nabbalicious

Yep, It's Done Over Here

2006-02-01T02:15:00.000-05:00

I won't be updating this blog anymore. The archives will remain up for the time being while I slowly transfer them over. But to get the new material, visit me at my brand-spanking-new home: www.nabbalicious.com.

I hope to see you over there!

The Big News

2006-01-27T11:58:00.000-05:00

I'm a dot com.

Time May Change Me, But I Can't Change Time

2006-01-26T04:06:00.000-05:00

Did you know that that was our high school senior class quote in 1991? I think as far as senior class quotes go, we quoted someone awesome. Considering that "Ice, Ice Baby" was the big hit back then, things really could have been horrible. Oh wait. They were. Our prome theme was "Under the Sea." My date, Ron, and I posed in front of a wall full of fluorescent painted fish and crap.

Anyway, I just wanted to let everyone know that there are changes going on, and I hope to have something specific to tell you by Friday if I can get my act sufficiently together. Don't you make me start singing "Patience" and doing my Axl Rose dance. 'Cause I totally will.

Yes, the Statues Are Back Because I'm Running Low on Material

2006-01-25T02:36:00.000-05:00

A Monologue We Overheard Months Ago, Which I Am Just Now Getting Around to Blogging About

2006-01-24T02:25:00.000-05:00

"So, like, I ran into her and was all, 'Hey, how are you?' and she was like, 'Oh, I'm good' and I said, 'Yeah?' And she said, 'Yeah, abso-lute-ly.'

So, like, we were talking and stuff and it was going pretty well, so I was like, 'Do you want to go grab some dinner at Cosi later or something?' and she was all 'Abso-lute-ly' and I was like, 'Great.' So, I got there a little early, but then she was late. But we sat down and we had a nice meal and we got coffee. I didn't want to go home, so I asked her if she wanted to hang out some more and she was like, 'Abso-lute-ly.'

So, we walked by the White House and all around, and we were talking and she told me that she was leaving the country for, like, a month or something. I don't know, man. I'm not sure what she was doing, but she said she had to leave. I asked her if she wanted to get together when she got back, and she said, 'Abso-lute-ly.' But it's been a few weeks...I haven't heard from her, but we're going to make plans."

That's when I leaned over to the Mr. and said, "Yeah, I don't think this one is going to work out. Time to move on."
"I know! Poor guy."
"Leaving the country? Never a good sign."
"Shhhh!"

Lock

2006-01-24T02:10:00.000-05:00

It's Nothing A Little Peanut Butter Afterward Won't Fix

2006-01-23T01:56:00.000-05:00

Scenes from a Saturday Morning

2006-01-23T00:07:00.000-05:00

10 a.m.
Hop on the internet because tickets for a show are going on sale and you want to be first.

10:00:01 a.m.
Two tickets, please. Enter some letters to prove you're not a robot. You're glad to have settled that.

10:00:05 a.m.
Tickets have been reserved. Caveat: You have 4 minutes and 45 seconds to fill out your address, phone number, credit card information and just a few simple questions about your hopes and dreams and a short essay on the meaning of life, in which you should be sure to include footnotes. If you fail to complete the survey in a timely manner, you will lose your tickets and start over.

10:01:03 a.m.
You're a fast and accurate typist, usually. But the pressure, it's getting to you. Your fingers can't seem to find the keys.

10:02:15 a.m.
All you can manage to crank out is garblegjaeras;lkjafn.

10:02:45 a.m.
You're cracking. Dude, what is your phone number? Your aversion to the phone is finally coming back to haunt you, and the clock is ticking fast.

10:03:34 a.m.
Why is it that you can remember your debit card number, your bank account number and your old bank account number that you haven't used in something like nine years, but you can never remember the three-digit security code on the back of your debit card? What the hell is your problem? No, you're really asking.

10:04:15 a.m.
Almost there.

10:04:37 a.m.
You made it! What's this? $3.25 for will call? Bullshit!

10:05:03 a.m.
No, seriously. Total bullshit. A $14 ticket has suddenly become $22 after service charges are factored in.

10:05:04 a.m.
And the Postal Service is no different. It costs $3.25 to mail what you're assuming is two little scraps of paper. If they turn out to be gold bricks, you won't complain. Plus, you knew the rates were going up and all, but this is highway robbery. You shake your fist at the monitor and prepare to grab your torch and round up all the other angry villagers.

10:05:33 a.m.
Steam starts coming out of your ears. Trade indignant e-mails with maliavale about ticket prices these days and, why, back in your day...

10:05:44 a.m.
Oh, who are you fooling? You're going to get the tickets anyway. You've played right into their hands, those bastards.

10:05:46 a.m.
But you are so writing a letter about this.

Snap

2006-01-20T00:54:00.000-05:00

Commencing Countdown, Engines On

2006-01-20T00:21:00.000-05:00

[This post was totally inspired and piggy-backed off Jurgen Nation's post of yesterday.]

I don't do math. When I was a kid, my life's goal was to be an astronaut. I wanted to be the next Sally Ride. What's so hard about being an astronaut? You suit up, climb into the rocket and off you go. You do a few orbits around the earth, maybe snap a few pictures for the friends back home, float around in zero gravity, make a pit stop on the moon, hang out for a bit, pocket a couple of moon rocks and then you're home in a week or two telling everyone about the awesome trip you just took. I just don't think jobs get more awesome than that, in my book.

I was just about failing math during my freshman year of high school, and my parents were called in for a conference.

"Nabbalicious, you're going to need math to get by in the real world," said that skank Mrs. Elliot. "Oh? Really? I doubt it."
"Uh-huh. What do you want to be? What kind of career are you looking at?"
"Astronaut." How I said this with a straight face, I will never know. I mean, I was fourteen. Time to get a little realistic about my capabilities.
"You need math for that."
My jaw dropped. I looked at my mom. "Is this true?"
She nodded her head. "Yes."
"And there's no way to be an astronaut and not need math? There has to be something."
"You need math."
"Fuck!" OK, that was in my head.
"Well, this is the first I've heard of that. Hmph!"

I suppose I was just thinking I'd show up at NASA one afternoon after graduation, asking for a job application. I'd fill out my name, my past experience ("Hostess at the Magic Pan restaurant from 1990-1991" -- cool under pressure!) and wow them with my charms in an interview. I'd be hired, go through a little astronaut training for a day or two ("Press this button to go warp speed; this here button slows you down if you get a little more warp than necessary; if you need to contact ground control, flip this switch."), be fitted for my spacesuit, get a nametag and to the stars I go.

Instead of clinging to my lifelong dream and buckling down at math, though, I said farewell and went back to pursuing my other goal of becoming a supermodel. They don't need math, dammit.

I'm still very insecure about math. Don't ask me what 70 divided by 3 is. Or even 2. I don't know. I like to think that I've very successfully proved Mrs. Elliot wrong. Turns out, I don't need math. I've gotten by quite well without it. The trick is to just get other people to do it for you. The things they don't teach you in high school.

The only person who doesn't really play along is the Mr. I guess I can't blame him. He's not much of a math person, either, but he is smarter than I am, so I think it's only fair that he do my math for me. If it were in me, I'd do the same for him.

Whenever we go out to eat and it's my turn to pay up, he just loves to psych me out.

The Mr.: So, what are you going to tip?
Me: Umm, what's 20%?
The Mr.: Eh. I don't know.
Me: Come on. What's good?
The Mr.: Whatever you think is fair.
Me: (Argh) OK. Um. Is $7 fair?
The Mr.: (grimacing) Hmmm...
Me: Um! $8? $9? Help! I don't know!
The Mr.: (shaking head sadly) Well...

Here, I begin to panic.

Me: I'm not cheap! I'm a good tipper!
The Mr.: I know!
Me: Help! I liked the service! I don't know what to tip! What's 20%?! I can't figure it out! I can't do the math! (commence pathetic whimpering)
The Mr.: Oh, $7.50 should be fair.
Me: (collapses)

Clearly, there are flaws in my little system.

Light

2006-01-19T02:53:00.000-05:00

Song for Adam

2006-01-19T00:47:00.000-05:00

When I was back home last month, my mom and I dug out my old high school yearbooks. Really, why? Why did I do that? Is it really necessary? I might have broken a bone or two from all the cringing.

But I'm surprised by how much has come back to me, and how well I remember most of the people who signed my yearbook. The best friends always had a page reserved for them. The good friends got half a page. I hated signing the yearbooks of the people more popular than I was. I liked to head straight to the back, where all the blank pages were, but it always seemed that every single one of those pages were reserved.

"Reserved for Susan."
"Reserved for Lisa."
"Reserved for Kelly."
"Oh, here, this little corner? Yeah, I think that's open. Sign there."

I did the same thing, but I don't think I ever had more than two pages reserved for someone else.

Most of the messages in my yearbook were variations on six different things:

"The Cure rules!"
"Your parents need to mellow."
"We need to hang out this summer."
"Have a good life!"
"Have a lousy summer!"
"Maybe I'll see you sometime!"

At the time, I figured that I would see so many of these people again, that we'd keep our promises to hang out over the summer, that phrases like "have a nice life!" were just jokes. We were such close friends. BFF! Yeah, not so much.

Even Jesse, one of my best friends. He wrote a full page, a heartfelt message, and I never saw him again. Well, that's not entirely true. I saw him in a photo on the front page of our local paper. It was part of a story on a bunch of students who had gone to Africa, and he was one of them.

Toward the back of my sophomore yearbook, I saw Adam's note to me. Adam. Adam Hiteside-Way.

At my high school, Adam was this elusive, mysterious, totally intimidating figure that all the girls drooled after. He didn't look like the rest of the students, not even close. Even though he was two years ahead of me, he looked much older, more sophisticated. I couldn't picture him cracking open a book. He didn't look like he even needed to. Adam already knew the ways of the world. He'd seen it all. The only picture of him in the yearbooks is one in which he was voted "Best Dancer" in the senior polls. He really didn't seem to be for real.

On nice days, he rode a red Vespa scooter to class. On rainy days, he drove a black Cadillac. He was almost never without his beige trench coat, and his pants were always creased and pressed. He smoked Dunhill cigarettes. When my best friend, Candace, found this out, we went to a smoke shop at the mall and had someone buy a pack for us. Then we sat on a bench outside and smoked them.

"Hm."
"Yeah. These are Adam's cigarettes."
"I know. Weird. They're OK, I think."
"I like the box. It's so big."
"They're from England. That's so cool."
"I guess I can see why he likes them."

I never talked to Adam. I barely made eye contact. You didn't look directly at Adam. He would burn your retinas.

One day, I got kicked out of P.E. class and was sent to sit in the lobby of the building that housed the gym. When I walked in and sat down on the floor, I looked over. It was Adam. We were alone, breathing the same air. It was my big chance. Since I couldn't think of anything witty, I went with aloof and wrote in my notebook. Knowing me at that age, it was probably various combinations of the two of our names. A few minutes passed, and it became apparent that aloof wasn't working in my favor, because Adam could play that game twice as well. I was going to have to bite the bullet and talk to him first.

"Um, so what are you in here for?"
He said something back. I don't know what. You think I was listening to him? I think I sat there, watching his lips move, amazed that what he was saying was being said to me.

We traded a few words, and then it happened.

I started giggling uncontrollably. It was right after he told me how much he liked Chanel No. 5. The nerves had gotten to me and I was losing my shit. And I had been doing so well, too. I told myself to hold it together about twelve times, finally calmed down and we said a few more things, but you know, I just couldn't seem to shake the feeling that he thought I was insane.

I recovered, but it turns out, Adam was really boring. And maybe also gay. Either way, it wasn't in the cards for us. Dude was way out of my league.

Don't get me wrong, though. I still wanted his attention.

On the last day of school, I approached him and asked if he would sign my yearbook. That scene in the pilot episode of "Felicity" where Felicity approaches Ben to sign her yearbook, then stands nearby, pacing nervously as he writes what is obviously more than just his name? That was me.

Adam said "Sure," grabbed my book and squatted down to rest it on his knee as he wrote*:

Well, it's not exactly "let's hang out this summer!", but I'll take it.

* Translation: Well, what can I say, at least there's one less trendy person on the face of this black planet. Don't change -- for anyone -- Posh Boy** (Adam Hiteside-Way). P.S. Go buy a Bauhaus album or two***

** Posh Boy? Mmm-hmm.

*** It took me weeks to translate what was after the P.S., but I did have Bauhaus! If only he knew! We could have been so happy together!

Holding On

2006-01-18T01:45:00.000-05:00

Fingers

2006-01-17T02:25:00.000-05:00

It's Good to Be Alone

2006-01-17T01:51:00.000-05:00

The Mr. begins a new job this week. I'm not at liberty to say what it is, but it's pretty much the same job he was doing before, just for a bigger, better organization.

He travels a lot. Sometimes he's gone for two weeks, sometimes a week, but most often, he's gone for 5 days of the week 10 months of the year. Even though I love to be alone, it took a little getting used to at first. I remember a colleague asking me how I was doing when he first started this work, and I almost burst into tears on the spot, I was so miserable. In fact, I think my exact answer was whispering, "Not good" and shaking my head and my eyes welled with tears.

But the adjustment period was short-lived, and I got used to him being gone so much. Maybe too used to it. Every other time I talk to my friend Kim she says, "Honey, I don't know how you survive with him traveling so much. There is just no way I could do it. You are so independent."

Oh, but I'll bet she could manage just fine if she knew about all the things I do when he's not there. If she had just a glimpse into the rampant hedonism, she'd be shoving her husband Kent onto the next flight out of LAX.

I do disgusting, shameful things when the Mr. isn't there, or anyone else, for that matter. Things I would almost never admit to if cornered and directly asked.

There was, for example, the first birthday I spent alone in 2001. The Mr. left early that morning, so I was on my own. Nothing was going to get in the way of my good time, so I drowned my sorrows in a giant hunk of delicious store-bought cake. All. For. Me. Oh, and the time I bought a tub of frosting at the store, got it home, grabbed a spoon and ate about half the container? Good times. Really good.

