining about his phone, how much he hates it, how much he wished that he could find the Motorola. My answer was always the same ‘Check by your pc’ because I had heard its telltale sad little booboops that signaled a dying battery shortly before he announced that it had been missing for a week. He would wave his arms around and say ‘It’s not in my office! I looked!’ Which is just ridiculous because seriously, the man cannot look. He lacks the finding gene. One would think that someone who loses things amidst clutter would keep a Spartan workspace, but one would be wrong.

Finally, after a month of complaining about his crappy phone, I told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t go out and buy a Razr for himself that I would just buy it for him so that I didn’t have to hear him pine away madly for a better phone. We went to the store and he wanted a black one, which they didn’t have, and refused to pay an extra $60 to get the pretty red one (why are we married again? Seriously? We are so entirely opposite at times) so he’s got the brushed stainless version and it makes him happy. I suspect that it’s the Razr’s eerie resemblance to a Star Trek tricorder. He set it up with a Doctor Who ring tone and a picture of the Tardis (again, seriously?) and then was happy again.

And then found the Motorola two days later. It was in his laptop bag. (Where? Next to his computer? Oh, does that sound familiar?) I can’t even raise an eyebrow about this or use it to drive home an important Leave It To Beaver lesson about organization, because he’s honestly feeling guilty about spending the money on a new phone. Thank god he didn’t go for the red version. Seriously, if you could somehow harness the level of free floating guilt generated by the residents of Casa Bix, you could use it as a weapon of mass destruction. Entire cities would walk around with perpetually furrowed brows and vaguely upset tummies. They would be apologetic for no reason and wonder if everything wasn’t really maybe just a little bit their fault. Then they would seek comfort in carbohydrates and there would be no more militant factions attacking convoys with rocket launchers because they’d be too busy obsessing about the perfect shape of their eyebrows.

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Back in the saddle again

Monday, November 20, 2006

We had a pretty hectic week, followed by a very sedate weekend. I leisurely continued my quest to catch up on every little thing that has been lingering around the house for the last two years, while Esteban killed a bunch of things on World of Warcraft. Or so I would assume. Maybe he was watching porn?

On Saturday, I accidentally made Thanksgiving dinner. Honestly, I just intended to cook a turkey breast that was in the frig and wouldn’t make it until Thanksgiving proper, but then on Saturday morning while waiting for Esteban to wake up, I started watching Tyler Florence and he did this whole sage butter infused turkey thing and holy crap, it looked good and reminded me of a sage leaf turkey roll up saltimbocca thing I made once, so I planned to give that a try. And then, because I always underestimate the amount of time it takes to cook turkeys or even breasts of turkeys, while I was putzing around, I decided that I was hungry for mashed potatoes and gravy, so I ran out to the store, where everything was Thanksgiving-ified and whuppah, accidental Thanksgiving dinner. It was yummy though. Sage butter. So much easier than whole sage leaves. Who knew? (Try it.I didn’t actually follow Tyler’s recipe. I just melted a stick of butter in the microwave, mixed it with an eyeballed tablespoon of rubbed sage, then poured it under the skin of the turkey, which I had shoved my gloved hand under to separate from the muscle, god that sounds gruesome.)

I didn’t make a pumpkin pie on Saturday, though, because honestly, I needed to have something left to make on Thanksgiving proper. I made a cherry pie instead.

Earlier this week, on one of the nights when I worked late, Esteban made his incredible chicken and also the man made cheese biscuits. From scratch. Maybe I was feeling my role as the family cook was being threatened, because seriously, he’s on chicken duty from now on because it was absolutely incredible. As with scrambled eggs and spaghetti sauce, I am fully willing to bow to the master. We’ve come a long way from the time that he figured that mixing Kitchen Bouquet and soy sauce would make gravy. Thank you, Food Network.

(Note to self: review above paragraphs in January when complaining about mysterious ass enlargement)

As much as I love to shop, I really try to avoid the stores during this time of year. Hate stupid crowds. Oh the hate. I probably wouldn’t hate them as much if everyone didn’t lose their sensibility when they get into crowded places. Stand in the middle of the thoroughfare talking in groups of five or six? You go right ahead and catch up on old times. Don’t mind the fact that you’ve caused a bottleneck for the hundreds of people trying to get past you. Malls need to employ some herd dogs to bark at the heels of the stubborn and the misguided. Get along, you! Maybe even a few ranch hands on horseback. Also, I might be coaxed out to the mall again by the idea of people stepping around horse piles to get an Orange Julius.

