Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Super-awesome Christmas gifts for your kids (if you want to damage them).

1. Tauntaun Sleeping Bag

Looks cozy enough, but then I thought: "Tauntauns are NOT for sleeping in! They are for riding in extreme weather conditions on Hoth. Han Solo had to make an executive decision under extreme pressure in a life-or-death situation and THAT’S HOW Luke Skywalker got inside that tauntaun. I just really think this kind of thing sends the wrong message…sleeping in guts…gross.

2. “First Act Discovery” Recorder

As if the availability of thongs for your 12-year old daughter isn’t horrifying enough this was the packaging choice they went with? Someone get me my pitchfork.

3. Sperm Shoes

Okay, they’re not really sperm shoes but evidently that is their shoe’s logo. I guess it makes sense because sperm like to race one another and ultimately speed is rewarded. Stop imagining!

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Read this book. No really, read this book.

I just finished "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle" and despite having "Oprah's Book Club" stamped on the front, it has actually now become my third favorite book of all-time. In future blogs, I will be posting passages from my favorite novels. But below is why you should definitely read this book by David Wroblewski:


     Red light, morning light. High ceiling canted overhead. Lazy click of toenails on wood. Between the honey-colored slats of the crib a whiskery muzzle slides forward until its cheeks pull back and a row of dainty front teeth bare themselves in a ridiculous grin.
     The nose quivers. The velvet snout dimples.
     All the house is quiet. Be still. Stay still.
     Fine, dark muzzle fur. Black nose, leather of lacework creases, comma of nostrils flexing with each breath. A breeze shushes up the field and pillows the curtains inward. The apple tree near the kitchen window caresses the house with a tick-tickety-tick-tick. As slowly as he can, he exhales, feigning sleep, but despite himself his breath hitches. At once, the muzzle knows he is awake. It snorts. Angles right and left. With-draws. Outside the crib, Almondine's forequarters appear. Her head is reared back, her ears cocked froward.
     A cherry-brindled eye peers back at him.
     Whoosh of her tail.
     Be still. Stay still.
     The muzzle comes hunting again, tunnels beneath his blanket, below the farmers and pigs and chicks and cows dyed into that cotton world. His hand rises on fingers and spider-walks across the surprised farmyard resident to challenge the intruder. It becomes a bird, hovering before their eyes. Thumb and index finger squeeze the crinkled black nose. The pink of her tongue darts out but the bird flies away before Almondine can lick it. Her tail is switching harder now. Her body sways, her breath envelops him. He tugs the blackest whisker on her chin and this time her tongue catches the palm of his hand ever so slightly. He pitches to his side, rubs his hand across the blanket, blows a breath in her face. Her ears flick back. She stomps a foot. He blows again and she withdraws and bows and woofs, low in her chest, quiet and deep, the boom of an uncontainable heartbeat. Hearing it, he forgets and presses his face against the rails to see her, all of her, take her inside him with his eyes and before he can move, she smears her tongue across his nose and forehead! He claps his hand to his face but it's too late - she's away, spinning, biting her tail, dancing in the moted sunlight that spills through the window glass.

Friday, November 19, 2010

National Geographic will accept anyone into their society. Even me.

The Officers and Board of Trustees have enrolled ME as a member of the National Geographic Society and I've got proof...


Okay, so that's not my real name...just a "pet" name from my loving husband. He's such a sweetie.

I love National Geographic. So much. It's the only magazine I read cover-to-cover.

But, I gave up my subscription due to the recession. I  mean $15 a year here and there really adds up. So for me, it was back to stealing old copies from the doctors' offices.

Here is a picture of my loyalty...my goldenrod, heavy, dusty loyalty... which wasn't as strong as it looks:

What? You don't like my foot high stack of NG's dating back to 2005? I don't like you then.

In July, I decided I had suffered long enough and asked Matt for a new subscription for my birthday.