For one or two days, I'll stay in my pajamas all day. I'm not proud to admit this, but I've been known to walk the dogs after dark so I can a) just throw on a jacket over my pajamas and b) if I run into anyone I know, hey, it's dark. Are they going to notice I'm not in normal clothes? OK, I might be deluding myself a little with this one. The neighbors probably call me Frannie Flannel Pajamas behind my back or something.

I can feel free to ease up on the hygeine a little, too. When the Mr. isn't there, who am I getting all dolled up for? Frankly, the dogs seem to enjoy kissing me more when I'm rocking the rancid breath. Their noses hover by my mouth just a second longer and they seem to be wondering, "What is that scent I'm detecting...a little morning breath, perhaps? Oh, it's just delightful." I'll skip shaving my legs for a day or two. Keep this quiet, but I've taken a pass on showers for upwards of two days, as well.

Make that Frannie Flannel "Stank" Pajamas. I don't know, but between this and the walking-dogs-in-pajamas thing, it's a wonder I haven't been committed, isn't it?

Last, but not least: the crappy movies and television I can watch free from the Mr.'s sneering judgment and eye-rolling! I recently took in "Road House," and wow, was it bad. Fantastically so. But I got to watch it without hearing "Why are you watching this crap?!" once. "Center Stage" also makes a regular appearance, because it pains me to hear the Mr. snicker during the exciting, gripping final dance scene. So what if I want to watch a "Sex & the City" rerun for the 400th time? And maybe I like watching UPN's Late Night Comedy Block, because that Kevin James, he makes me laugh...step off.

So, that's how I muddle through.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got "13 Going On 30" waiting in the DVD player.

Because I Can't Talk About Journey Too Much. Or Can I?

2006-01-16T02:33:00.000-05:00

We were in my car, on a two-hour drive back home. The Mr. was driving while I played DJ with the iPod. I picked assorted favorites, classics and songs I just generally thought he should think about getting into.

And then, I could resist no longer. "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin' " was up in the rotation. The drums started. Then the piano kicked in.

you make me weak
and wanna die
just when you
said we'd try
lovin', touchin', squeezin'
each other

He made a face. "Come on. Journey sucks."

"No they don't!"

"I'm sorry. They do."

"There are two kinds of people in this world: people who love Journey, and people who say they hate Journey and are lying about it."

One should note: he didn't dispute that.

Face

2006-01-16T00:22:00.001-05:00

Despair

2006-01-14T09:56:00.000-05:00

Take Me Where the Rhythm Is Crazy

2006-01-13T08:42:00.000-05:00

The most frequent type of comment that shows up on the comment board at my gym is always some variation of, "I hate the music you play. Play something else!"

I've seen things like:

"That hip-hop is just so offensive and trashy. What language! Please find something more appropriate."

"Soul? For working out? Way to put me to sleep! Can't you find a better station?"

"That techno is giving me a headache! Do you really have to play music like that, especially first thing in the morning? We're at a gym, not a nightclub."

I get so tired of these freaking whiners. A few weeks ago, I wrote a comment saying:

"If you want to hear music you like, why don't you just bring an iPod or a walkman? It's not all about you, and get over yourselves if you think your taste in music is going to appeal to everyone else here."

The lady who answers the comments posted mine and said, "YES! THANK YOU!" Hey, happy to help. I think I would like her job, answering those comments. Smacking down people who are just being big babies is fun, and it would have been especially fun to address the hip-hop complaint with a profanity-laced tirade.

I think the fitness director should have been telling these people off long ago, frankly. She's been way too nice. Her usual response is, "If you don't like the music, please go to the front desk and ask them to change the station!" How is that workable when you have 50 people who all want it on a different station?

Anyway, I thought she and I finally had the last word, until a few weeks ago, I noticed this comment:

"Could you please not play Barry Manilow in the morning? Instead of making me want to work out, it makes me want to find a pretty girl to take out dancing, and I just can't have that if I'm supposed to be getting my exercise!"

Awww. Well. I can see the guy's point.

Wreath

2006-01-13T00:44:00.000-05:00

Broken

2006-01-12T18:37:00.000-05:00

You Think You Know Someone...

2006-01-12T00:58:00.000-05:00

"Do you want to go to Chipotle for dinner tonight?" I asked. I was positive this would get a "yes" response, and was really only asking as a courtesy.

"Ehhh...not really," said the Mr.

Double-take. "What? Why not?"

"We just went last week."

"Yeah? And?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"No."

"Don't you ever get sick of it?"

"Huh? I was thinking a week is too long to go between Chipotle visits."

"Well, I was thinking that it's not long enough."

It is here that I stop to fan myself.

"Okay, okay," he says. "You can go to Chipotle and I'll go to Panera [next door]."

"Boy, I wonder who's going to have the better dinner?"

Before leaving the house, he asked, "So, where are we going to eat our dinner?"

"I just figured we'd take it home and eat it here."

"So, we're going to drive all the way out to Chipotle [a 15-minute drive] and then turn around and come home?"

"Well, we have to come home at some point, don't we?"

"I suppose. Are you sure this is worth it?"

"Hello, have we met?"

Wings

2006-01-11T00:27:00.000-05:00

Got a Box Full of Letters Think You Might Like To Read

2006-01-11T00:13:00.000-05:00

Before I began this blog, I had another hobby or two. One of them was "letter writer." Or, more descriptively, "profusely bitchy letter writer." I tended to direct my letters to businesses that I felt had either wronged me in some way or had some general room for improvement, often in the area of customer service.

I would blame it on crankiness and old-er age, but I can't. The fact is, I wrote my first letter in college, when I tried some new cereal that tasted like Ass Flakes. I wrote the company that invented the cereal to let them know that my breakfast was less than satisfactory, figuring, hey, maybe they'd just like some feedback. A few weeks later, I received a letter from the company thanking me for my comments and a free coupon for any of their other products.

As a college student, it was just as good as sending me a winning lottery ticket.

My next notable letter came a few years later, when I wrote to the salon that had accidentally dyed my hair orange, and then in an attempt to fix it, made it blonde. I wanted them to know they were awful and horrible and mean and I wanted my money back. The manager, who truly was an a-hole from the get-go, called me a few days later and I'm not proud to say this, but it devolved into an epic screaming match which ended with me yelling the words, "Oh, why don't you just fuck off?!" and slamming the phone down.

One really should be nice and logical when composing letters like this and dealing with companies, but I think this interaction is more illustrative of the fact that some people just aren't fit to deal with other people, and they apparently aren't aware of it. I know I'm not fit for it, which is why you don't see me running a salon.

My biggest score to come out of the letter writing came when I was living in Florida and preparing to move up north. I splurged on a cherry wood sleigh bed for my new apartment. The saleslady told me the bed would hold a full or a queen mattress. Being poor after buying the bed, I opted for a full mattress and found one at another store. Since I was to be moving soon, I didn't bother to assemble the bed.

A few weeks later, the Mr. and I drove to my new home and began to unload the moving van. After everything was in the apartment, we put the bed together. It was all going well until we put the mattress on and, boom, it fell clear to the floor. The bed holds one size and one size only, and it isn't a full. We drove to a mattress store, purchased a queen for $500, loaded it "Flintstones"-style onto my tiny little Geo Metro and collapsed when we got home.

The next day, I woke up still feeling peeved about the whole thing. Because of the woman's bad information, I was stuck with a mattress that was useless to me, and I couldn't do anything with it since it had been bought in another state.

I contacted the company and told them what happened, but they were unimpressed. That's when I broke out the big guns: the Better Business Bureau. I sent them a letter, complete with receipts, and let them go to town. A few weeks later, the response came: the company was going to reimburse us for the cost of the new, queen mattress. Did someone leave a horse's head in someone else's bed or something? We'll never know the answer.

And now, my most shameful moment as a letter writer:

Three years ago, the Mr. and I were on this kick where every Wednesday night, we'd go to , um, Airy-Day Ueen-Qay and get a Lizzard-Bay. We did this in the dead of summer, and we trudged through a snow-covered parking lot more than once in the winter.

One night, we pulled up to our usual Airy-Day Ueen-Qay around 9:45 and saw that it was closed. Since we pretty much lived there, we knew that 10 p.m. was the closing time, and not a second earlier, dammit. I must have been PMSing this night or something, because I smacked the wheel of my car.
"What?! Why is it closed?"
We could see some guy sweeping up inside.
"I don't know," said the Mr. "Maybe it's just some emergency and they had to close up early. It's not a big deal. Let's just go home."
"Oh, ho, ho. It is a big deal. I didn't finish my dinner so I'd have room! I want my damn Lizzard-Bay!"

There was no time to go to the other shop in town, so we had no choice but to give it up for that week. I was so mad, though, that the minute I got home, I e-mailed the company a letter. The next morning, I had calmed down some and forgot all about it.

A few weeks later, I received a letter in the mail from the owner.

"Thank you for telling us of your experience at [location of the store]. We conducted an investigation into the matter, and we learned that the manager had closed the store early, going against our wishes. We fired him, and are happy to have done so."

Gulp.

Fired?

I got a guy fired?

"Please accept these coupons for two free Lizzard-Bays as a token of our appreciation."

Lizzard-Bays tainted with the blood of the manager.

I took the coupons out, but folded up the letter and stashed it away. I couldn't let the Mr. see what I had done. When he came home, I showed him the coupons. "Hey, look! I got coupons for complaining about them closing the store early! Cool, right?"
"Oh, yeah! Great!"

But the next day, I took out the letter and showed him. He laughed his ass off. "You got a guy fired?! Hahahaha, hoo-boy. Wow, I hope you're happy!"

Well, I cheered up some a week or two later when we got the Lizzard-Bays.

Union Square

2006-01-10T01:41:00.000-05:00

See, Hear, Speak

2006-01-09T02:21:00.000-05:00

The Pukersons

2006-01-09T00:00:00.000-05:00

Well, it finally happened. I got sick. I mean, like, really sick.

I've boasted a little about my superhuman immune system before. I've remained frustrated that I never get to call in sick to work. Whenever I hear of someone who has called in sick, my first thought is, "Ugh. Lucky!" Even if the reality is that they're writhing on the floor in agony, it's not how I'm picturing them. In my head, they're camped out in bed, surrounded by books and bottles of Diet 7Up, watching bad television with a little thermometer in their mouth for good measure.

I haven't thrown up in 14 years, for any reason, whether it's illness or drunkenness. Sure, I've come close. But vomiting is just something I simply do not do. I refuse to throw up; I don't see it as an option. I don't care if it supposedly "makes you feel better." Whereas some people are resigned to the fact that throwing up is a part of life, I think, "No. There has to be another way."

I know lots of you probably throw up all the time, like, once every winter or something because of this thing I've heard about on the news. How you say, "the flu"? Is that right? But since this is practically an event for me, I thought I'd make a huge deal out of it and chronicle the entire thing for you. It's my little Halley's Comet, although a lot more colorful. And chunkier.

All day Wednesday, I'd been feeling a little off, but didn't think much of it. The symptoms mostly mimicked that of my previously documented IBS, although perhaps a little more intensely than usual. I've plugged through worse, so I ignored it. Jasclo and I had lunch, and afterward we went shoe drooling. I kept clutching my stomach and doubling over in pain. She'd ask, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes. I'm fine!"

I'm sorry, I didn't want to stop. We were proceeding up and down the aisles in an orderly fashion, and I wasn't quitting until we got to the end. Eventually, though, I caved and asked her to just please take me back to my car. I wanted to go home and rest.

I came home and, feeling a little better, puttered around the house for a bit. Then I collapsed on the couch and fell asleep. The Mr. asked what I wanted to do for dinner, and since my stomach seemed to have settled down a little, I chose pizza.

This choice could forever alter my life.

We had a nice dinner. I ordered a slice, a salad and some wine while he got a personal pizza. We came home and drank some more. Wine for me, beer for him. I plopped down the on the computer, lit my peach-scented candle, put on some music and sipped the wine. Eventually, it began to taste strange to me and was no longer appealing, and I gave up with half a glass left. Then the peach candle...boy, did it always smell this nauseating? I blew it out.

The nausea washed over me in waves. I needed to lay (lie? lay? lay lady lay?) down again. I logged off the computer, made my way toward our bedroom when I suddenly had to make a right turn and lunge for the guest toilet. It was coming, and I had no choice this time. I threw up four times in a row. Who knew my stomach could hold so much? The Mr. helped me to bed, where I tried to go to sleep but could only curl up and wish the pain would go away.

Once each hour, I had to throw up. From midnight until 6 a.m., instead of sleeping, I threw up. Around 2 a.m., the Mr. came into the bedroom, announced "I'm not feeling so good, either" and vomited.

Around 5 a.m., I started getting kind of thirsty and drank some diet Sprite. At 5:30 a.m., it came back up. Then, there was nothing left and I began the dry-heaving portion of the program. Then it started coming out the other end. And the chills came, alternating with fever. I kept throwing the blankets on, throwing them off, putting them on, never fully satisfied.

The Mr. and I eventually fell asleep and slept until late afternoon. The vomiting was over, but we still had the intestinal distress to contend with. We initially thought it was food poisoning, but now it's sounding more like "winter vomiting disease." Is there a vomiting disease for all seasons? I hope not. But it could have come from anywhere.

I woke up Friday feeling better, but I still seized my big moment to call in sick. I only felt perhaps 10% guilty about it, too.

The only thing I'm worried about now is that all this puking may have ruined pizza for me. My beloved pizza. I cringed whenever a commercial aired the whole time I was home, and I covered the takeout menu from the restaurant where we had dinner Wednesday. I just couldn't stand to look at it. There's still some hope, though. I ate a frozen pizza for dinner Saturday night and felt fine. If I can stomach that, things are looking up.