I plan to do my gift purchasing via the internet again this year. It cuts on a lot of the pre-holiday anxiety that I get and it was a life saver last year. Plus, with the realization that I can earn frequent flier miles by shopping through the American portal, fuck that noise. I’ll stay home. Maybe I’ll even put up the tree this year.

However, Amazon’s demographic tracking is starting to really freak me out. I don’t trust you, Amazon. You know too much about me. Thankfully, during Christmas, it’s the one time when I throw everything Amazon believes into a tizzy. It’s taken eleven months before it figured out that I don’t have the reading appetite of a 16-year-old boy and has started throwing Martha Stewart books, Le Crueset cookware and bento boxes at me again. Nice recovery, but what’s this? I need to buy Eragon for my brother. Nice try, Amazon, thanks for playing.

Really, I think the thing that offends me the most about Amazon’s profiling is that it suggests things that I have no interest in. Gilmore Girls? Just because I enjoy The OC doesn’t make me a Gilmore Girl enthusiast, although according to my demographic, I should be worried constantly about Lorelai’s fashion choices or something. Meh. I think I have unnecessary baggage about single moms who dress too hoopty. Also, what’s with the Josh Groban suggestions? I’m somewhat appalled. If you only could see my iTunes, Amazon Dot Com, you’d know that Josh Groban would get his pretty boy ass kicked if I put him in there. I mean, Death Cab for Cutie may sound like a bunch of pansy ass white boys, but you know those hipsters will cut a poser just to watch him die.

I have to get accustomed to updating regularly again, so I’ve signed up for Holidailies this year. Because I was just complaining about how I go insane during the holidays and felt the need to have another self-imposed commitment. Dr. Phil that!

Speaking of which, there are a few spots left on the Holiday Card exchange. The prospect of sending out 40 seasonal cards is such a little thing to do and you get a huge payout: 40 wonderful cards coming to you from all over the place, spread out all month long!

Also, to clarify: while I call it the ‘holiday card exchange’, it doesn’t mean that you have to be nondenominational. Send out your Christmas cards, your Kwanzaa cards, your solstice cards, your politically correct Season’s Greetings, whatever you want. (And now’s the part of the Holiday Card Exchange where we have a group sing of ‘We Are The World’. I call the Cyndi Lauper ‘Well well well welluh’ section.)

Also, in case you missed it, there was a big announcement over the weekend. Well, a big one for us at Casa Weetabix. (No, not that. Sorry June!)

This entry is brought to you by the fact that my bangs are too long and it is pissing me right the hell off. The end.

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Aw yeah!

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Green

For more information, go here.

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Oh the weather outside is frightful

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Esteban : Yesterday I… I bought… um…

Weetabix : Yes?

Esteban : I really don’t know why I did this, by the way. I’m sort of amazed.

Weetabix : Um… ok.

Esteban : So, I bought a 30 inch model of the….um… it’s weird.

Weetabix : (mentally cringing, facade revealing nothing)

Esteban : It’s like this very detailed model of the USS Wisconsin.

Weetabix : Oh. That’s a boat?

Esteban : A SHIP. It’s a battle ship? You know, with the guns and stuff?

Weetabix : I had no idea that you were interested in building models.

Esteban : I didn’t either! And it comes in a bunch of itty bitty tiny parts and I have to put it all together and paint it and stuff. It’s going to take days or months to put together. It’s so…uh…

Weetabix : Weird?

Esteban : Really fucking weird. I don’t know what came over me. It’s like I had it in my shopping cart and then hit Purchase and then said to myself “Now why did I do that?”

Weetabix : It’s very unlike you. It’s something I would do, not you.

Esteban : And you know, I was telling Mike about it and as soon as I said what I bought, I expected him to make fun of me or something, but he just nodded and said “Yup… I’ve got a thing like that too.” And in talking to other guys, they all nod and then tell me about their remote controlled airplanes or tiny die cast figurines. So apparently, everyone’s got one of these things somewhere in their closet or attic. I was just the weird guy because I didn’t have a THING yet.

Weetabix : So every guy needs a thing.

Esteban : Want to see my thing later?

Weetabix : I’m all for you having a cute little old man hobby, by the way, but on one condition… your finished toy battleship would look great in your office. Not in the living room.

Esteban : Oh come on now… after I spend hours working on it, you’ll be so proud. We can put it up on top of the TV. It will match the color scheme you’ve got going on in there, with the charcoal and the red accents?

Weetabix : No. Sorry. I’d rather have Joe’s giant ceramic cobra.

Esteban : The one with the ruby eyes in the strike position?

Weetabix : That one. Yes.

Esteban : You’d rather have that than the magnificent USS Wisconsin? One of five Iowa class cruisers. It was in Desert Storm! The Japanese surrendered on the deck of one just like it, the USS Missouri.

