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A Sad Declaration
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Jul. 26th, 2008 @ 08:21 am
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I am very tired of my cat.
Here is a sampling from his Irritation Repertoire du Jour:
- Opening any closed door
- Yanking brokenheartedly (and annoyingly, when it's your bedroom and you are TRYING TO MOTHERFUCKING SLEEP) at any locked door
- Chasing Artie (just Artie) relentlessly
- Eating the houseplants
- Standing on top of the TV and trying to pull things off the shelves
- Losing the ability to hear whenever he is told "no"
- Waking us up at 6 and 7 am by hopping in bed and walking back and forth across us (bonus: stepping on my breasts!)
- Shaking his head every time he gets a mouthful of food, so food goes flying everywhere
- Vomiting immediately after eating
- Scratching the back of the couch, which is three feet away from his GODDAMNED SCRATCH POST
- Using Greta's litterbox when his litterbox is perfectly clean (also, the kitchen carpet)
- Attacking me viciously when I play with him
- Attacking me viciously when I pet him
- Attacking me viciously when I am looking the other way and ignoring him
The attacking is the worst, of course. He's done it ever since he was a baby; for some reason I am the one human among humans that he is aggressive with. And when he hunts me, he goes full-bore: pouncing from out of nowhere, grabbing on, digging his claws all the way in so they leave punctures and I can't pull my hand away, biting viciously, and bunny kicks. It sucks. I can be sitting on the couch chatting, and he will leap up from behind to attack me, wrapping his claws around my head. I've tried everything I can think of to get this to stop: ignoring it, scruffing him and shouting no, distracting him with a toy, squirting water. Nowadays I try to keep a cup handy with a quarter inch of water in it and splash him with it when he goes after some unprotected part of my body. I don't have any hope this will actually correct the behavior but it does at least get him off me with a minimum of personal injury. The attacking has gotten so bad that I now don't ever play with him or pick him up, and I get tense whenever he comes near me, so I think it's probably time we pony up the money for a behaviorist. Sigh. Frigging cats.
EDIT: Now I am going to make jugo de lulo and watch Mr. Smith Goes To Washington. I bet I'm the only one. |
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Freedy Friday
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Jul. 25th, 2008 @ 10:02 am
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This morning, I am freedying* "Doo Wop (That Thing)," by Lauryn Hill. I harassed my roommates and friends with it all morning as I was getting ready, singing it all over the house. Making salad for the bunnies, singing the song. Looking for my shoes, singing the song. Preening, singing. Eventually everyone else started singing along, which is JUST LIKE IN THE SONG! MY FRIEND, COME AGAIN!
I have the Lauryn Hill album (old school Countyites: it even has a little square blue "The Wall" sticker in the corner and everything!) That song wasn't on my iPod, and you know how it goes when you are freedying a song in your brain but you can't listen to the song, so I hurriedly ripped it before leaving the house. I played it once on the way from the train to get a coffee (Think Coffee on Mercer: delicious, and it's been all I can do not to suck it down in one 7-11 sized gulp) and three more times on the way from the coffee shop to the office building. Oh, it's a beautiful day in New York City this morning, Livejournal Land. And I don't care that the song is ten years old and overplayed - it's still genius, and suits my mood (good!) perfectly.
If you are freedying anything right now, I would like to hear all about it. Please use comments.
* While I am linking to Will Hines' blog, I would like to note that Zach and I went to see a cage match at Upright Citizens Brigade last night, as a buddy of his is in a musical improv group that was competing. Man, musical improv looks hard! They were fabulous and impressive, but were competing against Death By Roo Roo, a seminal group that includes three former members of Monkeydick, the best improv group of all time, ever. You can keep your Swarm and your Stepfathers and even your original four, comedy fans. Monkeydick! Oh, they were so fantastic. And seeing the three guys perform together last night made me miss Monkeydick even more. Get back together, Monkeydick! Love, fangirl.
"Oh, um, well, I was going to do it, but it turns out... I don't give a shit."
"PANTRY ENTRANCE!"
"Oh my god, look at his face. He got fisted! That's exactly what I looked like when I got fisted!" |
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God, Bea Arthur Is Full Of Herself
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Jul. 23rd, 2008 @ 10:33 am
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Bea Arthur said in a statement, "Our mother-daughter relationship was one of the greatest comic duos ever, and I will miss her."
Jeeze, Bea Arthur. Ego. Try to show a little tact. A woman has died, here.
FUN NEW GAME!