Well, until I blog about this again in 2020...

Long Distance Bleatication

2006-01-08T15:21:00.000-05:00

The lone boy in the pack, Rocky the pygmy goat.

Stop

2006-01-08T01:08:00.000-05:00

This looks like it could be a really dorky album cover, doesn't it?
Another one for the Hands Project.

Oh no, she di'int.

2006-01-07T12:27:00.000-05:00

Is that my mother flipping me off? Yeah, I thought so. Afterward she said, "Oh, no. Is that going on the blog?" I said, "You bet it is." She probably thought I had forgotten all about it.

Goat

2006-01-06T14:47:00.000-05:00

One of my mom's four goats. Don't ask me which one. I only know that her name is Sukie, Jane or Alex.

A Couple of the Reasons I'll Be Hauling My Butt Back to Weight Watchers Today (Oh, But It Was Worth It)

2006-01-04T00:55:00.000-05:00

The Black Book You Took

2006-01-04T00:00:00.000-05:00

Last night, I bought something I haven't owned in years: an address book.

I'm an organization maniac. I'm not always successful at being perfectly organized, but I'm always searching for Total Organization Nirvana. It's been and will continue to be a lifelong quest. I feel drunk with glee when I see a room with everything in its rightful place, everything lined up, no clutter anywhere to be found. This is probably why I've been known to plop myself down and kick my feet up on the display couches at Pottery Barn and pretend like it's my house. I wish.

A few years ago for Christmas, mom got me a Palm Pilot. I had noticed earlier that year that my dad had a pretty nice one. As he showed me all it could do, I said, "Wow! I have got to get one of these!"
Dad stopped and said, "Why would you need a Palm Pilot?"

Sure, my life wasn't exactly busy or fast-paced, but a Palm Pilot would be another tool through which I could attain utter Nirvana.

After mom hooked me up, I sat down and got to work. At first, I exercised restraint and just added addresses and phone numbers. Then I created a "to do" list. Then I went hog wild and created multiple "to do" lists, prioritizing each item.

Then I lost my mind.

I made a list of all the spices we had in our pantry, so I wouldn't buy, say, nutmeg, again by accident.

I made a list of all the coupons in the paper I had clipped. They were alphabetical, complete with expiration dates.

I kept my grocery list on the Palm Pilot, much to the amusement of some random guy one day at the grocery store. He snickered as he said, "Oh, I tried keeping my grocery list on the Palm once. Doesn't work."
"You probably just weren't doing it right," I replied.

I listed things we needed for the house, things we wanted for the house.

Things I wanted, just in general. Usually clothes and shoes.

I listed my favorite stores. You know, just in case I forget how much I love Target.

My lifetime goals. My short-term goals.

Lists of my weight and measurements on various dates.

Books I wanted to read. CDs I wanted to own. Movies we wanted to see. I felt that all of this was important, because I suffer from some very irritating affliction that wipes my mind completely blank the moment I step into any store that sells or rents media.

I showed my mom, a fellow organization freak, all of my lists and she sighed, "Oh, I wish I had that much time on my hands! Honey?" she asked my stepdad, "Can I quit my job?"

Then my world came crumbling down. The Palm Pilot crashed, and I had backed up none of it. All of my precious lists, gone. Addresses and phone numbers, vanished. It was a wonder I didn't buy all kinds of cinnamon and oregano on my next trip to the store, sending our pantry into complete chaos. I had to send a humbling e-mail to everyone I knew telling them what an idiot I was and ask them for their contact information.

Anyway, ever since then, I've had a few trust issues with technology as an organizational tool and I've rediscovered my love of writing things down. Typing is nice and efficient, but a written note? Totally impractical, but so much better. Years ago, I had a pen pal. We kept it old-fashioned. Our notes were almost always hand-written, and even after e-mail came along, we decided to keep up our correspondence the cumbersome but rewarding way, except in emergencies. We're not friends anymore, but I saved all of his letters and I'll always treasure them because they feel like relics. It's a lost art.

These days, I keep my lists on paper, next to the bed. I reserve my nicest handwriting for them.

So, the address book. This is shameful, but I had been keeping my addresses on a chart I created in Word (and printed out, lest the computer crash) since the Palm Incident. Addresses acquired since I printed out that list two years ago are kept on little scraps of paper nearby. It's gotten pathetic, and I think a few of my friends are starting to lose patience with me calling to ask, "Um, so, what's your address again?" I think I've asked Arwen a record five times for her address and the last time I asked, I was kind of surprised she didn't come over here personally to tell me to get it together, already. It's really about time I got around to it, considering my lofty aspirations.

I've got my pencil, my best penmanship and my crash-proof black book at the ready. Maybe now I can head to Pottery Barn with it and sit at one of those cute display desks while I scratch out some letters.

Oh, They Never Catch the Squirrels

2006-01-03T02:04:00.000-05:00

Fellow lip gloss lover Alyssa at Big Red Blog tagged me on this one. Really, I don't think you should waste your time reading my answers, because I'm just going to play it straight. Go read Darren's answers instead. They're much funnier.

What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was working at my first job in my chosen field, dating a guy I should blog about someday because he was such a piece of work and living in an apartment with four friends. I had my own room, though.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
I was probably still recovering from my New Year's hangover. Hoo boy.

Five snacks I enjoy
Peanut butter sandwiches
Fat Free potato chips
Oatmeal
Cheese and crackers
Ice cream

Five songs to which I know all the lyrics
Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin', by Journey
Kiss Off, by Violent Femmes
Judy is a Punk, by the Ramones
Tables and Chairs, by Andrew Bird
Brain Damage, by the Blake Babies

Five things I would do if I were a millionaire
I don't know...a million doesn't go very far these days. Can I be a billionaire instead?

Five bad habits
Picking my cuticles
Not returning 99% of the phone calls I receive in a timely fashion
Spending too much time online
Going to Target every single day
My stubborness

Five things I like doing
Going to Chipotle
Baking (not to be confused with cooking)
Ordering in takeout, especially when it's pizza or Chinese (also not to be confused with cooking)
Encouraging Nabby and Rufus to terrorize squirrels in the park
Going to rock shows

Five things I would never wear, buy or get new again
Anything made from jelly (bracelets, shoes)
Anything that resembles anything Madonna wore in the "Borderline" video
Horizontal stripes
Those boots I bought last year that I actually threw in the garbage after one wearing because holy shit they hurt
Leggings

Five favorite toys
iPod
Camera
Lenses
The computer in general
DVR

So here's the deal: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot:
Greensunflower
me vs. rut
ala carter
Unhip
nabbalicious

Then select five people to tag
Just about everyone I know has done this, so you know, if you haven't and you're bored, knock yourself out!

Waiting to Take Off

2006-01-03T02:00:00.000-05:00

Carl

2006-01-03T01:49:00.000-05:00

Carl is a really cool friend of my brother's. One for the Hands Project.

Benjamin

2006-01-02T02:23:00.000-05:00

Meet my other nephew, Ben. I didn't know about him until he was three weeks old because the flow of information in my family leaves a lot to be desired. He's two-years-old now, he talks up a storm, but he doesn't form many sentences. It's fun to ask him a question, because you can see the wheels turning. He thinks and thinks and thinks and he even scratches his head while he figures out what he wants to tell you, and then when he knows what it is, he gives you one perfect word to sum up everything he has to say.

When my stepmom puts Ben down for a nap, he yells, "Time out!!!!"

Ben is fearless. When Santa came over for Christmas (really, it was my aunt's boyfriend in a suit, not the Santa or anything), Ben leapt off my sister's lap and grabbed Santa by the hand and lead him to his seat. When it was his turn to sit in Santa's lap, Ben practically knocked Santa on his ass trying to get to him.

One of my cousins growled at Ben, and he ran away screaming. After three rounds of this, he ran away screaming, then turned around, clenched his fists and let out a lion cub's roar.

We watched the Wiggles with him (what is the deal with Captain Feathersword? He scares me.). At one point, they ordered all the kids to turn around. Ben began to turn, but halfway through, he pointed at the Mr. and ordered: "Do it." You have to draw the line somewhere, though.

The Bridge That Launched a Thousand Journey Songs

2006-01-02T02:13:00.000-05:00

T-r-o-u-b-b-b-l-e

2006-01-01T03:22:00.000-05:00

This is my 3-year-old nephew, Steven.

Oh my heavens, I love him. Sure, he was way cute when he was a baby. But now that he talks? He's a freaking riot. He says my name. It's the greatest. I asked my sister if I could take him home with me. She has three kids, so I figured she'd probably be up for unloading one. It's win-win, because I'd be getting a kid that's potty-trained. She chuckled and said, "Oh, sure. You can have him." But I came home empty-handed.

After I took a bunch of pictures of him, and he leaned over to look at my camera.
As I showed him one of his photos, I said, "Wow, you're really cute, aren't you?"
"YEAH!"

He won my heart when we went out to dinner and he ran up to me and yelled something. I couldn't understand him and listened closely for a few seconds. By the fourth time he repeated himself, I heard it loud and clear. "Loser!! Looooo-serrr!"

At first I was like, "Dude, did my nephew just call me a loser? What did I do? Why am I a loser to a 3-year-old?!"
"Loooo-serrrr!"
Except, it was coming out more like "Looo-soowwww!"
I looked at my sister for explanation. "He doesn't know what it means. We're not sure where he picked it up. We haven't explained it to him yet."
Knowing that, I said, "No, you're the loser! Loser!"
"Looo-serrr!"
"Looo-serrr!"
"Hee hee hee hee!"

When we were at Mass on Christmas Eve, he was sitting two rows ahead of me. He mouthed "Loser!" and did the "L" shape with both hands. I did the "L" shape back. It was far more entertaining than anything else going on in church.

The Mr. thinks someone should explain what "loser" means before he enters kindergarten, lest he get his butt whooped after saying it to the wrong person. Hm. Good point.

His other favorite game is "knock knock" jokes with no point.
"Knock-knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Uhhh...the Wiggles!"
"HAHAHAHA!"

Happy New Year!

2005-12-31T11:56:00.000-05:00

For the last few days, I've been thinking about the resolutions that I could make for myself for 2006. If you let me, I'll go on and on and list about 40 different things I'd like to accomplish or do differently. That's also about 37 different things I'll have forgotten all about by January 2nd.

This year, I'll take it easy, forget about the 37 things from the start and focus on the three things.

1) I'm going to read 40 books, dammit. This was one of my bigger personal disappointments in 2005, seeing that I scaled back to 40 from the traditional 50 to give myself a break, yet still couldn't manage it. For someone who enjoys reading, 28 books is kind of a pathetic number, don't you think? I can do so much better than this.

2) Just five more pounds gone. Please. I think I can do it. I feel disgusting enough right now, with my Christmas-acquired muffin tops and bat wings, that on January 1, my motivation will be stronger than ever.

Actually, I did well with this in 2005. Despite the holiday backslide, I've mentioned before that I managed to lose 10 pounds after buckling down and getting serious. This might be the least I've resolved to lose in years. Maybe next year I can use this space for something else, like resolving to go to Cold Stone Creamery for dessert every night.

3) I'd like to save some more money. I did pretty well in 2005, between my personal savings and retirement fund, and it'd be great to keep it up. I guess this means I can't also resolve to buy more shoes. Crap! My mom was telling me the other day about a friend of hers who has 80 pairs, and my first thought was, "New year's resolution!" But the Mr. would kill me. At least I'd be wearing bitchin' shoes.

There. Three perfectly manageable things. Less disappointment on December 31, 2006.

Have a great new year, y'all. See you on the other side of the hangover!

Turn to Clear Vision

2005-12-31T10:29:00.000-05:00

I Didn't Know You Could Break Cameras With Too Much Cute

2005-12-30T13:46:00.000-05:00

My nephew Steven, giving some snuggles to his little brother, Jackson.

Two Rare Photos, In Which We Aren't Trying To Poke One Another's Eyes Out*

2005-12-30T13:39:00.000-05:00

I'll bet for a second you thought it was Robert DeNiro, right? No, it's just my (little) brother.

I don't know what happened here, but I'm trying not to spit out my drink.

*Courtesy of the Mr.

Once I Really Listened, the Noise Just Went Away

2005-12-30T07:03:00.000-05:00

It's 7:01 a.m., and I'm at the ATL airport right now. I wish I had something interesting to say, because I feel like this is my big opportunity to sound really worldly and busy-busy-busy, like I blog during the limited downtime of my high-powered and glamorous job and I type between sips of my nonfat lattes and people wonder, "How does she do it all?" But the truth is, the Mr. and I got off the plane and I asked, "Does this airport have wireless?" and he wondered what I could want to do with the internet at 7 a.m. on a few hours of sleep. Hey, I could totally have stuff. He's so onto me, though. I just like the internet, that's all.

I'm not having any sort of coffee drink, either, because I'm going to need to sleep some more later. And the facade just falls away, doesn't it?

As I'm sitting here, though, people are glancing over at me. Maybe they think I'm doing something huge! I'm closing a big deal! I'm...updating my blog! Which they've probably never read! Unless, of course, they are members of the Site That Will Not Be Named.

Let's see. The flight was OK. It was so bumpy that at one point I tightened my seat belt. I never do that, because those things are so uncomfortable. They make me claustrophobic. At another point, the plane shook and dropped, and there was a loud "Thump!" from the back. I just gripped my book harder and went back to sleep.

Our flight did leave about 45 minutes late. At the time, I was very irritated, but now I'm kind of relieved. This was originally going to be a long layover -- just about two hours -- and now it's a fairly short one.

When I got off the plane, a couple that looked reasonably content while boarding were fighting. Well, she was fighting and yelling and waving her arms, while he stood there helplessly. I tried to linger nearby to see what it was all about, but I have no idea. Then she stormed off and left him to drag both their suitcases. They're not on our connection home, which I was disappointed to see. What got her so crazy?

