Today I started thinking about all the things in life I’d like to change.
I’d like to make cheese and chocolate calorie-free. I’d like to build French doors and a balcony off the 5th-floor corner of my building, so I could let the afternoon breeze into my cubicle and sit outside, reading SELF magazine during lunch. I would make all junk mail out of seed paper, so I could plant it random places and grow flowers and trees instead of recycling. I would give everyone straight teeth (including myself). I would make George W. a public servant of the Coalition of Writers Against Poor Grammar. I would suck the Midwestern flood waters into a giant vacuum. I would round up all the Taliban members and make them do this in jail. I would put 2 hours of fun exercise activity into every day of school (maybe like this) and turn cafeteria lunches into healthy gourmet meals. I would have a chip implanted into my brain that enabled me to fly a helicopter, then I’d buy one and build landing pads on my roof and Mr. Wonderful’s. I would build synthetic icebergs for the polar bears to walk on so they didn’t have to swim so far.
I would fix ailing marriages. I would set up a nationwide program that offered (good) free counseling for anyone who wanted it. I would mend fractured friendships and make it possible for everyone to talk about their feelings without getting hurt. I would move all of my close friends onto my street—or to a destination like Rome, Paris or Dublin, with unlimited frequent flyer miles so we could travel back and forth for visits any time we wanted. I would give everyone a box to put their pain and heartache into if they needed a break from it. I would give everyone a mirror that enabled them to see how they really look and act towards the people around them.
I would make pimples something you only read about in history books. I would make every fast food chain, cigarette manufacturer, pharmaceutical company and SUV producer donate 50% of its profits to charity. I would have a tickle machine come standard with the purchase of every bed, so even if you were sleeping solo, you could get your back caressed until you fell asleep. I would make prisoners be soldiers and cut college costs in half. I’d pay teachers 10x more than lawyers. I’d turn animal shelters into farms. I’d give Bono the Nobel Peace Prize (finally). I’d make cat hair not stick to clothing. I’d hang a batsuit in Mr. W’s closet. I’d pay every blogger $1 per word they wrote. (This post alone would be worth $463.)
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Just a Few Things I Felt Like Sharing
1. Friday night, Mr. Wonderful and I decided to go to Whole Foods to pick up dinner and various cheese goodies (because who can resist the cheese selection there, right?). We bought some delicious pumpkin tortellini that he prepared in a fantastic butter sage sauce, but that’s completely beside the point. The real highlight of the evening was that we bought a bacon-chocolate candy bar.
As soon as we got in the car, we busted it open and each ate a square. My mouth was very confused. It loved the bacon flavor. It adored the chocolate. But it wasn’t quite sure what to do with them together. Eat with eggs? Or melt over vanilla ice cream?
I brought the remainder of the bar to Father’s Day Dinner at my parents’ house and the reaction was the same from everyone who tried it: Just not quite sure what to think. It wasn’t bad…but was it good? You’ll have to try one for yourself.
2. On Father’s Day night, my mom made us watch (seriously) a 720-picture digital slideshow of her and my dad’s cruise to Hawaii. Nearly bored to tears, we were all trying to find ways to entertain ourselves while we endured dirty Hawaiian music (something about Gra
ndpa’s hangy banana or something) and image after image of the Lido deck. So finally my niece said—in front of Mr. Wonderful—“Mommy, pull my finger!” And my sister did it. And my niece totally ripped one in front of Mr. W. It was embarrassing and delightful all in the same.
3. I love Batman and the batsuit. LOVE. Would do anything to see Christian Bale in person in his costume. And today, Mr. W sent me a link to this site which has the suit pictured here available for rental for a mere $1200. If he really cared about me, he would get it for a night. Or twenty minutes.
As soon as we got in the car, we busted it open and each ate a square. My mouth was very confused. It loved the bacon flavor. It adored the chocolate. But it wasn’t quite sure what to do with them together. Eat with eggs? Or melt over vanilla ice cream?