Weetabix : (makes cobra face) HISSSSSS!

Esteban : You just wait until you see it.

Weetabix : Yeah. I’m waiting.

Esteban : Seriously, I really can’t explain it.

Weetabix : No, it’s cool. You needed a guy thing, so you got a toy boat.

Esteban : It’s not a toy boat! It’s a 1:350 scale replica! If you took it and enlarged it 350 times, you’d have an actual battle ship.

Weetabix : Hey, when you finish the USS Wisconsin, can I use it in a prop in a short movie?

Esteban : For… what exactly?

Weetabix : Nothing huge. Bitey would attack it.

Esteban : You will not….it’s fragile.

Weetabix : Bitey is not a real shark, you know. Plus, it would look so cool!

Esteban : No. You may not attack the model with your shark puppet in a movie.

Weetabix : You should really learn to share your toys.

Last week was probably my lowest week of the entire year. I was so awash with ennui about familial stuff (short version: Mafia Grandma had a stroke, has a hundred-year-old inept doctor who gave her blood pressure medication, ignored her paralysis and told her to come back in three weeks. I bullied her into going to the hospital for a second opinion, where a very young doctor was concerned and wanted tests but she refused them and walked out. Meanwhile, Aunt Drusilla and my mother flapped their arms and sang nursery rhymes in the background. Or might as well have, for all the good they did), work overload, worry about a friend’s surgery, the election (Dear The Gays, Not everyone in Wisconsin hates you. Some of us love you very much and want you to live happily ever after the end. Sincerely, Weetabix) the size of my ass, stress about my lack of forward movement on my master’s degree this semester and just general freefloating bleckiness that I could barely concentrate on anything. Despite that, I did manage to close out my gigantic project, get my big hairy project certification (Hiiii-ya), attend a matinee of “Mamma Mia” with Penny and Carissa, followed by chocolate fondue and martinis (hellooooo! Why ever is my ass this size?) and unpack from my San Francisco trip. Go me.

So far, the last several days have been much better. My grandmother’s condition is improving (although she’s still being an obstinate cuss). I received contributor’s copies of a lit journal containing one of my stories, as well as a mix CD (how great is that? A contributor’s mix CD? I think I’m now dating a lit journal). The Democrats had several incredible victories and Wisconsin’s election contributed to the Congressional shift. My friend is recovering nicely from her surgery. I touched base with my undergrad fiction mentor (the one who looked like David Blaine, Street Magician) and he admitted to trying to Google me, which is flattering as all hell. Also, I attended a literary reading for my grad program and when two different professors introduced me to someone, they either mentioned a specific story I had written for their class (two years ago) or said that I wrote “marvelously rich fiction”. I’m guessing that’s a testament to my use of character and setting, because I’m certainly not getting rich off of mix CDs. Bwah! I’m funny.

Oh! Are you looking for some good reading during these dark days of early winter? Check out the latest issue of Barrelhouse. Ed Asner love poems! A critical essay on American Idol! Pop culture flotsam! What more could you ask for? Maybe some fiction? Yeah, that’s in there too.

Now that we’re finished completely with outdoor projects, I’m focused on what’s annoying me inside the house. Esteban was completely focused on having a few months off, with zero projects in process, but what fun would that be? No fun at all! What’s Christmas without some bare subfloors and a fine powder of construction dust covering everything?

We really need to do something about the kitchen countertops, because the spot from the fire two years ago is just a gigantic eye sore and it needs to be dealt with before we move anyway. Luckily, we have so little countertop acreage that we can go a little high end and not make much of a difference on the bottom line. We’re looking at soapstone right now, which is what Martha Stewart has on her countertops. I swear that had nothing to do with my choice there, I’m just giving you a frame of reference. It’s age appropriate for the house and I think it looks very nice, much more attractive and homey than highly polished marble or granite. This will also involve ripping down the fiberboard fake tile stuff (yet another remnant of the previous owner, may she rest in peace, unplagued by her tacky decisions in life) that serves as a backsplash and figuring out what to put there. I’m thinking glass tiles, the kind that are sort of greenish and look like they might be made from old recycled Coke bottles, but I will have to marinate for a bit on it.

My biggest quest, however, is to rip everything out of the dining room (which at the moment serves as a way point for various pieces of furniture that have no other place to go), put in new carpeting and moldings and fixtures, paint it, then turn it into a den. It seems more complicated than the countertop and backsplash, but really, the decisions there have all been made and it’s just a case of putting it into action. It’s probably too much to hope that I can get it all done by the end of the year, since there’s usually a crazy run on the carpeting installers before the holidays, but we’ll see. I always make these grand plans with no real clue about how much time I have to give them, so in reality, it might get done by the end of May 2007. We’ll see. But hopefully with all of the extra time I’ll have by doing all of my Christmas shopping online this year, I’ll come out ahead of the game!