There was just one baby behind us, but he or she only cried once, when we were getting ready to land. What a relief!

The Mr. and I did online check-in before leaving for the airport, and toward the back of the plane were a TON of empty seats. We picked an empty row. He got the window, I got the aisle (frequent trips to the bathroom and all that) and we thought, "What lunatic is going to pick a seat right in the middle of us with all these empty rows around?" The joke was on us, though. The flight was full, so we had a girl occupying the seat between us and thus, couldn't spread out. But I wound up having a nice sleep, anyway. I owe it all to my fuzzy, soft travel pillow. This thing is ridiculously comfortable and worth what I paid for it. In fact, I might go back and throw more money at the vendor because I'm so happy.

You know you're addicted and devoted to blogging when you're having an internal debate about whether you should sleep when you get home, or post some pictures from your trip.

I haven't decided which side wins yet.

A Riot of My Own

2005-12-29T01:55:00.000-05:00

I've had my iPod for just over three months, and just about the only thing I haven't done with it is put it on "shuffle." I've been afraid to. Why? Well, what if my iPod shows an affinity for Journey or the Carpenters? Oh, sure. I love Journey and the Carpenters, but shouldn't my iPod have better taste than that? Shouldn't my iPod, when left to its own devices, be the snobbiest of music snobs, or at the very least be somewhat selective? I'd like my iPod to be cooler than me, to give me something to aspire to.

So, it was with much trepidation the other night that I finally set the thing on "shuffle" and sat back to see what it would spit out.

1) "Nightswimming" by R.E.M. Good start. "Automatic for the People" is, in my opinion and with the exception of a few songs, a terrific album that reminds me of my sophomore year of college. I breathed a sigh of relief when this came on.

2) "Ann Arbor Grandfather" by Big Head Todd and the Monsters. This is an album I recently added from the Mr.'s music collection, so I'm not so familiar with these guys. But this was a decent song. Good work so far, iPod. You're not embarrassing me. It's all I ask.

3) "Take Me I'm Yours" by Squeeze. OK! Things are looking good.

4) "AT & T" by Pavement. I was hugging and kissing my iPod by this point.

5) "She's a Woman (and Now He's a Man)" by Husker Du. I'm glad my iPod is showing some love for the Minneapolis music scene. I'd have preferred the Replacements, but Husker Du ain't too shabby.

6) "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos" by Public Enemy. Just when you think you've got the iPod all figured out.

7) "Steve Berman (Skit)" by Eminem. Um. I should have just deleted the skits when I uploaded my Eminem CDs.

8) "Wait" by the Beatles. Good choice, but the iPod is taking the easy, safe route with this one, isn't it?

9) "Lives in the Balance" by Jackson Browne. The first real misstep. This is probably one of my least favorite Jackson Browne songs, so my heart sank a little when this came on.

10) "Linda Paloma" by Jackson Browne. This is an improvement, but I guess the iPod and I will just have to agree to disagree on Jackson Browne's best works.

I was going to stop at ten songs, but the last two selections were so disappointing that I decided to give the iPod a chance to redeem itself. I crossed my fingers and proceeded.

11) "White Riot" by the Clash. Love affair? BACK ON.

12) "Last Day of the Miner's Strike" by Pulp. Well, it's no "White Riot," but what is?

This One Didn't Make the Final Cut, But It Should Have

2005-12-27T12:56:00.000-05:00

Another one of the Newport/Catalina stories we like to tell is one about Joe. Go look at his picture below before reading on. Cute, right? I mean, just totally adorable. He's still impossibly adorable (and also funny as hell), but man, as a kid...so cute!

Joe asked my stepdad, Eldon, for something, and no one seems to remember what it was, but Eldon said no. Joe was so mad, he stopped in the middle of the street and yelled:

"FUCK YOU, DAD!!!"

All of Catalina, right down to the buffalo that inhabit the other side of the island, heard it. It probably made the local paper the next day.

Don't be fooled by that face.

Just Another Story

2005-12-26T00:41:00.000-05:00

Me and Joe, taking charge in Catalina. Dig the giant hair.

It's a rare thing when my stepbrothers Jake and Joe and I are all together in the same room. If we're lucky, it happens about once every several years or so. It happened again this Christmas, and like it does every time, the conversation eventually turned to a couple of legendary trips we took to Catalina and Newport Beach in the early '90s.

My stepdad was sent down to Newport Beach on business, and it was decided that this would be a family vacation. The first year, my dad loaned us his van (sans air conditioning), we loaded it up and head out. Jake, Joe and I thought that perhaps it would be wise to stay up all night, then fall asleep in the van and sleep the entire drive, waking up in sunny Newport Beach rested and refreshed. The plan worked until we found ourselves on the stretch of I-5 known as the Grapevine, which is legendary for the number of cars that fail to complete the journey. The grade of the hill and the heat kills transmissions. Jake, Joe and I woke up just as we hit the Grapevine dripping in sweat. To make matters worse, mom was blasting Linda Ronstadt, and I voiced my dissent immediately. Eldon put on the Doors, and when the part of "The End" that goes "The blue bus is calling us" came on, Eldon took out his blue brush and sang, "The blue brush is calling us..."

After surviving the Grapevine, we stopped at a restaurant for lunch. We were crabby, hot and tired. Joe and I began to squabble, he told me to "take a Midol" and I smacked him with my open hand. We laugh about it now, but mom and Eldon say he looked a little dazed. Joe says he didn't even know what "take a Midol" meant at the time. He was just repeating something he heard that sounded like it could be funny.

Eventually, Joe and I made up and the three of us became a team again. Each morning, Eldon wanted us to get lost, so he gave each of us a twenty and told us to go have fun. The three of us would agree not to spend our money on anything but the bare necessities and instead, we'd look for free ways to have fun. Our most brilliant "bargain" was to jump off a little bridge that rose about 25 feet over the water. It was a carefully thought-out plan. We saw the bridge, thought, "Hey! Let's jump off of that while we're here. No one tell mom and Eldon." We discussed it for a day or so, decided that it would be wise to go into the water below the bridge before jumping to make sure there was nothing that could impale us. After the water passed inspection, we went back to the bridge, climbed over the railing, sucked in our breath, leaned over...and only Jake went. Joe and I froze at the pivotal moment and watched in horror as Jake plummeted toward the water, all flailing arms and legs, executing a perfect belly-flop.

Jake still thinks we set him up, even though we try to reassure him that up until it came time to actually let go of the bridge, we were dead serious about making the leap.

The next year, we spent a few days in Newport before going on to Catalina. What happened there was so embarrassing that my mother feels the need to trot this out as the capper to any Newport/Catalina-related storytelling binge. I've long since given up trying to stop her from telling it.

It all started in a bar and grill where a local reggae band was playing. Since I was in my thanfully short-lived "I love reggae" phase, I insisted that we all go to the restaurant and listen. When we got there, we were told that after a certain hour, the restaurant would become a bar and all the underage patrons without adults would be kicked out. Mom and Eldon wanted to leave after we had our dinner, but I begged them to allow me to stay behind. They agreed, but about five minutes after they left, I was booted out. The band continued to play, and the music could be heard through speakers outside the restaurant. I decided that the restaurant and their stupid rules weren't going to keep me down, man, so I just danced right there outside. By myself.

It wasn't long before a group of four men eating ice cream cones came by, sat down and began to watch me. They asked why I was dancing out there, and I told them, and they continued to watch. I wasn't really interested in continuing to dance or talking to them, but didn't know how to gracefully stop and walk away. Finally, about five very uncomfortable minutes passed before I saw mom and Eldon making their way up the street. "Oh, thank God!" I waited until they got a little closer, then abruptly stopped and ran toward them. Clearly, it was the graceful exit I had been waiting for.

"What were you doing?" they asked. I explained about the pervy men with their licking of the ice cream cones and the not knowing what on earth to do about it and ohthankthesweetbabyjesus they finally showed up.

Eldon said he and mom had been walking toward me having the following exchange:

"Oh, look at the girl dancing! She looks like she's having fun."
They got a little closer.
"Wow, that looks like Nabbalicious."
A little closer.
"That is Nabbalicious!"

And now Eldon always adds, "And the men! They were just sitting there, licking their ice cream cones and just waaaatching her! Oh, it was so gross! Hahahaha."

We always tell these stories, always in the same order. The same people say the same things like we're all in a play and we know our lines by heart, yet every time, it feels like it's the first time I heard them.

Bring It On

2005-12-23T15:50:00.000-05:00

I've gotten VERY good at parallel parking, since I have been doing it almost daily for seven years. It's my specialty, a trick I use to amaze, wow and win over my friends and influence people. I'm not generally a braggart, but if I were to totally brag about something, it would be my parallel parking ability.

And now, I can finally present some evidence. This was taken a couple months ago, but I just received the picture from the photographer.

My car is the one in the center, with three inches of wiggle room. Behold*:

Oh, don't feel too bad for the poor guy behind me. After this was taken, the guy in front of me moved his car forward, and then I moved my car.

*How you like me nowwwww, maliavale?

When Even I'm Not Worried About Arrest, It Has to Be Cool

2005-12-22T02:28:00.000-05:00

Glenn: This is Robin Williams's house, up here on the right.

Me, to the Mr.: Ooh! Hand me my camera!

The Mr.: What? No! You're going to get arrested!

Glenn: BWAHAHAHAHAHA

Me: For what?

The Mr.: I don't know! Trespassing!

Me: I'm just taking a picture, not breaking in. Give me my camera, please!

The Mr.: Fine.

The Mr., as I'm shooting: Hey, you better look out! He has one of those security camera things!

Me: Great! He'll have my picture too, then!

Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy

2005-12-21T00:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday morning at 6 a.m., the Mr. and I boarded a plane bound for Atlanta, where we would catch our connection to San Francisco. Just as I was settling in for a little nap (or my best imitation of a nap in those seats), a 3- or 4-year-old girl and her mother boarded the plane and sat right behind us.

"Mommy, mommy. When does the plane leave?"
"Soon, honey."

It wasn't long before my eyes got heavy and I fell fast asleep, because I only got about 90 minutes of sleep prior to that. I was a crank yesterday.

"Mommy, mommy. How do they know when we're ready to leave?"

The plane backed away from the gate with so much speed that I woke up and my first thought was of those elderly drivers you hear about from time to time, the ones who confuse the brake pedal with the gas pedal and wind up in someone's living room right in the middle of a "Home Improvement" rerun.

"Mommy, mommy. That was fast!"

We took off. I put some Wilco on my iPod and passed out.

"Mommy, mommy. What if we fly out the back?"

The rest of the flight was like that, me drifting in and out of consciousness, each time hearing the girl ask another question. I turned up my iPod, but even Jeff Tweedy's soothing voice couldn't drown her out.

"Mommy, mommy. What's first class?"

Her mom was so patient. I don't understand how. Moms amaze me. No, I'm serious.

"Mommy, mommy. How long are we flying for?"

In one of my states of mild consciousness, I wondered what would annoy me more? Having a baby that cried constantly for no reason? Or a kid that asked questions incessantly, each one preceded with "Mommy mommy!"? Oh, I suppose it's good that she's inquisitive and showing so much curiosity about the world and yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah.

"Mommy, mommy. Why is this strange lady locking me in the bathroom?"
"Because you just don't shut up, honey."

On the next leg of the flight, we were seated over the wing. A woman boarded with her toddler daughter and screaming infant son and they sat in front of us. Now, I'm not completely heartless. I know motherhood is tough. It's tougher that I think I'm capable of handling (see above re: locking kid in bathroom). But, I don't know. Couldn't she have sat at an extreme end of the plane? It was suggested to me that perhaps she was too wrapped up in, I don't know, being a mom to think of that. I can understand that. I mean, it sounds like something I would do. I'd probably do something worse. I don't know what's worse, but I guarantee you I'll think of it if given enough time. I know what's worse. I'd probably forget my kid at home, like in "Home Alone."

Anyway, it turns out that I had nothing to worry about at all. I barely heard the baby after takeoff and both he and his mom did a swell job of keeping the noise to a minimum. There was a man in their row who I thought was the father, but it was just some guy. She was traveling by herself, so I felt like an even bigger bitch for not being patient because she had no one to help her.

But still, it occurred to me later that perhaps there should be crying rooms on planes, much like they have at churches. All the parents with babies and young children can gather in there and rest assured they're not torturing anyone but themselves, and the rest of us can concentrate on other airplane annoyances, like seatmates who want to know your life story.

Shall I circulate a petition?

This Post Has Been Approved By the Mr.*

2005-12-20T01:23:00.000-05:00

There's this guy I see all the time. He's always sure to pay me a compliment and notice if I've done the slightest thing different, in a completely non-creepy and adorable way.

"Your hair looks niiiice today!"

"Hey, new shirt. Cute!"

"Got a haircut, huh? Lookin' GOOD!"

Last week I said to him, "You know, you're really going to give me a fat head!"

"Well, you're just like a pretty picture. You look and you look, and you notice new things each time!"

This guy is most definitely not my husband.

My husband is the guy who came up to me on Saturday and said, "Hey! Your hair looks lighter!" So observant, right? Yeah. Except, I had my hair highlighted almost THREE MONTHS AGO.

I'm so glad someone's been paying attention.

*Really!

Sister Christmas

2005-12-19T02:17:00.000-05:00

For a couple years when my stepsister and I were little, we'd spend the week before Christmas devising a trap to catch Santa. We spent a lot of time on this, because can you imagine the stir it would cause if we caught the guy? I'm not sure if we actually wanted to do anything to him or hold him for ransom. We just wanted to see how he got in and out of the house, watch him do his work, then shake him down for more presents.

The usual plan was to set up the trap, then sleep in one-hour shifts, which is just a fantastic plan for a 7- and 5-year-old and totally not destined to fail at all. The first year, Karen took the starting shift and said she'd wake me a few hours later when it was my turn. Naturally, she fell asleep on the job, never woke me for my shift and we awakened Christmas morning to find that our booby trap had been dismantled.