I brought the remainder of the bar to Father’s Day Dinner at my parents’ house and the reaction was the same from everyone who tried it: Just not quite sure what to think. It wasn’t bad…but was it good? You’ll have to try one for yourself.
2. On Father’s Day night, my mom made us watch (seriously) a 720-picture digital slideshow of her and my dad’s cruise to Hawaii. Nearly bored to tears, we were all trying to find ways to entertain ourselves while we endured dirty Hawaiian music (something about Gra
ndpa’s hangy banana or something) and image after image of the Lido deck. So finally my niece said—in front of Mr. Wonderful—“Mommy, pull my finger!” And my sister did it. And my niece totally ripped one in front of Mr. W. It was embarrassing and delightful all in the same.3. I love Batman and the batsuit. LOVE. Would do anything to see Christian Bale in person in his costume. And today, Mr. W sent me a link to this site which has the suit pictured here available for rental for a mere $1200. If he really cared about me, he would get it for a night. Or twenty minutes.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
When Necklaces Attack
When my 21-pound cat was a kitten, I had the brilliant idea of buying him a harness and leash so I could take him on walks. Though he resisted, I wrangled him into that harness and promptly got distracted by a phone call. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black flash flipping and bounding from the carpet to the couch to the coffee table. Poor little Monty had tried to get his evil walk-taking contraption off and got his tiny kitten teeth stuck in it. So naturally, he went into complete jumping, running, panicking spasms all over my apartment.
When I finally caught him (most likely in mid-air) he was panting and his little feline heart was thumping through 7 or 8 lives. I almost turned myself into the ASPCA.
Today, I felt Monty’s pain.
One of my coworkers often wears multiple necklaces—and she always looks so stylish and cute. Why can’t I wear more than one necklace? I thought this morning, as I stared at my naked clavicle.
I pulled a cute red and turquoise beaded wire wrap one off its hook. Then layered a long, plain silver chain (with no clasp), looping it over my head three times. I needed more color, so I grabbed this other little string-beaded turquoise number and double looped that one, too. The silver one didn’t look right. I stretched one loop over my head to take it off. Then another. Then discovered that my hair and all three necklaces were snarled up in an ugly jewelry traffic jam at the base of my skull.
I fumbled around for a clasp and discovered that the tangle of silver chain was mostly wrapped around the red necklace’s clasp, preventing me from unhooking it. I cursed. I was already running late for work. I found the blue stringy one’s clasp and unhooked that, but the beads were too big to pull through any of the other tangles. And my hair was still being pulled.
It was at this point that I wanted to race around my house, doing cartwheels like the cat, screaming GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! GET IT OOOOOFFFFF!!!!!
I could feel my heart beating faster. And although I was becoming later and later for work, I was determined to clean up the metallic mess around me and wear the damn necklaces so I could be cute like my coworker. It took me about 10 minutes to sort everything out. And then I wasn’t even sure that it looked great, but there was no way I was taking anything off again.
I still haven’t forgiven that silver chain. Little bastard.
When I finally caught him (most likely in mid-air) he was panting and his little feline heart was thumping through 7 or 8 lives. I almost turned myself into the ASPCA.
Today, I felt Monty’s pain.
One of my coworkers often wears multiple necklaces—and she always looks so stylish and cute. Why can’t I wear more than one necklace? I thought this morning, as I stared at my naked clavicle.
I pulled a cute red and turquoise beaded wire wrap one off its hook. Then layered a long, plain silver chain (with no clasp), looping it over my head three times. I needed more color, so I grabbed this other little string-beaded turquoise number and double looped that one, too. The silver one didn’t look right. I stretched one loop over my head to take it off. Then another. Then discovered that my hair and all three necklaces were snarled up in an ugly jewelry traffic jam at the base of my skull.