Oh, these little dilusions of mine. They are so very cute.

Remember when you were a kid and the only mail you ever received was fun mail, like a birthday card or sea monkeys? Want to be excited to open the mailbox again? Well, it’s time for the traditional Holiday Card exchange!

This is the sixth year of our Annual Holiday Card Exchange and we’ve had so many people come back to participate each year. How fun to get cards from all over the world and have a mailbox full of colorful envelopes instead of bills and sale flyers! In the last few years, every single day I went to the mailbox during the holiday season, there was a fun something waiting for me from one of you. Sometimes many fun things! Did I mention that it was fun?

The Holiday Card exchange has gotten very popular and I understand that there are many demands on your time during the end of the year. I have traditionally split it into two different lists, each containing no more than 40 names. This way, it’s not a huge time and money commitment, but you still get a wealth of holiday cheer throughout the holidays. However, if you really enjoy filling out and receiving holiday cheer, then you (like me) can opt to be on BOTH lists.

You need not be a resident of the US to participate. In past years, we’ve had folks sending cards from and to Canada, the UK, Holland, Australia, Japan, Germany and France. I try to evenly distribute those addresses between the lists so that one list isn’t socked with a ton of foreign postage, but since Canada seems to be the most common non-US origination, I try to put those folks on one list to give them a break too.

As in past years, if you’re a Holiday Card Exchange veteran, instead of a standard holiday card, I’m going to send you a 2006 Holiday Weetamix CD. Just my little effort at spreading holiday cheer! FYI: any participants in any of the exchanges are considered Veterans.

Interested? Ok, here’s how it works. You send me an e-mail with Holiday Card Exchange in the subject line. Include the following:

Your name
Your mailing address
Your preference for ONE list (which means that you’ll send out and receive 40 cards) or BOTH LISTS (aka your postal worker is going to think you’re the most popular person on the planet)
Are you a Holiday Card Exchange Veteran?
A personal page URL (diary, blog, live journal, my space, whatever), if you have one and want your fellow exchangees to know about it
Your Elf Name (optional)

I’ll reply back with a confirmation that I received your e-mail. If I don’t respond within 24 hours, that probably means that my very vicious spam catcher grabbed your e-mail, and leave me a comment on the website to let me know. I whitelisted everyone on the notify list in the past year, but sometimes it doesn’t like those website URLs.

The cutoff to get your name in for the Holiday Card Exchange is Wednesday, November 22 at midnight OR when the exchange has 80 spots filled, whichever comes first. At that point, I’ll remove this blurb, and send out the preliminary rough draft of the list, so that everyone can check their address to make sure that I didn’t ball it up somehow (or accidentally omit their name). I usually screw up at least one cut and paste each year, so this is a very important step! The rough draft will go out by Thanksgiving morning (Nov 23), and you should have the final two lists in your eager hands by midnight on Sunday, November 26, if not sooner. Typically, folks start sending out cards the next day (because they are awesomely prepared), so you’re almost assured to have great mail every day in December!

I can’t believe it’s mid November already.

Sincerely,
Tinsel Snowbottom.

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It’s in the hips, sweetie

Sunday, November 12, 2006

So, we left off on the K Concourse in O’Hell, where Flavor Flav had just called me baby. Shortly after that, I realized that K Concourse is essentially a dead end and Mr. Flav was sitting in front of my gate. Which meant that in all likelihood, I would be sharing a first class cabin with a D Lister. Or an A List Reality Star. I don’t know how the lists work, though. Maybe the A Listers are Tim Gunn and Kelly Clarkson?

I didn’t plan on talking to him, because I’m cool like that, but just in case I ended up sitting next to him and chatting, I had this vision of him checking my iPod to see if I really had any of his music, so I did a quick nervous scroll before boarding and found that I do indeed have “Fight The Power”. Thank you, Do The Right Thing Soundtrack.

I was in seat 6C. Flavor Flav was 6A. Throughout the entire flight, I kept having flashbacks to the season of The Surreal Life and could hear in my head his little victory cry of “Flavor Flav!” and my favorite, his sad little defeated “Flavor Flav” when something didn’t go his way. I hope he didn’t think I was laughing at his little crown, because really, it was all the mental sound bytes. And also the fact that the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly mentioned his new CD and gave it an F. Flavor Flav!