The next year, we got a touch smarter, but lazier. We set up the trap with a string running across the floor in the hallway, and tied to my foot. It would not only trip Santa, but it would wake me when he fell. It had the added benefit of completely eliminating the need for sleeping in shifts. It was brilliant! We woke up Christmas morning to find the string had been cut.

Santa was a sneaky mofo, that's for sure.

We gave up on Santa after that, but we kept the other part of our routine until well after we both grew up and moved away from home.

Our first house, in Fremont, didn't have enough bedrooms to hold both Karen and my stepbrother Glenn, plus my brother and I when we came to visit. Karen's room had a rollaway bed I slept on. The day my dad and stepmom bought it, Karen and I raised it and jumped on it until it collapsed, sending a loud "BOOM!" rattling through the house. My stepmom came into the room to find out what happened, and we were all whistles and innocent looks.

On Christmas Eve, we'd pull out the rollaway and sleep next to each other. Karen always woke up first on Christmas morning. She'd climb out of bed, wander out to the living room to go look at the tree, then run back into our room, jump on my bed, smack me with a pillow and, if Christmas had been good to us, she'd shriek "WE GOT THE BIG PRESENT WE GOT THE BIG PRESENT!" Every year, my dad and stepmom would alternate whether the boys or the girls got the big present, as in, the physically biggest present. We hadn't figured out the "small packages" adage yet.

We moved across the Bay to Foster City when I was 13, and the new house had enough space for everyone to have their own room. Despite that, Karen and I decided we would keep up our Christmas routine. I'd sleep on the rollaway in her room and she'd beat my ass with a pillow in the morning and scream about presents in my ear. The routine continued after I moved to Florida in 1998 and came home for holiday visits.

We finally had to knock it off in 2001 after Karen got married. I don't think her husband, Ray, would have been so wild about me sleeping next to them, and he definitely wouldn't have tolerated her pillow smackdowns as well as I did.

I think that was the Christmas I finally realized we had to grow up whether we liked it or not, and things weren't always going to be the same. Our pancake face breakfasts have been upgraded to eggs benedict, and we're not so fooled by the huge boxes anymore. Oh, and we can pour ourselves a few drinks at the family Christmas party and feel free to get a little tipsy. Growing up isn't all bad.

***

Tomorrow morning, way too early for my tastes, the Mr. and I are going home to the Bay Area for a bit. I have grand plans to update often, especially the week after Christmas. I'm also bringing my cord to upload photos periodically. We'll see how it all shakes out. If you don't hear from me, I hope all of you have a wonderful [insert holiday here].

Make Up My Room, Dammit!

2005-12-19T02:01:00.000-05:00

I could live in a hotel. I'm serious.

Brennan

2005-12-18T00:59:00.000-05:00

Hands Project

Kimberly

2005-12-16T10:06:00.000-05:00

One for the Hands Project.

That Part About Me Getting An E-Mail About This? True.

2005-12-15T14:32:00.000-05:00

Darren chronicles the events of this morning way better than I ever could.

Here, when I saw this morning that my stats were blowing up, I thought that I was famous in the good way.

You should also know that I have hundreds more visitors than normal today, too. We're not talking a few dozen. Just when I think I've nailed down what topics bring in the readers, my mind gets blown...

Rear Window

2005-12-15T10:29:00.000-05:00

Don't Fence Me In

2005-12-15T01:31:00.000-05:00

The Mr. and I went to see "The Squid and the Whale" last night. I had been caught up in running errands all day and the movie was more or less a last-minute decision. As soon as we sat down, I panicked. I didn't know how long the movie was. I also didn't know what it was about, although I had heard it was good. I had just completely forgotten to look.

Before I see any movie, I can't relax and enjoy it until I know the length in minutes and have a brief synopsis. In a theater, it's a little easier to lose yourself and forget about how long a movie is, but at home, I find my eyes constatly drifting to the counter on our DVD player to see exactly how far into the movie we are. I wish I had some sort of insightful explanation for this, but I don't. It has nothing to do with whether I'm actually enjoying the movie.

Luckily, the "The Squid and the Whale" turned out to be great, and clocked in at a really short 88 minutes.

I'm pretty sure my compulsion to know how long a movie is and what it's about began after "Dances With Wolves." My mom and grandma had been dying to see the movie, and they dragged my brother and I to see it in the theater. Mom mentioned that it was about a man who encounters some Native Americans, so I gamely went along, not realizing that that damn movie was more than three hours long, and had about four false endings. I was ready to poke my eyes out.

Shortly after the movie was released, I was working as a hostess in a restaurant. One Saturday afternoon, two women came in asking to be seated and fed immediately, as they had just come from a showing of "Dances With Wolves." They hadn't realized how long it was and one of the women was a diabetic and had gotten sick. I could certainly relate.

Ever since then, I'm not really a fan of the 3-hour epic. Sure, I'll go, but I need to mentally prepare myself for sitting there for that long. One night, a friend and I went to see "Short Cuts" in the theater, and the movie is anything but short. I loved it so much that when I recommended it to people, I didn't cite the interesting storylines, or the cool way everything is interconnected, but "It doesn't even feel like three hours! Seriously! I thought it was 90 minutes, tops!" Any movie that doesn't feel like three hours is aces in my book.

Of course, I did make an exception for "Titanic," which I saw an embarrassing number of times in the theater.

I do the same thing with books. As soon as I begin a new book, I must immediately flip to the last page to see how long it is. Then I read the inside cover to get an idea of what the book is about. If there's a picture of the author, I'll check that out. Then I can get started on the book. I can't just dive in and enjoy the journey. The page number hangs in the back of my head the entire time I'm reading, and like with the movies, doesn't mean I'm not enjoying myself. I think I must just like knowing where I am in relation to things.

When I told the Mr. last night about my book compulsion, after asking, "Why?!" he told me that sometimes he flips to the back and reads the end. I did that once, with "Where the Red Fern Grows." The dogs die at the end, so I was, of course, totally distraught. Then I read the book and actually got the full story and was just despondent.

I also can't watch coming-of-age movies about pets. Jasclo has told me numerous times that I need to see "My Dog Skip," but I don't think so. I can already tell you that the dog is going to die at the end. I don't care if it's "heart-warming." It's the same reason I haven't seen "Old Yeller." Dog die=me not interested. Dog live forever=OK, maybe we'll talk.

Next up: why I need to spin around three times before climbing into bed.

Brooklyn Redux

2005-12-14T01:16:00.000-05:00

Door

2005-12-13T03:19:00.000-05:00

Some Things Never Change

2005-12-13T00:45:00.000-05:00

In high school and college, I had a certain knack for falling for the wrong guys. There was Nick, the guy who broke up with me via the postal service over the summer. It was after I sent him a postcard of the "Hotel DeVille." I was so mad when I received his letter that I crumpled it and prepared to throw it in the trash, but couldn't. I opened it again and again, and re-crumpled it as many times. I showed it to all my friends. "Rude" was the verdict. There was Tom, the heavy metal/horror movie freak I kind of liked, but who embarrassed me. He was just so loud and showy, I couldn't stand to be seen with him outside his dorm room. George couldn't make up his mind about whether we should date or not, so he toyed with me all through junior year until finally, finally, I had had enough. There was Larry, so demanding of my attention but so stingy with his own.

Now that I'm married (to someone delightfully appropriate, I might add), I've found another inappropriate thing to fall for: TV shows. Sure, I watch some crap. But I think it's just a defense mechanism after years of heartbreak. I've built a wall around myself, and I don't let just any TV show work its way in.

It all began with "Relativity," starring the adorable Kimberly Williams as Isabella and David Conrad as her boyfriend, Leo. It's murky now, but I think it was about three sisters and their various dilemmas. One was messing around with a teacher, I think. Another one, who was married, was hooking up with Leo's best friend, played by Adam Goldberg. Sure, it was soap operatic, but it was smart. Midway through the season, it wasn't looking good for the show, so I tried to rally my friends around it. I was successful, but unfortunately, Nielsen doesn't care what four people in a tiny apartment in San Jose think. Adding insult to injury, the final episode ended with Leo proposing to Isabella and you don't get to see her answer. That might have been ruder than Nick's letter.

A few years later, I discovered "Cupid," starring Jeremy Piven as the brilliantly manic Trevor Hale and Paula Marshall as his cool, logical psychologist, Claire. The premise was that Trevor was really Cupid, banished from Mt. Olympus and sent to live among the mortals. He had to make 100 matches sans bow and arrow before he'd be allowed to return. Trevor was deemed mentally ill, and each episode featured Trevor and Claire duking it out over whether you should love with your head or your heart, or maybe a little of both. The show had it all: comedy, drama and occasionally, major tearjerking.

If you're able to watch "The Heart of the Matter" episode and not cry like a baby at the twist ending, well, I salute you, you robot. Cupid really could have been a major hit if the network hadn't changed its time slot every freaking week. When things began looking dire, I sent a letter of support to the powers that be begging and pleading with them to keep it on the air. Unfortunately, the network doesn't care what a 20-something no-name on the East Coast thinks and they axed it. And just to twist the knife into my heart a little harder, the final episode aired on Valentine's Day.

I was lucky to find someone online who had taped every episode, though. Every few years or so, I'll take out the tapes and watch the episodes back to back. And cry. A lot.

After that, the Mr. and I discovered the sitcom "It's Like...You Know," which was just a victim of unfortunate timing. It debuted right around the time "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" was going crazy, and the network cleared the schedule to air "Millionaire" 24 hours a day. It never had a chance.

Then, there was "Freaks and Geeks." Oh, that show. I'm getting a little choked up here. This was the saddest one of all. I have the geeked-out special edition DVD, which I watch periodically. Little Sam Weir, and his crush, Cindy Sanders. Lindsay and Nick. The giant, scary Norseman mascot head. Biff from "Back to the Future" as the P.E. instructor. Bill's disco dancing, which he thinks is totally going to get him the ladies. Millie, the tense nerd. I mean, when she sits down at the piano at the keg party after announcing to everyone that she can have more fun than anyone without drinking and plays "Jesus Is Just All Right With Me," I die laughing. I'm having trouble collecting my thoughts. I...I can't go on.

Finally, there's "Arrested Development," and we all know what's going on with that one. I'm really rooting for it to stick around, but I'm not getting my hopes up about it. History has not been kind. I knew I shouldn't get attached, but it's the price you pay for true love.

Hotel

2005-12-12T02:10:00.000-05:00

Don't Blame The Sweet and Tender Hooligan, Because She'll Never, Never Do It Again

2005-12-12T02:02:00.000-05:00

I get weak whenever a police cruiser pulls up behind me. My legs go numb and I start running a mental checklist of things I could be pulled over for. Did I fully stop at that last stop sign? Am I going the speed limit? Are my lights in working order? Are there warrants out for my arrest? Have I run someone over and not realized it? Even though I've done nothing wrong, my guilty conscience kicks in big-time.

When I was growing up, outside of ghosts, I think one of my biggest fears was getting a ticket or being arrested. You can maybe see why: I have a dad, two grandfathers, an uncle, a cousin and an aunt who are or were in various branches of law. You'd think it would be just the opposite, that perhaps I'd think myself invincible with so many people around to get me out of a little jam. I'd go around breaking the law left and right, and if I were ever caught, I'd announce, "Do you know who my father is?"

But dad made sure we didn't grow up with that attitude and instead worked hard to instill a sense of respect with a heaping tablespoon of paranoia about the po-po. He'd remind us in not-so-subtle ways that if the cops were intent on catching a criminal, catch them they would. You can run, but you can't hide. And once you were caught, you would be shown no mercy. He occasionally took me on tours of the county jail, where on one visit, a prisoner barked at me. I'm pretty sure the message was, "Misbehave, and this guy is going to be your roommate."

On more than one occasion, he asked us kids who left a mess in the living room or kitchen. After we had all vigorously denied responsibility he'd calmly ask, "Are you going to make me dust for fingerprints?" We sputtered our confessions immediately.

He never had to resort to actual dusting, although I think we should have called his bluff just once, because I just don't believe he had a fingerprint dusting kit until years later in his work as a homicide detective, if he ever had one.

Growing up in perpetual fear of the police didn't exactly make me law-abiding in my teen years. I just knew that whatever I did, I had to take extra care not to get caught, because I had seen firsthand what happens to people who don't behave. And my parents wouldn't consider jail punishment enough, either. I could also say goodbye to the TV. At the time, I thought I was crafty, but it really was just dumb luck that I was never ticketed or arrested.

My dad's scare tactics worked even less on my brother, who for a stretch of several years was routinely pulled over. While the officer was looking at his registration and license, my brother would casually ask, "Oh. Hey! Do you happen to know my dad?"
"Who's your dad?"
My brother would tell him his name, and the officer would almost always say, "Oh, yes! Wow, he's a good guy! You must love having him as a father. It's great to meet his son! Well, forget the ticket, and tell him I said hello! Have a nice day."

This is just one more example of how my brother was born with the charming gene. If I tried that, I'd be sitting in the back of a police cruiser with a cop up front telling me that my dad sure must be disappointed at the way I turned out. Of course, the one person my brother had a little difficulty charming was dad, who eventually got wind of what he was doing and told everyone in the department that if they pulled my brother over, he was to be given a ticket. That put an end to that.

My lucky streak nearly came to a screeching halt one night at an all-ages club with Trish and Peter in college. They were both over 21, and I must have been 19 or 20 at the time. While I bitterly sipped my diet Coke, Trish and Peter knocked back Zimas. I asked Peter what Zima tasted like, expecting him to describe it to me, perhaps let me smell it. Instead, he held the bottle up to my mouth and poured. Before I had even finished the sip, a woman came over, shined a flashlight on us and snapped, "Let's see IDs."