It was a glorious day when the first edition arrived, all wrapped in recyclable plastic. I put the first book aside for the honeymoon but couldn't help it and ripped open the next one I saw. King Tut was totally inbred and crippled...read all about it!

Anyway, I started reading and a flood of emotion came over me. I was feeling guilt and then anxiety...what had I been missing? I frantically flipped to the back and saw a crossword...I LOVE crosswords. I was pretty much melting at that point. "How long has NatGeo had a crossword?" I asked myself. "Whhhhyyyyyy did I cancel my original subscription???"

The worst thing of all: It's been a purely love relationship. Who leaves a good thing like that? Again: What was I thinking??? All this was pouring through my mind as I opened the folded Gulf Oil Spill insert and in my focused thinking, while my brain was trying to puzzle out my quandry, I was distracted...

I should have been paying attention, though...I should have thought about what might BE on that insert.

Touche National Geographic. I will never leave you again.

P.S. Who KNEW there were effing sperm whales in the Gulf of Mexico?...AND Giant Squid??? That is now the scariest place on Earth nearest to me.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Come on guys, really...ewoks?

I can't stress enough...STOP PUTTING WEIRD SHIT ON YOUR VEHICLE. It's like a bad tattoo and you will just regret it later. Below you will see case in point:

Your creepy dog paintings look like ewoks with cat ears...

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Slot #12

I got home at midnight on Friday and just after turning into my parking lot, I saw this:

At first I panicked, then I was all, “oh wait, I park over here” and turned left. Then I thought, “holy crap, is that whipped cream?” craning my neck to see the words. And then “Wonder what they did to get that?”

Okay that last thought wasn’t very kind but it was late and I had been kind all day long.

I searched my mind, “Slot #12, Slot #12…I have no idea who parks in Slot # 12.” I just couldn’t remember.

Regardless, I considered getting out of my car to clean it off (somehow) but then my instinct for self-preservation kicked in and stopped me, “hold it one minute...there’s either a pack of crazy bitches around here or a jealous dude who would consider my disembodied head to be the perfect addition to his street art” so I jammed out of my car and ran for the front door.

The next morning my friend came to pick me up for brunch. It was around 11 am, so I assumed the writing would be gone but I was wrong. Apparently, Slot #12 didn’t even come home last night…not good for your case Slot #12.

The words were still in tact, glistening in the sunlight. If there was a chance to do anything at all to help, it would have surely been then. But instead, I took a picture (see above) and pointed it out to my friend.

Friend: Wait, what am I looking at?
Me: Wait for it…a little closer…there, see it!
Friend: Oh, my.
Me: Yeah, right? I haven’t seen anything like that in a long time.
Friend: I am just really impressed with how neat the writing is.
Me: I know, it doesn’t seem hurried or angry. Just kind of: “Dirty. Whore. Slut. No Big Deal.”
Friend: Well, that would upset me.
Me: I know I do feel bad for her. What if we put some glitter on it? Glitter makes everything look happy! It might lessen the blow.
Friend: Let’s go to brunch.

Two days later, Matt and I were putting some summer stuff away into our storage unit near Slot #12 when we saw the *actual* Slot #12 arrive home.

Now, I hate to be judgmental but she did look a little, well, “hard”. She was wearing a black corset top, light-colored bell-bottom jeans and those really high platforms often referred to as “stripper shoes”. Her eyes were black with liner and mascara, so overall she more or less resembled a Bratz doll. Matt was silently encouraging me to talk to her by mouthing “Go on, that’s her, that’s her”, bobbing his head in her direction. I was mortified. After she went into our building I said, “What the hell are you doing? She’s probably totally embarrassed. I’m not going to talk to her about it!”

In retrospect, she might not have been embarrassed at all. God bless her, she held her head high as she got her mail and she should.

Here’s why: I am pretty sure most, if not all of us, have done something to warrant being called those names or have aroused that kind of anger in another with our actions. I could be wrong, she might be innocent of such but I don’t think Slot #12 will ever tell.

Since I couldn't add glitter in real life, I made this picture to make me feel better.