Do I have a picture of him? Yes. It’s on my cell phone and I have no idea how to get it off because my phone is from England and won’t talk to the network here blahety blah blah technical stuff. But he made me wait until he put his little crown back on and could pose with his giant clock. And then he called me “baby” again.

I had made plans with Anne to visit the Igigi store and play dress up with their formal gowns and possibly have an impromptu walkoff. I’m working on a review of the store for Product Anarchy, so details of that will be forthcoming, but suffice to say, it was a really lovely afternoon and I got to meet Ozlem and Yuliya, the woman behind the Igigi designs and they are completely awesome and also adorable and Yuliya didn’t even blink when I shimmied my pants off while wearing an evening gown, right in the middle of the store. We Americans are classy, non?

Of course, the reason we were there was Halloween, which meant costumes, which meant an entirely new level of freaking out for the packing angst, because now? This time it wasn’t just four days of clothes and shoes. This time it was four days of clothes and shoes PLUS two complete costumes that require special clothes and shoes and in some cases feathers and props and entire heads of hair. My god, how do the drag queens do it? Not with a 50 lb bag limit, I tell you that much. Each of my bags was stuffed to an inch of its life, and even the tiny one weighed a scant over 48 pounds. On the way home, due to some unexpected shopping, the bags ended up being 47 and 58 pounds, respectively, and that’s despite leaving my trick or treat basket full of candy in the apartment kitchen. Luckily, I smiled at the First Class agent and she smiled back and said “Well, make sure to be under 50 pounds next time, ok?” and slapped a Heavy sticker on the bag. I should have been outraged, but meh, I really didn’t feel like stuffing my toiletries bag into my carryon to make the luggage restriction. This is how the revolution ends. Right there.


less

The first costume night was an easy one for me and a more involved one for Jake. I just had to give myself big hair and wear a lot of black, after all. He, on the other hand, had a complicated routine involving lots of shaving and fake hair and learning to walk without killing himself. It’s a shame that we wasted our fantastic concept costume on a very light night of karaoke at The Mint and the patrons of The Sausage Factory. For the record, the ingestion of a quart of vodka prevents my ability to sing on key. Which makes my agreeing to sing the Christine part of “Phantom of the Opera” with Mopie really a bad idea. Oh well! I’m a musician! I was merely living up to the role. If there had been a hooker around, we would have tried to snort something off her ass, I’m certain.
And it’s also a shame that we all got so blitzed that I don’t really remember most of it, other than being confused when one Ben Stiller look-alike was hitting on me (I thought he was talking about Mopie until he clarified) and also the strange atmosphere that must exist only on the sidewalk outside the Mint because almost every time I am there, some strange kissing situations happen right before my eyes.
mo
An aside here: man, were we drunk! How did that happen? Seriously? It’s sort of amazing that we could walk. Some of us further than others. In heels.

Oh, what were our costumes? Here you go. Sadly, we never took a full length shot, so you miss out on the red four inch heels and the feather trim and eight million hours worth of sequins on the bottom of the coat, but use your imagination.

What

On actual Halloween, we went out to the Castro, along with apparently everyone else in California as well as 500 police officers in full on riot gear. It was a little creepy, especially when it took us almost an hour to walk the two blocks from dinner to Shannonk’s house. We met up with the entire gang, including Fu’s friend Rod, whom I’ve heard lots about but hadn’t yet met, and several of Shannon’s friends, John and Jonathon and I think maybe another Jon? I got confused. It was the eyelashes, which weighed approximately as much as a toddler. Regardless, they were all delightful and I enjoyed them all to bits. And wished once again that we could just remove everything between the Mississippi and Modesto, or maybe invent long distance teleportation so that I could hang out with those fun kids more often.


hello

tintin

lego

We did venture down into the crowd and it was, in a word, scary. Esteban’s friend Joel was working in the Valley but drove into the city to hang out with us. However, since there were so many people in such a small area, and so many of them jamming the cell towers taking pictures of their friends with the giant Ferrer Rocher candy that he never did find us. I think the closest he got was a block away when he decided to duck into a sushi restaurant for some dinner. We waited with no word for another forty five minutes, getting jostled and prodded and my ass grabbed on more than one occasion (although Ian did gallantly become a human ass shield after one such aggressive incident) that I decided that I had had enough of crowds and was starting to feel a little panicky. Plus, it wasn’t a good scene, to use a California-ism. Everything was very tense and pushy and weird. I managed to get a line out and left a voicemail on Joel’s phone to say that we were going to the End Up and then were off. Mo and Ian were following us out, but it took so long to walk another block that they needed to catch a train before they shut down, so they decided not to. Around the time that we were walking to the train station, 9 people were shot about a half block from where we had been standing in front of the DJ stage. I didn’t find this out until Joel called after we had gotten back to the apartment, very upset because he had seen it happen and was getting herded down to the area in front of the Mint, where I’m sure that he did not get to make out with anyone, sadly enough. By that time, we decided that we were sick of crowds and Halloween and while we did look fabulous, we’d just pack it in and sit around the apartment in our pajamas and listen to the helicopters trying to control the crowd four blocks away.