She hauled Peter and I outside and left us shivering in the cold while she went to get a uniformed officer. I started to cry.
"Oh my God, Peter. I can't go to jail."
"You're not going to go to jail."
"No, I am. I got caught drinking! How am I going to tell my parents I'm in jail?"
"Relax. You're fine."
"You don't understand."

He rolled his eyes. It was a Friday night, and I began mentally going over my schedule for the next day. I had to go home, but I probably wouldn't be expected to show up until dinner, which would buy me most of the day to sit in jail.

"Peter, if we went to jail now, what time do you think we'd get out tomorrow?"
"We're not going to jail."

Fine. He's going to be sorry later that he didn't plan this all in advance, I thought. I was pretty sure I'd be out in time to get home, and no one would be the wiser. I'd deal with the other problem -- that word would probably get back to my dad that I had been in jail -- later.

Finally, an officer came over and had Peter and I recount the incident for him. Peter blamed the entire thing on himself and stressed that I really hadn't been given much of a choice about the drink. When we finished, he asked us if we knew what we had done was illegal. "Yes, sir! I know!" I said. He warned us not to do it again, and sent us back into the club. Peter told Trish about my histrionics and they had a big laugh at my expense.

But really, how stupid would that have been to be arrested for a crap drink like Zima?

My Morning

2005-12-10T08:16:00.000-05:00

5 a.m.
The Mr. shakes me. "Can you take me to the airport?"
Me, groggy. "Right now?"
"Five minutes?"
"Mmmphbb."

5:05 a.m.
The Mr., "OK, now?"
"Grrrarghh."

5:10-5:50 a.m.
Drive to airport and back home.

5:55 a.m.
Crawl back into bed, read "Entertainment Weekly" for five minutes to fall back asleep.

6 a.m.
Bliss.

7 a.m.
Alarm to get up, have breakfast and go to spinning.
Hit snooze.

7:08, 7:16, 7:24, 7:32, 7:40, 7:48 a.m.
Hit snooze.

7:56 a.m.
Wake up, drink coffee, eat oatmeal, leaving 10 minutes to do all that and still make it to spinning on time.

8:05 a.m.
Screw spinning, but perhaps I can just go to the gym at 8:30 and use the Arc Trainer. OK. That's the new plan. Yes.

8:11 a.m.
Newer plan: I'll go back to bed, wake up at 9:45, go to the mall to run an errand, then go to the gym afterward.

8:15 a.m.
Or maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I just skipped it all today.

8:33 a.m.
I'm so going back to bed.

No Moleste

2005-12-10T01:13:00.000-05:00

I'm Cured! It's a Miracle!

2005-12-09T09:40:00.000-05:00

I've had IBS for years. In fact, my symptoms really began in 1996, not long after I graduated college and entered the real world. Coincidence? I think not. I knew I should have just stayed in school and been a professional student. Believe me, I wanted to. My parents, not so much. Before I even enrolled in my first class, they informed me, "Four years is all we're paying for. After that? You're on your own." I probably was destined to get IBS anyway.

Every single night at work, I'd get these intense shooting pains in my stomach. I'd bloat up like Violet Beauregard in "Willy Wonka." I couldn't, ahem, go to the bathroom. It was horrible, and I suffered like that every night at work for the next eight years or so and I didn't know what it was. For a long time, I thought it was cervical cancer. I heard that if you have it, you can get gassy and bloated. My trips to the gynecologist never turned up anything, and some part of me wondered if they were just missing something, or maybe sending my tests to that sham lab I read about in Reader's Digest once. The workers at this lab were under intense pressure to get through as many pap smear tests as possible. One woman was so productive and rushed in her work that she sent back a "cancer negative" result for a woman who was actually positive, and the woman wound up dying and her family sued the lab. Anyway, I hoped my doctor wasn't using that lab. I don't want to be a Reader's Digest feature someday.

Sometime in 2002, I met with my doctor's nurse practitioner for my annual exam and I told her about my IBS. She told me I just needed to relax. It sounds bad, but she was so nice that she was the only reason I stayed with that doctor as long as I did. As soon as she was gone, I was out of there. Her advice was probably the best she could do at the time, because doctors were still figuring out what IBS was and how to treat it. She told me that it was caused by stress, but she didn't seem to know of any medication for it. They make "just relaxing" sound so easy, don't they?

In 2004, I saw some commercials advertising drugs for IBS, so I went right back to that doctor and demanded some: "Me want drugs. Tummy hurts. Gimme." It was the first and only time he ever really listened to me, and asked all kinds of embarrassing questions about my symptoms and I tried to give honest answers without covering my face with my gown and giggling. He put me on some drug that starts with a c? Whenever I felt an attack coming on, I was supposed to pop that under my tongue and let it dissolve. He did suggest managing my stress a little better, which is true. But wouldn't valium make it a lot easier?

The c drug only worked for a month, though. It was getting to the point where I was taking three at once and not feeling any improvement. I went to a specialist earlier this year, and they were very enthusiastic about putting me on Zelnorm. They sent me along with some free samples, and the next day, I noticed how much better I felt. I called the nurse practitioner, raved and gushed and thanked her and promised to name my firstborn after her, but I didn't mention that I was undecided about having kids. They wrote me a prescription, and I began to take it regularly and things were fantastic.

About a month ago, the Zelnorm began slipping my mind and I'd forget to take it. I noticed that I wasn't having any attacks, so I continued to not take it. It's been about a month, and I've had perhaps three attacks this month, a huge improvement. I do take the Zelnorm in that instance, but it would appear that I don't need it regularly anymore. I went to my specialist yesterday, and informed him of all of this. He seems to think that my having lost 10 pounds in the last few months and eating yogurt like a fiend every day was enough to help. Then he praised me for being such a good patient and listening to what they tell me. Awww.

I'm going to miss him.

Bolts

2005-12-09T00:00:00.000-05:00

And Now For a Completely Random Entry

2005-12-08T00:02:00.000-05:00

I've been waiting for months and months to share this little tidbit, thinking that the perfect opportunity to write about it would eventually present itself. Some people were of the opinion that it would have worked well in this entry, but I don't know. That was about sharing food and this didn't seem quite right for that. But I'm getting tired of hanging onto it, so here you go.

I used to work with a guy named Jeff. He was tall-ish, thin, wore glasses, a blazer and jeans to work nearly every day. He was also smart, hilarious and snide in way I found amusing, and we became pretty good friends. But one thing he did drove me absolutely crazy.

We all ate dinner at our desks, because in our industry, you really can't get away for all that long. You have about 5 minutes to heat up your stuff in the microwave and grab a soda from the vending machine, and then it's back to your desk to continue working, taking bites between fits of typing.

Every single night, I'd heat up my dinner and come back to my desk. My butt would barely hit the seat before Jeff would poke his head over the partition and say, "Nabbalicious?"
"Yes?"
"What are you eating?"
"Chicken noodle soup, Jeff."
He'd pause to consider this.
"Can I see it?"

That's right. He didn't want any. He just wanted to see it. I'd hold it up so he could get a good look. Every time, he'd stare for two or three seconds before saying, "Huh" and sitting down without any further comment.

He did this to all of us, every night. My friend Tannalee, who sat to my left and diagonally from Jeff, was driven so batty by his nightly "Can I see it?" fests that she started keeping her food under her desk and sneaking bites when Jeff wasn't looking.

Your coworkers can definitely make you insane.

Brooklyn Bridge

2005-12-08T00:01:00.000-05:00

Village

2005-12-07T00:46:00.000-05:00

Some Pictures I Found a Few Weeks Ago, Some Of Which I Wish I Hadn't

2005-12-07T00:27:00.000-05:00

I found this picture was so horrified that it was just as bad as I remembered that I thought, "Oh, God! Horrible! I have to put this on the blog." I mean, no wonder everyone wanted to beat my ass in eighth grade. I had been blaming it on Lisa, the remorseless rumor-spreader, but come on. This is Exhibit A in her defense right here. The earrings. Coordinated with my top. The necklace, with what, a ring? What is that? And pink eyeshadow. Nice. Dig my hair. What is going on with my hair? And someone get me some braces, stat.

But let me draw your attention to the piece de resistance, the eyebrows. When I met Jurgen Nation a few months ago, I had this picture in mind when I challenged her to an eyebrow-off, but she didn't appear prepared to face the challenge. That's all right. One look at these caterpillars crawling across my forehead and one has to wonder, "Who can?"

No one.

Actually, I think I'm looking somewhat cute here in first grade, but why on earth did my mom let me leave the house dressed like Dorothy from "The Wizard of Oz" when it wasn't Halloween? Did I throw an epic tantrum to be allowed to wear this outfit and the Dorothy hairstyle? I hope I wasn't wearing replica ruby slippers, too.

Aww, yeah. Who is like so punk rawk?! I don't know which picture embarrasses me more, this one or the first one. It probably took 90 minutes every morning to slap on all that makeup.

This is the year I wound up in the mental hospital, actually. I'll probably write about that someday.

Well, I did smile some of the time. I posted this picture because I want to talk about how you should be prepared for whatever you find when you Google an old friend from the past.

This is my friend Preston from 10th grade. He had a heart the size of Texas and was so great to me that year. He was just a really, really great friend. I wonder how he's doing and what he's up to from time to time.

A few years ago, I Googled him and found nude pictures. I mean, hey. I'm not one to judge. But what am I supposed to say? "Hi, Preston! Remember me? Saw your nude pics online and just wanted to say hello! Uh, lookin' good!"

This is what happens at slumber parties. Well, this, and saucy renditions of the "Greased Lightning" dance.

For once, this isn't an embarrassing memory, but a fond one. Trish and I went to the Renaissance Faire in Novato, CA, in 1991. We stopped by the Golden Gate Bridge on the way because Trish, being from the L.A. area, had never seen it before.

We had just met and become roommates a few weeks earlier, and she couldn't stop marveling at the differences between Southern and Northern CA. "When you signal to merge, people let you in?!! Everyone is so nice here!" "Oh my God. Look at the squirrels!" "Wow, there is just, like, no traffic here, is there?" It was like hanging out with someone who had been on another planet for the last decade and was just catching up.

It was a gorgeous, sunny day. When we got to the bridge, I ran ahead and busted this move, just 'cause. Then we leaned over the side to spit and watch it drift to the water. Our spit made a splash. Just after that, we turned around to find a sign that said spitting off the bridge was illegal, punishable by fine. We booked it back to her car, and continued across to the Faire, blasting "Lights." It was nice to look at my city with new eyes that day.

We're So Pretty, Oh So Pretty

2005-12-06T01:27:00.000-05:00

In July 1989, I went on an East Coast trip with my family. We started in Orlando and spent a few days at Disney World, then we went up to Washington, D.C. and spent a day or two there. Then we went to New York. The trip just happened to coincide with my "I Am Such a Bad-Ass Punk Rocker" phase, so it was no secret that New York was, for me, about as good as the vacation could possibly get.

I was 15, and had it all planned out. I was going to finish high school and defect to New York. End of plan. Everything else would, um, I don't know, fall into place or something, I guess? Maybe I'd go to Juilliard and study music. Maybe I'd join a band. I'm sure there would be some outfit that would be able to use my mad piano skillz.

At one point during our visit, my family and I took a tour around the Statue of Liberty, and we sailed by some apartments on the river. I picked out my future apartment right there from the water. My dad and stepmom were greatly amused. "Oh? And how are you going to afford it?"
I'd get defensive and snap, "Hey, I'll get a job!" They didn't seem to appreciate my big dreams.

I was obsessed with anything and everything punk back then, most especially the Sex Pistols. Oh, did I ever have a crush on that nice boy, Sid Vicious. I had his poorly received posthumous album of covers (still do, at home somewhere), books about him, the book by Nancy Spungen's mother, And I Don't Want to Live This Life, and I had seen Sid & Nancy about 472 times. If you don't know the story, the facts are that Sid stabbed his girlfriend Nancy to death in Room 100 of the Chelsea Hotel in 1978. Up for debate is whether Sid murdered her or whether Nancy wanted him to kill her in some suicide pact gone awry.

Great stuff, right? I mean, you can totally see why I wanted to stay in Room 100 someday*, or at the very least, visit the hotel. It isn't at all creepy or anything. I did a little research before the trip, because I knew my dad and stepmom would have none of it if I said, "Hey, can we swing by that hotel where Sid Vicious killed his girlfriend? Pleeeease?" If I said, "Hey, did you know Bob Dylan stayed at the Chelsea Hotel? Isn't that cool? Can we go see it?" it sounds much better.

Dad, at first, went for it. It was almost too easy. "Hey, dad, Dylan Thomas once stayed at the Chelsea Hotel. Did you know that?"
"Hmmm, no."
"We should go see it! Yeah?"
"Eh, OK."

But my stepmom got wind of the plan and knew right away what the deal was. "Is that where that drug addict killed his girlfriend? You're not going there!"

Curses!

On Friday, Darren and I took the subway to Chelsea for lunch, and we got a little turned around. While he tried to figure out which way to go, he nonchalantly pointed out a building in front of us, "And that's the Chelsea Hotel."
"Oh my God!" I took out my camera and snapped a few crappy pictures, while I explained my fixation on this place. Oh, sure, I've more or less gotten over Sid Vicious and no longer think of him as suitable husband material, but I still like the Sex Pistols all right. Regardless of where you are in life, for me at least, it's cool to see something you've always read about or just been left to imagine. The Chelsea Hotel was much, much bigger than I expected. It's a pretty building, too.

Now that I've accomplished that "goal," my next one is to do a photographic mission in which I tour the city taking pictures of places mentioned in rock songs, including 53rd & 3rd ("53rd & 3rd" by the Ramones), 45th between 6th and Broadway ("My Own Way" by Duran Duran) and St. Mark's Place ("Alex Chilton" by the Replacements; I didn't realize we were there the other day, unfortunately!).

Hey, at least I've gotten a little more realistic, haven't I?