I fumbled around for a clasp and discovered that the tangle of silver chain was mostly wrapped around the red necklace’s clasp, preventing me from unhooking it. I cursed. I was already running late for work. I found the blue stringy one’s clasp and unhooked that, but the beads were too big to pull through any of the other tangles. And my hair was still being pulled.
It was at this point that I wanted to race around my house, doing cartwheels like the cat, screaming GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! GET IT OOOOOFFFFF!!!!!
I could feel my heart beating faster. And although I was becoming later and later for work, I was determined to clean up the metallic mess around me and wear the damn necklaces so I could be cute like my coworker. It took me about 10 minutes to sort everything out. And then I wasn’t even sure that it looked great, but there was no way I was taking anything off again.
I still haven’t forgiven that silver chain. Little bastard.
Recipe for "Stopping"
3 miles around the Rose Bowl
1 blog post
2 pages of journal writing, including a list of "positives"
23 minutes of Dr. Wayne Dyer on Oprah's Soul Series
6 amazing comments from readers
1 invitation to the Jack Johnson concert at the end of August
Mix thoroughly over 24 hours and watch spirits rise.
1 blog post
2 pages of journal writing, including a list of "positives"
23 minutes of Dr. Wayne Dyer on Oprah's Soul Series
6 amazing comments from readers
1 invitation to the Jack Johnson concert at the end of August
Mix thoroughly over 24 hours and watch spirits rise.
Monday, June 16, 2008
A Shot of Poison
I seem to have this tendency…at some point…in every relationship…of swinging the microscope lens around to the dark side. I fix it on any little hole I find and increase the magnification until I can identify every atom, proton, neutron, negativetron. (Okay fine, I made up that last one.)
But my point is, I get into these terrible grooves of focusing on the negative. Imperceptible negatives. Lacking elements that no one else would notice. Words that don’t get said. Invitations that aren’t extended. Kisses that may not have been doled out.
Once it starts, it’s hard for me to snap out of it. Which is irritating, because I’m usually a very sunny-side person. I have no problem finding the positives in lots of situations. I take on a zen attitude at work, with friends, heck—with life, most of the time.
But when it comes to matters of my heart, caution or fear of getting hurt or innate pessimism kick in and rear their ugly three heads every time. Sometimes writing helps. Sometimes running helps. Sometimes someone will say something to knock me into optimistic reality. But sometimes there’s nothing I can do.
It’s like that insecure sixteen-year-old steals the show and seeks out every possible indicator that she’s not worthy or that he’s not really interested. Instead of seeing all the ways he shows his feelings, I adjust my lens to look at the one time he held back. For ten kisses, I notice one missing. I weigh my adoration against his every move, checking the scales again and again.
My college boyfriend liked to tell me to relax. That’s like telling someone to stop hiccupping. It’s kind of beyond my control. Or is it? There has to be a way to put negativity back in its place. Make the sun shine a little brighter. Dip my toes back in the bliss and forget the weeds growing between my fingers. If anyone has a map of how to get there, please let me know.
But my point is, I get into these terrible grooves of focusing on the negative. Imperceptible negatives. Lacking elements that no one else would notice. Words that don’t get said. Invitations that aren’t extended. Kisses that may not have been doled out.
Once it starts, it’s hard for me to snap out of it. Which is irritating, because I’m usually a very sunny-side person. I have no problem finding the positives in lots of situations. I take on a zen attitude at work, with friends, heck—with life, most of the time.
But when it comes to matters of my heart, caution or fear of getting hurt or innate pessimism kick in and rear their ugly three heads every time. Sometimes writing helps. Sometimes running helps. Sometimes someone will say something to knock me into optimistic reality. But sometimes there’s nothing I can do.
It’s like that insecure sixteen-year-old steals the show and seeks out every possible indicator that she’s not worthy or that he’s not really interested. Instead of seeing all the ways he shows his feelings, I adjust my lens to look at the one time he held back. For ten kisses, I notice one missing. I weigh my adoration against his every move, checking the scales again and again.