Luckily, no one was critically injured by what turned out to be an East Bay rival gang situation. Despite the evening ending on a down note, we already have costume ideas for next year. I think Jake is looking for payback for the shaving, since this one involves me losing my eyebrows. Or something. Ah well, I have an entire year to figure that out.

Last time we were both in San Francisco, we went to Bouchon with Foo and Jake made a stop in the bakery to offhandedly pick up some things to munch on. Those things were quickly forgotten until the next morning, when he and I ate them and then pretty much lost our minds at how incredible they were. The Thomas Keller Nutter Butters were delicious but oh, man, when we tried the Thomas Keller Oreos? God himself split open the heavens and said “Hey, are you going to finish that?”

We couldn’t imagine how these broken and sort of soggy cookies could be ten times better than a standard fresh Oreo, but we didn’t care, because they were perfection and we vowed to go back and taste them as they were intended: freshly crisp with the vanilla butter cream still firm and fluffy. Of course, like all things that get stamped with the name “Bouchon”, a single Thomas Keller Oreo (TKO, appropriately enough) costs as much as an entire package of regular Oreos, but after you try one’ it seems like an insignificant amount for such joy in your mouth.

So, this meant that we had to rent a car in order to get up there, too, which meant that the cost per cookie was skyrocketing. Clearly we needed to buy enough to make it worth our while. Clearly, we would also buy a sample of anything else the man’s pastry brushed had touched.

By the time we hit Napa, we were still pretty full from our double breakfast, so we walked into the Bouchon bakery, only to notice that they didn’t have any TKO’s out. I might have whimpered a little. I might have also scanned the departing patrons to see if anyone had taken the last TKO, so that I could formulate a plan to shiv them in the parking lot. But luckily we asked and found out that they had more cookies cooling and they’d be ready for frosting in half an hour. Would we be willing to come back? Sure. And we’ll take $30 worth of snacks while we wait.

What a racket, that Thomas Keller has going there in Yountville. Clearly there’s meth in the cookies.

We sat in the garden and nibbled from the assortment. My favorite was the apricot fruit pastiches, while I think Jake liked some kind of chocolate thing. Until he tried the cheese Danish. I don’t like Danishes, but we had ordered two of everything and I was willing to trust Bouchon. Therein lies the road to madness, because the damned cheese Danish was like nothing I’ve ever had in my life. The cream cheese was more of a custard, scented with orange and vanilla bean specks, while the pastry was light and flaky and oh so perfect. God only was interested in our stale TKOs because he’s tired of the cheese danishes that Jesus has been bringing him for the last two centuries. Damn, Thomas Keller! Damn.


Yum

Chewing

We wandered around some touristy Napa shops and then went back for our cookies. Jake wisely determined that we should probably eat something that wasn’t sugar, especially in light of my recent realization that too many carbs makes me cranky and tired. I didn’t want to eat anything at all after the mountain of cheese Danish, but agreed to split one of the Bouchon bakery’s ham and cheese baguettes.

We hit the road and tried the sandwich. OH MY HELL. Why do I doubt that anything from Keller will be magnificent? Because I’m not a fan of ham, unless it is the punchline to a joke. And I don’t like mustard. Additionally, I’m suspicious of baguettes in general, as the crust to bread ratio tends to be unsatisfactory. But this sandwich? It was the perfect balance of spicy and salty and aged cheesy goodness. That’s the thing about Keller. He seems to understand that you can make really simple food extraordinary if you put enough thought into it.

In case you doubt how damn good this sandwich was, I offer the following footage:



Even now, I would like to make sweet sweaty love to that sandwich.

Dear Sandwich, call me? Ok? Collect, if you need to. I’m here for you. Sincerely, Weetabix.

As with all best friend vacations, it ended all too soon, but probably for the best, as I needed a nap on the third day and would probably be in a coma after a week of such revelry. I’m proud that we did take care to do our three basic elements of life that we normally miss: food, water and sleep, elements completely missing on our Vegas extravaganza last year. We’re learning, apparently.

Or maybe we’re growing up?

Nah.