*In an excerpt I read of "Killing Yourself to Live", Chuck Klosterman writes about visiting the hotel to see the site where Nancy Spungen died. The clerk at Chelsea wasn't all that excited to see him, and informed him that Room 100 is now an apartment and that, no, he couldn't see it. The clerk then went on to complain about the ongoing morbid fascination with the room and how he wished people would just get lives. I logged onto the Chelsea site after reading that article, and noticed they were selling souvenir room keys with "Room 100" on them. They're not there anymore, but it looks like it wasn't bothing anyone too much, huh?

Nabby Had Better Not See This

2005-12-06T01:22:00.000-05:00

The Mr., getting inspected by Harvey. I'm pretty sure he passed.

Natalie Lanam

2005-12-02T12:01:00.000-05:00

I was going to post about all the fun we had with Darren and Heather last night, but that'll have to wait. Around 3:30 a.m., I got a call from my sister telling me that grandma, Natalie Lanam, died around 12:30 this morning. I'm honestly a bit shocked right now, because I had just talked to grandma on Tuesday and while she sounded weak and tired, she was still there. My dad says she lost consciousness sometime on Wednesday and they knew it was a matter of time. I was so heartened by our visit a few weeks ago, that I started letting myself hope that she'd be around this Christmas.

To say she was an amazing grandmother is to sell her short. You would really only need to know one thing to know how great she was to me: I'm her stepgranddaughter, and she has never treated me as anything less than one of her own grandchildren. I don't think she ever even called me her stepgrandchild. She didn't have to do that, but it's just the kind of person she was. She came to our birthday parties, gave us Christmas presents, she came to my high school graduation, and when the Mr. and I got married in May 2004, she and grandad flew to Chicago to attend.

She bent over backwards for all of us, all the time, and expected nothing in return -- except maybe that we eat when she offered us food. Woe to the person that turned down her quesadillas or Mexican sweet bread. She was on a mission to fatten all of us up. In 1991, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana and Pearl Jam were playing a show at the Cow Palace on New Year's Eve. My friends managed to get tickets, but once I figured out whether I could go, the show was sold out. Nana's good friends were on the board of directors at the venue, so I sheepishly called her to ask if there was some way her friends could get me a ticket, because I really, really wanted to go. She said she'd see what she could do.

A few weeks later, I saw her and she said, "I'm sorry, I couldn't get you a ticket."
"Aww! Oh, well. Thank you for trying."
"I GOT YOU FOUR!"
Commence joyous screaming. She said I sounded so excited about the show, she couldn't help herself.

Nana was the most incredible cook. Her tamales were locally famous. Ever since I can remember, all the women in the family would gather at her house a few days before Christmas to churn them out by the hundreds. We would laugh, fling masa at each other and gossip. When the tamales were done, a few dozen would be set aside for the family dinner on Christmas Eve, and the rest were handed out to friends in the neighborhood. The tamale recipe was handed down through several generations, and Nana became so well-known for them, she's been featured in the local papers a few times. I don't know what's going to happen to this tradition. It's not going to be the same without Nana overseeing the whole operation. I hope the rest of us have learned enough to properly carry the torch.

Sometimes it's hard to nail down just one particular thing I miss about home, but if you asked me today what I missed most around this time of year, it would be making those tamales.

When dad told me a few weeks ago that it wasn't looking good for her, I made one of the most difficult phone calls of my life. I wanted to tell her goodbye and let her know what her kindness has always meant, that to me, she and grandad are my grandparents. She was really happy to hear that, and I'm so thankful I actually got the chance to let her know this. After that call, I decided to pay her a visit in person, and I'm happy that I had that chance, too.

Awww Yeah

2005-11-30T16:48:00.000-05:00

Who's at the hotel and has internet? ME.

Who woke up at 5:30 a.m. and went shopping upon arriving in New York instead of taking a nap? ME.

Um, so, yeah. That's all I got for now. The train ride was uneventful. The Mr. is doing work stuff right now and we're going out later. And Macy's is a ZOO. It's like 10 floors of straight-up zoo, except instead of monkeys, there are shoes. And they're all 65% off.

More later!

SALE! You've Never Seen the Likes of This Before!

2005-11-30T03:00:00.000-05:00

I swear the (number censored) margaritas I drank tonight have nothing to do with this.

If you haven't noticed, there are pictures for sale on my other site. If you're still looking for a gift for that impossible-to-buy-for loved one, maybe these are just the thing. From now until December 31, I will give either a 15% discount OR free shipping on any order of two or more prints. The choice is yours! If you want a print by Christmas, I highly recommend placing an order by December 9.

While there are a number of prints posted on the other site, just about any picture I've posted is available. If you've seen one in the past that you liked, shoot me an e-mail, and I will let you know if it's for sale. Obviously, I won't be selling prints of my friends' babies or anything like that.

If it's a chunk of change for you and you can't afford to pay all at once, I'm willing to work things out.

Each print will be matted and signed by yours truly. It'll bring joy for years to come, too. And you just can't put a price on that, can you?

For more great photo stuff, check out the mad talent on Jurgen Nation, too. She's offering a similar deal.

In other news, I'm off to New York to party down (and also hanging with Darren!) for a few days. I'm not sure what, if any, internet connection I'll have. Since I'm an addict who needs help, I'll spend the train ride praying to the patron saint of the internets that we'll be on the floor of the hotel that will keep us connected. If you place an order, you will hear back from me by Monday morning, at the latest.

I'll miss you people, and if it turns out I do have some internet, I swear I'll update. If not, I'll catch you next week!

I'm Sorry, I'm Fresh Out of Neil Diamond

2005-11-30T02:02:00.000-05:00

Another one for the Hands Project.

Why Stop With the Neil Diamond References? We'll Do Okay Forever In Blue Jeans

2005-11-29T01:53:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I had been complaining to maliavale that my new jeans ($25 on sale, if the Mr. asks) were already loose on me. She asked, "Have you tried a belt?" "Er?"

A belt! Who knew? No, I hadn't even thought of that. I have never worn a belt in my entire life. If a piece of clothing comes with either shoulder pads or a belt, I immediately remove them and chuck them in the garbage. Since I hadn't considered a belt, I had been mentally rearranging my finances so I could get another pair of these jeans in a smaller size. But a belt...a belt could buy me some time. And a belt is snappier than suspenders.

I've never really seen cause for a belt before. Silly me, I thought they were mostly decorative. Since I don't tuck shirts in ever, why would I need one to show off? And if we're talking belts to hold pants up, well, I've always had plenty of hip to keep them from sliding off. But now it's time. I can't keep walking around hiking up my saggy jeans like an old man.

Off I went on Sunday to get me one of these new-fangled belt thingies. For a first effort, I think it went OK. Although it felt like I imagine how it feels when guys who aren't Robert Smith stroll by the makeup racks -- What does this do? Does it matter if it's brown or black? (I opted for brown.) Why are there so damn many? (No, seriously. I just want a belt. Help!) Does it matter if I get a plain or a fancy one? (I opted for mostly plain, with some rose-y looking pattern on it.) Should I get one with a giant buckle and have my initials engraved on it? (No.) What size do I get? And that's where I ran into the most trouble. I bought one that was a bit too big. Rookie mistake, I'm sure. It's already on the last loop.

The only problem I've run into is that it slows me down on my trips to the bathroom, and by now y'all know how much I have to go pee, and time is of the essence. Because I'm classy, I usually start undoing my pants before I'm even in the bathroom, but now I've got to start even earlier because of this belt.

But that's OK. It's better than having my pants wind up around my ankles when I least expect it.

Just In Case You Had Gotten "Sweet Caroline" Out of Your Head, Not So Fast -- Ba Ba Ba Ba

2005-11-29T01:27:00.000-05:00

Another one for the Hands Project.

Hands, Touching Hands, Reaching Out

2005-11-28T01:47:00.000-05:00

So, the Bathroom Graffiti Project just wasn't working out. It figures, the minute you begin to look for something in earnest, it becomes harder to find. I'll still shoot graffiti when I see something interesting, but I need something that's a little more readily available, yet compelling.

Introducing...the Hands Project. The idea was given to me by Andrea, a roommate I had in my junior year of college. Man, I couldn't stand her. She and her friend Heidi lived in the second room of our two-bedroom off-campus apartment. They fancied themselves "serious" students, but really, they were just plain old uptight. Heidi had to play Bjork's "Human Behavior" every single morning while getting ready. It was fun the first 20 times, but just imagine hearing that song five days a week for an entire semester. To this day, I hear that bass line and start twitching.

Andrea came complete with a needy, sad boyfriend who called at least eight times a day. I think Trish and I talked to him more than she did because 90% of the time he called, she wasn't there. Naturally, Heidi and Andrea didn't like Trish and I because they didn't think we were serious. I prefer to think that while we were serious when we had to be, we also knew how to have something known as "fun."

Heidi and Andrea were both occupational therapy majors. On one rare occasion that I had a conversation with Andrea that didn't involve the words "Your pathetic boyfriend called 12 times while you were gone," we talked about cadavers. She and Heidi had recently gotten to the portion of the program that involved working with them in some capacity, so naturally, my interest was piqued because I love this stuff.

"Is it gross?" I asked.
"Nah, not really."
"Does it bother you? I mean, it's a dead body."

She said that it only bothered her when she saw their hands. For some reason, I'm remembering that they kept the hands covered, so if anyone glimpsed them, it was entirely by accident. But seeing someone's scars, their cuticles, their callouses, she said, gave them a story. You could picture them as human beings who held things and felt things, and it made it too real to take.

So, there you go. Sucky roommate, but a nice insight that I suddenly remembered for no reason at all a few weeks ago. I already have a few photos to post, but the inaugural one will be of the Mr.

Go Soak In It

2005-11-28T00:21:00.000-05:00

I've been hiding in the closet, but no longer. I've recently learned to accept something about myself after years of pretending, of going along with the group in an attempt to fit in. I cannot stand baths.

What's so fun about them, exactly? They're not relaxing for me. The water is warm for about two-tenths of a second, and if you're in a standard tub and you're a normal size, it barely covers your chest. The rest of the time, you're just sitting there in your own bubbly shea butter-scented filth. I've tried to read in the tub. I can't. The pages get wet, and I spend so much time maintaining the correct temperature of the water that I'm lucky to read a complete paragraph.

I'm done pretending. It's exhausting and expensive. I'm done going to Lush and pretending to get all excited about the bath bombs and buying an armful. OK, I really was excited about the bath bombs, but it was more in theory than actual practice. I have a friend who shall remain nameless who can attest to the fact that overly frequent use of bath bombs will give you a UTI, anyway.

How do you shampoo and condition your hair in the tub? After a few minutes, who wants to stick their head in that water? You could stick your head under the faucet, but then you're just asking for a concussion. You could turn on the shower nozzle and stand up to rinse, but if you're going to do that, why not just take a shower anyway?

I'm done saying, "Oh, boy. What a rough day. I'm going to take a bath when I get home." I'm replacing that phrase with, "Oh, boy. What a rough day. I'm going to have as many drinks as necessary to forget the whole thing even happened."

It seems like such a waste that I choose this particular time to officially decide that I can't see the allure of baths, though. For years, I've coveted a claw-foot tub. This house came with a great one, and when I sit in it, the water goes clear up to my neck. It's a dream.

But can I trade it in for a swimming pool?

There's a Place In Hell For People Like This

2005-11-27T10:56:00.000-05:00

I was sitting in the office a few minutes ago watching the man who lives behind us repeatedly and with great force and with no provocation smack his dog.

You'd better fucking believe I reported him for that, and for the fact that he leaves that poor thing chained up outside all day.

People make me sick sometimes.

More Keira

2005-11-27T09:46:00.000-05:00

I hope these baby pictures aren't driving anyone too crazy...it's just about all I have until I get out some more and shoot!

Yellow

2005-11-26T13:54:00.000-05:00

For Photo Friday challenge.

Cowboy

2005-11-25T09:32:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving

2005-11-24T10:40:00.000-05:00

I'll be thankful if I don't gain 5 pounds this week, and I'm going to be thankful for a giant cup of coffee in about 10 minutes.

Have a great holiday!

Ben

2005-11-24T10:29:00.000-05:00

Keira

2005-11-23T00:53:00.000-05:00

Grandma

2005-11-23T00:47:00.000-05:00

This is not the one who is sick, by the way. This is Grandma Lee, my mom's mom.

Me Stupid

2005-11-23T00:18:00.000-05:00

Conversation with my brother, Glenn. Laura is his wife of one year. I'm the lone idiot in the whole chat.

"Glenn! What's going on?"
"Nothing much. How are you?"
"Good. I hear you're not feeling well. What're you pregnant?"
"No, but Laura is."
"Ar-har-har. So, what else is new?"
"Ahhhh...work's...good...."
"Yes, how's your house?"
"It's great!"
"Wait, is Laura REALLY pregnant?"
"Yes!"
"Really?"
"Yes!"
"No way! For real?"
"No."
"Well, now you're just confusing me."
"She IS."
Commence congratulations and "Oh my God!"s.

Come to find out that my dad and stepmom have known for several days, but as is par for the course in my family, no one tells me jack. That joke about Glenn being pregnant was totally random, so you can imagine my confusion just a little when it turns out someone actually WAS pregnant. Right? You can?

Bedtime

2005-11-22T11:56:00.000-05:00

Mom

2005-11-22T00:59:00.000-05:00

I think she was doing her "Screw you guys, I'm going home" routine from "South Park" here. And we had both had a lot of wine.

Gimme a K! Gimme an E! Gimme An...Oh, I Need a Nap

2005-11-22T00:17:00.000-05:00

The other day, a couple people asked me if I had been a cheerleader.
"You were, weren't you?" one insisted.

I'm not sure exactly what about me screams "former cheerleader," but I assure you, I was not. I sneered at the cheerleaders. I hated them. But that doesn't mean that for a little while, I kind of wanted to join them, seeking a little validation that I, too, was tiny, pretty, lusted after by all the boys and overall, awesome.