My college boyfriend liked to tell me to relax. That’s like telling someone to stop hiccupping. It’s kind of beyond my control. Or is it? There has to be a way to put negativity back in its place. Make the sun shine a little brighter. Dip my toes back in the bliss and forget the weeds growing between my fingers. If anyone has a map of how to get there, please let me know.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
My Number One
Plenty of girls think their dad is the greatest man in the world. I hate to break it to them, but my dad IS.
When I was a little girl, he used to let me put pink sponge rollers and multi-colored plastic barrettes in his hair. He would play “blanket monster” with us—hiding under our scratchy plaid throw and pretending to be a rock until one of us ventured near. Then he’d spring to life under the blanket and attack us in a fury of tickles. If we were ever changing into footie pajamas when he was getting us ready for bed, he would make it a point to lift us up by our pants.
I used to spend hours in the garage, rifling through a jar of odds and ends he kept out there for me to play with. He’d be building something at his workbench and I’d be sorting plastic wall anchors, various caps, colorful bolts and other random items he would probably never use for anything, but also wouldn’t throw away because he knew how much I enjoyed them.
He helped me with math in elementary school. Built an electric “conductors vs. non-conductors” experiment for me so I could participate in the science fair. He gave me the nickname “ducky” and bought me a set of vintage ceramic ducklings at a garage sale. He scooped dead fish out of my tank in junior high. He came to supervise the tow truck driver when I blew two tires on the freeway in college. He helped me move countless pieces of furniture into my apartment and loaned me his pipe wrench when I accidentally broke the catch in my bathroom and needed to install a new one.
More important than the things he did for me, though, were the things he taught me. Invaluable lessons and protocols such as:
Always dry your car with a chamois. The synthetic rags just don’t work as well, and the chamois is soft so it won’t scratch your paint.
Popcorn is better if you cook the kernels in oil, in a real pot. Air poppers are for sissies.
Just because you watch cooking shows doesn’t mean you actually have to cook. Unless it’s a weekend and no one is home. Then you should just make yourself chili size or wienies and beans.
Spiders are the scariest insects in the world, but they’re good for your tomato plants. They eat all the pests who try to dine on your fruit.
If you’re in a marina and you see the cops chasing someone, tackle him. It doesn’t matter if you’re only 5’7” and unarmed. It is your duty as a concerned citizen to intervene and help reprimand the criminal.
Try not to stay up later than 9:00 p.m. And if someone wakes you up at 10 p.m. you have every right to yell at them from underneath your pillow.
The key to your daughters’ hearts is humor. Puns, spastic dancing, overly dramatic stories, murmured remarks—they’ll do wonders to permanently endear you to your little girls.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You really are the best one in the world.
When I was a little girl, he used to let me put pink sponge rollers and multi-colored plastic barrettes in his hair. He would play “blanket monster” with us—hiding under our scratchy plaid throw and pretending to be a rock until one of us ventured near. Then he’d spring to life under the blanket and attack us in a fury of tickles. If we were ever changing into footie pajamas when he was getting us ready for bed, he would make it a point to lift us up by our pants.
I used to spend hours in the garage, rifling through a jar of odds and ends he kept out there for me to play with. He’d be building something at his workbench and I’d be sorting plastic wall anchors, various caps, colorful bolts and other random items he would probably never use for anything, but also wouldn’t throw away because he knew how much I enjoyed them.
He helped me with math in elementary school. Built an electric “conductors vs. non-conductors” experiment for me so I could participate in the science fair. He gave me the nickname “ducky” and bought me a set of vintage ceramic ducklings at a garage sale. He scooped dead fish out of my tank in junior high. He came to supervise the tow truck driver when I blew two tires on the freeway in college. He helped me move countless pieces of furniture into my apartment and loaned me his pipe wrench when I accidentally broke the catch in my bathroom and needed to install a new one.