Tintin

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Hog-butcher to the world, city of big rap stars

Saturday, October 28, 2006

I am sitting on the floor of O’Hare’s Concourse K, right outside the food court, which, from the smell of things, involves a Cinnabon. 90% of the allure of Cinnabon, for me, is the smell, since after the first bite, it just tastes like frostingy glue. Perhaps if they just poured the frosting right into a Starbucks (also in the food court, but apparently in the battle for supremacy, Cinnabon trumps Starbucks. At least in the olfactory arena) I would find it more appealing.

A loud Midwestern mom wearing a Chicago Bears sweatshirt has just called for her son Kyle fourteen times. Kyle. Kyle. Stand up, Kyle. Do you want milk, Kyle? Then stand up already. A loudspeaker announces that they are boarding first class passengers for London and Kyle asks if they are first class. No, Kyle’s mom explains, they are… and here she pauses’ regular class. Then she explains that it costs too much to fly first class, three times as much, something like the world of much in Kyle’s allowance regulated world. In a moment, Kyle’s mom is every mom in the entire Midwest. Kyle is beckoned down the concourse with a ‘Now come on, Kyle.’ He has a nameless brother who clings to her hand. Maybe his name is also Kyle.

I’m flying first today, although I can guarantee that I paid less for it than Kyle’s mom for her ‘regular class’, since I abuse my frequent flier miles to further my delusions of rock stardom.

We woke up this morning at 4:20 am and outside, I could clearly see the constellations in the clear pre-winter sky. Esteban tried reassuring me about the flight, but this time was particularly bad, because my normal planning time for packing was cut in half by finalizing costumes. I’ve spent the last three nights gluing sequins and Swarovski crystals to black velvet, and when you look at my costume, it looks like maybe I worked on it while watching The Office one night, because really, it does not look like so many sequins, but really? SO many sequins. So many. Also, through a splendid feat of stupidity, I almost started the house on fire. There was a clip-on work light, you see, which I clipped to my steamer so that I’d have more light in the kitchen, and then somehow bumped it so that it was resting against one of our framed Italian liquor ads and we then learned certain types of plastic smell like roasted marshmallows when it melts. Which has pretty much cured me of any roasted marshmallow cravings for the next several months.

Kyle’s mom has boarded her plane with both Kyles in tow. Although the Hill party of four is about to get their ass kicked by American Airlines if they don’t get on that plane right this minute.

Speaking of which, my TSA approved Ziploc baggie with my illicit liquids and gels came open or was never fully closed, and one tiny bottle of Aveda All-Sensitive Lotion fell out, unbeknownst to me but very beknownst to the TSA, which meant that my carryons were searched. The TSA agent applauded my Ziploc baggie and the fact that I had known exactly what needed to go into buckets (shoes, hoodie, laptop out of laptop bag, baggie out of carryon, keep the boarding pass and id in the hand when walking through the metal detectors). I think the vacation to veteran traveler ratio is pretty uneven out of GRB, as evidenced by the old couple who asked the TSA screener if the luggage he was checking was his or hers. ‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.’ He said, world-weary already at 5:00 am, and the old couple looked at each other as though this were yet another security measure. Can’t recognize your own bags? Then you just might be a terrorist.

Another mom just walked by and had this conversation with her son, who looked to be in the twelve- to fifteen-year-old range.

‘Do you need to use the restroom?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you need to urinate?’
‘No.’
‘Ok.’

As much as I hate tourists, I sort of love sitting in airports by myself, being quiet and watching other people. There are a lot of desert-camo wearing servicemen walking around this concourse, and in fact, one sat in front of me on my connection out of GRB. He has a one-month old daughter, he told the old couple who didn’t know whose bag was whose, and he’s going to be stationed somewhere classified for at least a year. It always shocks me, these timing estimates, the fact that we’ve been at war. It’s such a non-issue for most people who don’t have family members in service. It’s easy to forget that it’s happening. Really, my head is in the sand intentionally, because I get so angry and there’s just nothing that can be done about it, other than voting, other than doing what I’ve always done. Fewer than 800 days until we have a new president. Fingers crossed that this one’s not packing some grudges.

A few days ago, I was listening to NPR (why is late fall the time for NPR listening? I don’t know, but it seems to be the way of things) and they were interviewing a Republican strategist, who was, quite honestly, brilliant. I’ve always believed that the Republicans run their campaigns like a war, while the Democrats run their campaigns like a bake sale, sort of relying upon the fact that people will just ‘do the right thing’. Which I’m sure they would on equal playing fields, but the competitor is not following those rules, which means that you have to adjust your strategy. I admire the Republicans for some of their research and correlations. Psychological profiling seems to offend folks because we all want to believe that we’re all precious snowflakes, individual and unique, but in truth, we are creatures of habit, and our personalities have commonalities. For instance, the analyst talked about buying patterns between Republicans and Democrats. Democrats are more likely to drive Subarus and Volvos, while Republicans are more likely to drive Lincolns and (and this is where I clutched the steering wheel of my Chrysler with abject dread and got ready to swallow back a mouthful of vomit) trucks. Note that there are certainly truck-driving Democrat outliers (Esteban, for instance) but they are looking at trends. They don’t need to necessarily understand why the two are linked (that’s psychology, not statistics) but it does add something valuable to their arsenal. Meanwhile, the Democrats are studying the song list of their Fleetwood Mac Greatest Hits CDs, trying to pick their next theme song.