My friend Ana and I gave it our best shot in seventh grade. We figured that was our ticket to joining the in-crowd. I think that deep down, we both knew that people already IN the in crowd became cheerleaders, and not the other way around. But it didn't stop us from practicing the assigned routine (which I don't remember now) for weeks on end.

About 40 girls tried out that day, and we all had to don our regular P.E. uniforms: tight, uncomfortable red shorts with a very unflattering elastic waistband and equally unflattering white polo shirts branded "KENNEDY JR. HIGH PANTHERS" just over our left boobs. This was probably test number one. If you looked cute in this getup, welcome to the squad.

We tried out in groups of five. We lined up side by side to do the assigned cheer in unison, then we were to finish the cheer with our arms akimbo, legs together, back straight and, most painful of all, a GIANT CHEESY GRIN. The more of your molars visible, the better. That just meant you had pep and were possibly high on Dexatrim.

While we stood like this, a group of four women kept their heads down while silently grading our performance. I imagined they were writing things like, "Why did the middle one try out? LOSER!" or "That stocky one on the right is hard on the eyes, but she'd make a suitable base if we get desperate."

As the judges wrote their notes, we had a coach on the floor with us, pacing back and forth, reminding us to "SMILE!" which she would silently mouth as she made a smiling motion with her fingers. She really seemed to want all 40 of us to make the squad, and I remember wondering what it was to her.

Every once in awhile, one of the women would look up to assess us. When they looked back down, cue the coach: "SMILE! SMILE! SMILE!"

I could feel myself beginning to fatique. My smile was beginning to weaken.

"SMILE!"

I gave it my best. One of the girls next to me began to slouch. We were getting tired. We'd been standing in the Impossibly Perky Position for a good five minutes.

Coach strolled by and mimed "SMILE!" and did a back-straightening motion for the sloucher.

After the 400th "SMILE!" mime, I knew there was no way in hell I was going to get on the squad. I wasn't even so sure I wanted it anymore. This was exhausting! It isn't natural to smile that much. It isn't natural to be that perky all the time. I didn't have it in me. Neither did Ana.

Anyway, did Ana and I really want to be friends with Dominique Bender, the alpha girl/captain? I think we dodged a rah-rah bullet that day.

When I Say I Have to Pee, I MEAN IT

2005-11-21T01:49:00.000-05:00

Since Darren was so brave and shared his awful story, I decided that perhaps I should bust out my own. It's not that bad, but it was mortifying and it's not something I would care to go through again, either. In fact, I think I've blocked most of it out because I don't remember much of what happened afterward.

Now, one thing you need to know about me is that I always have to pee. It's just a matter of how bad. There have been times at work where I'll go, and then a friend will ask if I want to have a confab in the bathroom. I'll say yes, and I'll go again. I'm like a freak of nature. I've never made it through a movie without having to get up at least once, even though I always go just before it starts, too. And if I see a toilet, cue the Pavlovian response. The only time I didn't have to get up on a flight to go to the bathroom was while flying from Norfolk to Vegas a few years ago. I was so engrossed in "The Nanny Diaries" that upon landing I thought, "We're here? So soon?"

Road trips with me are the worst. If I'm driving a long distance with someone, we need to have "The Talk" that goes a little like this: "I'm probably going to have to go to the bathroom on the way. OK? Please stop if I do. Don't drive another 50 miles looking for the most convenient place to get off the freeway." The only way I can truly enjoy a road trip these days is if I'm the one behind the wheel, so I can have complete control over where and when we stop.

Since I inherited my miniscule bladder from my mom, she has always been very understanding of this (if not a little guilty). Most people have been, in fact. Some other people I'm married to are not very understanding at all. "But you just went two hours ago!" he'll say. "Don't ask me to explain it! I can't help it." He's one of those people that has been immune to "The Talk." He'll drive and drive and drive while he looks for a rest stop or gas station right off the highway with me sitting in the passenger seat saying, "But we could have pulled off here!" and "What was wrong with that place? Why didn't you stop?!" I often tell him I have to go before I actually do have to go, because by the time he stops, I'll barely be able to walk upright. He thinks I should be more like him because he once held it for something like 10 hours on a drive between Chicago and San Bernardino. While impressive, I don't think he's gotten the memo that everybody is a little bit different. I'll have to get him another copy. But what I wouldn't give for a bladder like that, though.

The other people who were never very understanding are my dad and stepmom. My stepbrother and stepsister were blessed with bladders like the Mr.'s. They said they often had to go to the bathroom in school, but that they could just hold it until they got home. I used to marvel at that. "But how can you hold it?" I'd ask. They'd shrug. My stepsister once suggested that I practice holding it, and I'd get better at it. I've tried that, and it made no discernible difference.

Whenever I said I had to go to the bathroom, dad and Lorraine wouldn't ever stop. If Karen and Glenn could hold it for hours on end, why couldn't I? Road trips were often miserable for me growing up. Sure, we kicked back in the conversion van, reading and snacking. But once I had to go to the bathroom, it was all over. I was in misery until we arrived at our destination or stopped for a break.

One day when I was 17, I was riding in the back of the van alone, while dad and Lorraine were sitting up front. I don't remember where we had been that day, but we were coming back from Hayward. At some point, I asked if we could please stop. I really had to go.
"But we're close to home. Can't you wait?"
"Um, not really."
"It's only a half hour."
"Urrghhh."

We got to the San Mateo bridge, and started to cross. Home was about 20 minutes away at this point. I had to agree, it was ridiculous that I couldn't hold it for another 20 minutes, so I sat there in silence, gripping my stomach, rocking back and forth, trying to think of other things, cursing my stupid, useless bladder. It was impossible.

"Please, can't we stop at the gas station right off the exit?"
"No. You can hold it."
"I don't think I can."
"You're going to have to. We're almost home."

I tried to hold it. Really, I did. I wanted to hold it. Who wants to pee their pants, especially when it's well past the age of acceptability? I finally felt my body go weak from the sheer exhaustion of holding it for so long, and I just went. All over the cheesy brown velvet seat. Probably less than two miles from home. I felt equal parts relieved and horrified. I sat there, just staring straight ahead, wondering how I could tell them, if I should tell them, wondering if they were wondering why I had suddenly ceased begging them to stop. Did they know? I couldn't smell anything, so they probably couldn't, either.

We pulled up to the house, I got out of the van and went to my room and changed. It's the last thing I remember. I don't think they ever said anything to me, and I never brought it up. I don't remember if the van ever smelled. I don't remember a single damn thing. But I hope they felt really, really bad.

It's kind of making me wonder what else I have that's so well repressed up here in my head.

My Brother's Impression of Robert DeNiro

2005-11-21T01:29:00.000-05:00

Bailey

2005-11-20T10:42:00.000-05:00

The story of how my mom's dog Bailey came to the family is the stuff of legend. Well, I just like to say that because it involves me.

One night 8 years ago, my friends and I were bar-hopping in Santa Cruz when we saw this hippie girl standing on a corner holding a puppy. We went over to squeal and coo, and the girl told us she was giving the puppy away. The rest of her litter had new homes, and this little puppy was the last remaining one. As I held the puppy, I remembered that my mom and stepdad had been on the market for a dog, that they preferred a female and wanted something that would grow to be no bigger than a Lab. The puppy was perfect, but it was midnight. Far too late to call mom and Eldon to ask if they wanted this puppy. I sat there for a minute, looking into the puppy's blue eyes and whining, "I don't knowwwww. What do I do??"

It must have been the mixture of liquor and the hynotic qualities of that little puppy face, because I suddenly blurted out, "I'll do it!"
The hippie girl said, "Great!" and immediately took off. As I watched her hustle off down the street I thought, "Oh, shit. What have I done?!"
Kim looked at me and said, "Oh my God. You just got a dog. What if your mom doesn't want it?"
"Shiiiiiiit."

I decided that the call to mom and Eldon couldn't wait, so I ran into a nearby bar. "Mom! Do you want a dog? I found this really cute one..." and went on to describe the puppy.
She woke my stepdad up to ask him what he thought. "OK! We'll take her!"
"Oh, thank God, because I already got her. I'll bring her in the morning."

We drove back to Kim and George's that night, where the puppy slept with me in the living room. She cried all night and peed on me. Thanks a lot. I drove her up to Foster City the next morning, and she cried the entire 45-minute ride. I thought I was going to loose my mind.

I dropped the puppy off, and she immediately bonded with Eldon. A few days later, they named her Bailey, after George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life.

An interesting side note is that the hippie girl told me Bailey's birthday was June 26. When I went to get Nabby, the breeder told me that Nabby's birthday was June 26 as well!

Another One for the Baby Nuts Out There

2005-11-19T13:45:00.000-05:00

Newborn

2005-11-18T09:53:00.000-05:00

He Says "It's Like Having a Conversation!"

2005-11-18T09:10:00.000-05:00

My dad has a knack for leaving long, rambling messages. I don't think he's ever left one that's short and to the point. As I told my family this weekend, I don't want to just delete them after a few minutes because what if at the end he says, "Oh, and the key to the house is located at...." or "I armed the house, and the secret code to get in is..." Although he's never buried important information like that, I know that the one time I just hit delete after the first three minutes have passed is going to be the one time he does. Here's a sample message he left me on Monday. It's really not that bad, but it gives you an idea.

Hello there, [my name]. Uh, this is dad. And I was just checking in with you to see if you got on your plane okay (1) and everything was cool. It's about a quarter to 12 your time out there in Chicago (2) right now. And I'm referring to the flight status thing, uh, you guys are due in about 2:31, which is a little bit ahead of schedule. That's what it says here, anyway. Anyway um, when you get in, I was gonna suggest you just give me a call and I'm trying to figure out if I should meet you. Well, I think I'll go and meet you inside like I originally planned. If you don't see me, give me a call on the cell phone. Or if you want to give me a call on your cell phone from the plane when you're taxiing, that's fine too, because depending on how late it's running and stuff like that I might just have you come out to the door on the lower level and I could pick you up there then take you to the car rental place and dump you off. (3) (4) OK? Sooo, give me a call when you get this, either on the cell or...wellll, I should be away from the office by then, because I'm gonna split...yeah, I'll be away from the office. Yeah, just give me a call on the cell phone. Okey doke? Remember I love you, and hope you have a safe flight.

1. I wasn't going to be much help with him on this one, on account of the airlines not letting you answer your cell phone during flights.
2. My layover location.
3. I kept asking him why he wanted to pick me up and take me to the car rental place when it's right there at the airport and I can take the shuttle, and he could just save himself a trip. He confuses me sometimes. I know, I know. He's excited to see me. But still. This is awfully complicated.
4. You know what's fun? When they try to give you a map at the car rental place and you can be all, "No thanks! I know the area."

Talk Your Way Out of This One Blah Blah Blah Blah

2005-11-15T10:38:00.000-05:00

One thing I really, really hate is talking to people on planes. Oh, I will never initiate the conversation, you can count on that. A nod "hello" or an "Excuse me, my seat is just...right...in there...so if I could just get by you. Thanks!" is the best you can expect.

The main reason I hate it is because you're trapped. I'm sure I've turned down conversational opportunities with some very smart and interesting people, but that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make if it means I've even dodged one crazy in the bunch. If it all goes awry or it gets uncomfortable, where are you going to go? 26B is where you were sitting, and that's where you'll stay. What if you just plain run out of things to talk about, but the other person doesn't seem to realize it? You can't beg off with a, "Well, I won't keep you. I'm sure you have plenty of things to do." Especially when the guy read the entire SkyMall catalog and Hemispheres magazine before even taking off. Oh, no. He's got plenty of time on his hands, and he wants to share it all with you.

So, I wasn't too pleased when I realized I'd be sitting in a middle seat on my flight yesterday. I'm one of those people who honestly doesn't have a preference for a window or aisle because, as far as I'm concerned, it's a tie. With the window, you have something to lean against to get in some good sleep, and you can check out the scenery. With the aisle, you can get up and go to the bathroom as much as you please. But I think one thing everyone can agree on is that the middle sucks, especially if you don't want to talk to people on planes. You can't just turn away from them.

I found my seat, and right away, the window seat guy says, "Oh, I see we both brought a lunch!" "Well, mine's just a bagel."
"I have a sandwich!"
"Hm."

I know, I know. He's just trying to be friendly. But if you give these people the slightest opening, you're screwed, and I was already worried that I had said too much.

I picked up the magazine to see what the movie was.
"So! What's the movie!?"
"Ummm. The Island."
"Huh!"

All right. Not so bad. But still, you have a copy of the magazine, too. Use it! I'm surprised he didn't grill me about the drink selection next.

More thankful than ever to own an iPod, I took mine out and put the earbuds in my ears. Before I could crank up the music...
"Hey! An iPod! How is it?"
"It's great."
"I'm thinking about getting one myself. The one with the video!"
"Sounds nice."
Commence tunes. He openly watched as I scrolled through the menu and selected. I put it upside down in my lap so he couldn't see.

Then I took out my book, which frankly, I'm a little embarrassed to be seen with. Don't get me wrong. It's good and very amusing, but for one, it looks like the Bible. It's especially weird when I'm at the gym and I appear to be reading the Bible. People there must think I'm very hard core. The other is the subject matter: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. It is less embarrassing than the history of pornography I read earlier this year, but I still wish there were a jacket I could remove to no one would really have to know what I'm reading.

Anyway, this book gets a little, ahem, explicit in parts. And Chatty Chuck was openly glancing over and reading along from time to time. I wanted to scream.

With about two hours left to go, the man mercifully lost interest in me and passed out for the rest of the flight.

In other news: I spent time with my grandma last night, and she looks really good. She was awake, sitting in a chair and holding her newest grandchild. I was braced for the worst, but it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought. Things are looking good!