Pluta, Jo, Zach and I had drinks the other night and, because we are all idiots, we came up with a new game! The game is, yell out movie titles that end in "ch." This movie titles game is only slightly less inane than our previous movie title-based shouting game, "Which Movies Has Mike Raymond Seen," but it is, let's be honest, still pretty inane. We came up with a lot of movie titles that end in ch. Is Livejournal Land bored enough today to start yelling out some movies that end in ch of their own? Let's find out! NB: Zooropa is not one. |
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No Jokey Smurf Today
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Jul. 21st, 2008 @ 10:28 am
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We slept with the windows open on Saturday night.
At around 4am, I heard a loud yell, a guy, and it startled me, so I woke up, peered blearily at the street outside, and, seeing nothing but an empty street, laid back down.
Ten minutes later, an ear-shattering scream, followed by another. A woman this time. I sat up like the house was on fire, and this time there was no mistaking the source; directly across from my bedroom window, a woman was sprawled on the sidewalk. She staggered to her feet, clinging to the beefy dude standing over her.
"I can't believe you called the cops on me," she said, I think crying. Hysterical. Drunk.
"You're drunk," he said.
"I can't believe you called the COPS on me. I can't believe you called the cops on me." More yelling, more staggering. Crying.
"Go home. You're drunk." He tried to disengage himself, and tried to walk away. She kept repeating her line, slurring with alcohol and fear.
"You called the cops on me! I can't believe you called the cops on me."
"I said go HOME."
While this was awful to watch, it wasn't the kind of thing you look away from. We considered calling the police, but other than the noise violation (which... it's New York. the city is one big noise violation), there wasn't anything really police-actionable about the scene. I watched her stagger around some more, trying to grab him, trying to hold him. He persisted in "You're drunk. Go home." and finally seemed to extricate himself from her clutches and walk away, up the hill toward Sixth Avenue. But she was right behind him, cobbling along in her illogical high heels and her illogical short skirt. She caught up with him and grabbed him. Slapped him across the face twice.
He appeared Brooklyn-born-and-bred, and beefy in that way that some Brooklyn Italians are. She was no bigger than I am. Smaller, probably.
Then I saw him swing around and punch her in the face. Saw it, but really didn't believe it.
"Oh my god Zach he hit her he hit her we have to call the police." Before it even was out of my mouth, he hit her two more times, then she fell, screaming, and he punched her again while she was sprawled on the ground. Zach reacted instinctively -- leaned into the window and yelled "HEY!" The coward took off running then, up the street and into the dark early morning.
A stranger ran to the girl, helped her up, shored her up as they walked away. We were already on the phone with the police, but by the time they arrived on our block, the street was as quiet as it usually is. We were sleepless with remorse - should have called the police sooner, should have tried to stall her, should have chased the guy.
Did she report him herself the next day? I'm sure we all know the likely answer to that.
It was the most disturbing thing I've ever seen. All the more awful because he may never actually pay any consequence for it. Ugh. Coward, bastard, criminal. Girls -- everyone -- please take care of yourselves. |
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No One Is To Ask Why I Didn't Include The Chokecherry
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Jul. 17th, 2008 @ 11:00 am
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FREE ADVICE FROM ME TO THE BRIDES OF THE WORLD
If you are going to embark on an aggressive pre-nuptial tanning spree, you should not forget to change your foundation accordingly. At least pick up a bronzer. I don't even care about makeup, but that ghostmask thing you are rocking is superfug, and this is supposed to be your Pretty Day. I can't believe your 'maids aren't telling you about this already. Probably they are all jealous of you. Bitches.
WALLOWING IN GRIM WIKIPEDIA'ING; THE BLAME IS ON STEPHEN KING
What's that? You'd like a list of murderers named Charles? Happy to oblige, Livejournal Land, happy to oblige:
Charles and Charles.
Charles Starkweather, the guy who killed 11 people and blamed it on a fourteen-year-old girl.
Charles Guiteau, the guy who killed President Garfield and blamed it on the doctors.
Charles Becker, the guy who killed a gambler and blamed the government.
Charles Rodman Campbell, the guy who killed three people and it really was the government's fault.
Of course, there are many more murderous Charleses out there, but I don't want to spoil the fun of discovery for you! Sally forth and find them for yourselves, my dear Livejournal friends.
Next entry: murderous Sallys!
AND NOW, FRUIT SUPERLATIVES
Rate a fruit, save a life!*
( The Fruit Rating Poll has been hidden behind a cut because all those red bars were starting to make me go cross-eyed. And I bet they were for you too, although you're too sweet to say so. ) |
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Thirty-Two Albums, Even Though I Am Only Thirty, Waaahhh.