I’ve just been joined by a sweet lady who asked me where she can charge her phone. We’ve got a little encampment going here by the food court. I must have a trustworthy face, because she’s asked me to watch her charging phone while she goes to the restroom (I should have asked her ‘Do you have to urinate?’ ) Maybe she knows that she can outrun me.

Oh my god. Flava Flav just walked by with his entourage.

When I smiled at him, he said to me ‘Hey baby, how you doin?’

Yeah. I might not be a rock star, but at least I achieve the illusion, at least a few times a year.

Ok, that’s all I got. Bix out.

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Zombies need not apply

Monday, October 16, 2006

Apparently, I am a bit brain damaged, and let me tell you why. You see, ever since April when I made plans to spend Halloween in San Francisco, I have been plotting my Halloween costume, vacillating between Ursula the Sea Witch and something cute that wouldn’t make me feel uncomfortable about my arm flab or involve three quarts of lavender body paint. But the perfect Halloween costume is a toughy and to think of something that will work in the fabulous confines of San Francisco’s Halloween scene? The bar is up there in the heavens. Some time around June, I decided that yes, damn it, I was going to be something cute, something pink and sparkly, something I love with all my heart and that makes me go squee when I think no one is watching.

So, the pink and sparkly costume was decided upon, and I then focused on gathering components from near and far. This involved a lot of Ebay, a lot of internet ordering (including another very cute dress from the aforementioned Igigi. After posting the last entry, I realized that I probably own more Igigi clothes than from any other internet-based site, which was kind of amazing but probably speaks more to the fact that when I find something that works, I buy several versions of the same thing in different colors, so I own three versions of this dress and two versions of this skirt, for instance. By the way, in case you missed it, the awesome Ozlem from Igigi left a comment with the 10% off code WRAP in case you needed an excuse to snag up some cute and curvy designs for yourself. Or, you know, three versions of their wrap dress, because seriously, you will thank me when it falls out of your suitcase and looks perfect after a fifteen hour flight and then you’ll thank me again when you put it on, because it is a very good dress) and trips to various costume shops looking for wigs and more trips to fabric stores where I had arguments with women wearing smocks who were trying to tell me that an ivory marabou boa was a white marabou boa. Whatever, smock lady, but just try to tell that to the rest of my white accessories, ok?

This is probably too much a window into my soul, I can see this now. But it’s too late to stop.

That’s not the brain damaged part. No, the brain damaged part is here: after talking with Jake, we came up with the most awesome Halloween costume ever, a concept that was even better than our admittedly awesome Halloween costumes already in progress. And we moaned that we’d already started and waaah, why aren’t there two Halloweens? Except, well, there are, because there’s the Saturday night before Halloween and there’s actual Halloween proper. So naturally, we had to do both costumes. Two costumes each for Halloween. I think that in the beginning, we weren’t really serious, or rather, his original costume and my half of this new costume weren’t that difficult to pull together, so it’s not like it was pushing it that much, right? Right? Except that’s when I started really thinking about the second costume and decided, man, what I needed was some kind of rocking jacket. With feathers. Ostrich feathers and black rhinestones. But where would one buy such a jacket, specifically a rocking jacket adorned with ostrich feathers and black rhinestones in my size?

One doesn’t. One Project Runways that bitch, that’s what one does.

This is where one might also look into treatment for the brain damage.

So more trips to fabric stores, but now with searching through pattern books and flipping through fabric bins and trying to explain to the ivory-come-lately smock lady that you want OSTRICH FEATHERS in black or it just won’t do. That’s when you open the first pattern that you bought and see that it requires DARTS and you have no idea how exactly one achieves darting because the construction montages at Parsons always go way too fast. That’s when you have utter and complete despair in the rhinestone aisle at Hobby Lobby because black rhinestones are apparently close to extinction and the only breeding pairs are in the possession of one Mister Kayne Gillaspie.

Yeah, so I have no idea how this ostrich contraption is going to come together, but the pink sparkly costume? Is going to be fabulous.

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