More important than the things he did for me, though, were the things he taught me. Invaluable lessons and protocols such as:
Always dry your car with a chamois. The synthetic rags just don’t work as well, and the chamois is soft so it won’t scratch your paint.
Popcorn is better if you cook the kernels in oil, in a real pot. Air poppers are for sissies.
Just because you watch cooking shows doesn’t mean you actually have to cook. Unless it’s a weekend and no one is home. Then you should just make yourself chili size or wienies and beans.
Spiders are the scariest insects in the world, but they’re good for your tomato plants. They eat all the pests who try to dine on your fruit.
If you’re in a marina and you see the cops chasing someone, tackle him. It doesn’t matter if you’re only 5’7” and unarmed. It is your duty as a concerned citizen to intervene and help reprimand the criminal.
Try not to stay up later than 9:00 p.m. And if someone wakes you up at 10 p.m. you have every right to yell at them from underneath your pillow.
The key to your daughters’ hearts is humor. Puns, spastic dancing, overly dramatic stories, murmured remarks—they’ll do wonders to permanently endear you to your little girls.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You really are the best one in the world.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Go Ahead, Call Child Protective Services
Monday night I went to my sister’s house for dinner and a little Bachelorette viewing. Let’s discuss that show quickly before I get into the real story here…
First of all, is it just me or are like 90% of the guys on that show total tools?! Seriously. I feel for poor DeAnna. Her pickins are so slim. And that Robert she voted off—what a wenis! Nice shirt unbuttoned to your happy trail hair. Ugh. I wanted to throw rocks at the TV. The only good one on there is the guy with the kid.
Secondly, does anyone have any idea where to get an adorable gold top like the one she wore on her Robert/Fred date? It was so cute! If I were her, I would’ve just given all my roses to that top. And maybe bought it an engagement ring, too.
Okay now onto the real story from Monday.
My sister (who is 10 years my senior) has two daughters. Her youngest is in fourth grade and was going to be celebrating Frontier Day or Goldmining Day or some related made-up holiday at school this week, so my sister decided to dig out her Holly Hobbie costume from childhood for her to wear.
When my niece came downstairs to model the bright red getup my mom had made 30 years earlier, we all burst out laughing.
“Mooommm,” she whined, “Can’t I just wear jeans and a flannel shiiiirt?”
“Oh but you look so cute,” my sister said, adjusting her bonnet. “You look like…like…one of those polygamist wives from Texas.”
And then, being the warped and brilliant sisters we are, we made my niece pose with her stomach popped out as far as it would go so that she looked like a pregnant teenage polygamist bride.
I think she makes a real purdy sister wife, don’t you?
First of all, is it just me or are like 90% of the guys on that show total tools?! Seriously. I feel for poor DeAnna. Her pickins are so slim. And that Robert she voted off—what a wenis! Nice shirt unbuttoned to your happy trail hair. Ugh. I wanted to throw rocks at the TV. The only good one on there is the guy with the kid.
Secondly, does anyone have any idea where to get an adorable gold top like the one she wore on her Robert/Fred date? It was so cute! If I were her, I would’ve just given all my roses to that top. And maybe bought it an engagement ring, too.
Okay now onto the real story from Monday.
My sister (who is 10 years my senior) has two daughters. Her youngest is in fourth grade and was going to be celebrating Frontier Day or Goldmining Day or some related made-up holiday at school this week, so my sister decided to dig out her Holly Hobbie costume from childhood for her to wear.
When my niece came downstairs to model the bright red getup my mom had made 30 years earlier, we all burst out laughing.
“Mooommm,” she whined, “Can’t I just wear jeans and a flannel shiiiirt?”
“Oh but you look so cute,” my sister said, adjusting her bonnet. “You look like…like…one of those polygamist wives from Texas.”
And then, being the warped and brilliant sisters we are, we made my niece pose with her stomach popped out as far as it would go so that she looked like a pregnant teenage polygamist bride.
I think she makes a real purdy sister wife, don’t you?
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