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Jul. 15th, 2008 @ 02:47 pm
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Last night I had a long and protracted dream in which I was frantically searching for pictures of myself wearing a bathing suit where the bathing suit was riding up, so that I could use photoshop to make it appear that the bathing suit was not riding up. I like this dream because as random as it unquestionably is, it is also something I could see myself one day doing in real life.
Here, I have done Nat's "pick a favorite album for every year you've been alive" meme. This was very difficult. I discovered that I didn't have a favorite album in the year 2000. I suspect this is because all my favorite musicians were freaking out about Y2K and spent the whole of 1999 pissing up trees and drinking heavily. Hence, there were a lot of retrospectives released that year, so I picked Bob Dylan's. I know picking a retrospective is not really the point of this exercise, but it was slim pickins, I'm telling you.
This was also difficult because these are my actual favorites, not the albums I am supposed to pick as my favorites. In the year I was born, 1977, Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols was released. I recognize that that album is both cooler and more important than Billy Joel's The Stranger. But I like The Stranger better. Should I be ashamed? Maybe. But I'm gonna fly this flag anyway. Screw you, seminal albums. Carrying this idea to its most ridiculous conclusions, I very nearly picked The Monkees' 1987 release Pool It! over The Smiths' Louder Than Bombs. Yes! It's true! Pool It!, which I recognize is awful, is a much-beloved album to me personally. I was hemming and hawing over the two, and then I remembered about Davy Jones' weird mullet, and the choice was clear.
Anyway, here are some albums that I like from every year I've been alive.
1977: The Stranger - Billy Joel
1978: This Year's Model - Elvis Costello and the Attractions
1979: Mingus - Joni Mitchell (Full disclosure: I picked this because it includes the incredibly bizarre "God Must Be a Boogie Man." She's such a weirdo.)
1980: Zenyatta Mondatta - The Police
1981: I Love Rock N Roll - Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
1982: Thriller - Michael Jackson
1983: Violent Femmes - Violent Femmes
1984: Hatful of Hollow - The Smiths
1985: No Jacket Required - Phil Collins
1986: Graceland - Paul Simon
1987: Louder Than Bombs - The Smiths
1988: Watermark - Enya
1989: Indigo Girls - Indigo Girls
1990: Flood - They Might Be Giants
1991: Travelers and Thieves - Blues Traveler
1992: Automatic For the People - REM
1993: August and Everything After - Counting Crows
1994: Out Of Range - Ani DiFranco
1995: Ben Folds Five - Ben Folds Five
1996: Mortal City - Dar Williams
1997: Beneath the Devil Moon - Michelle Malone
1998: Big Night Without You - Emmet Swimming
1999: Come on Now Social - Indigo Girls
2000: The Essential Bob Dylan - Bob Dylan
2001: Room For Squares - John Mayer
2002: The Instigator - Rhett Miller
2003: Interventions and Lullabies - The Format
2004: Hopes and Fears - Keane
2005: The Magic Numbers - The Magic Numbers
2006: These Four Walls - Shawn Colvin
2007: Children Running Through - Patty Griffin
2008: Blame it on Gravity - Old 97s |
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Andy Baby
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Jul. 14th, 2008 @ 09:18 am
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Rounding out the childhood-iana series here at Yummy Turtle, may I present a photo of me with my beloved childhood totem, Andy Baby. Now, Andy Baby was purchased for me by my mother at FAO Schwarz either before I was born or very soon after I was born, and was originally a Madame Alexander doll, mint condition vintage specimens of which might run you $450 or more. How much would Andy Baby fetch on today's ruthless doll market, Livejournal Land? A dollar? Five dollars? Could you pay someone to take her?
Hmm... or what about the black market? She could probably serve in place of jungle cats to guard cocaine dens.
This 2D photo makes her seem a lot more benign than she looks in real life. For one thing, it is not immediately obvious in the photo that she is devoid of one (1) left arm. For another, it is not at all apparent that her head always flops threateningly over, stuck to her body as it is by only the most tenuously brittle tendon of reparatory packing tape. Somehow the grime and duct tape covering 3/4ths of her corpus take on an almost pastoral quality in this photo, too. I've never shown Andy Baby to a friend or enemy without the victim performing an entertaining rictus of revulsion and horror, but this photo almost - almost - makes her look, dare I say it, cute. But perhaps I am biased.
Andy Baby's hair stands punkily on end like that, not because of innovative styling, but because that's how I used to drag her around with me - caveman-style, by the hair. This meant she was very often dragged along the ground. I do not remember what tragic circumstance resulted in the amputation or the not-quite-a-beheading. I also do not remember the time, oft-repeated at family gatherings (and which I've told here before at least once, so now you are starting to get a sense of how regularly *I* get treated to this particular story, not that I ever tire of hearing it, obviously), when I was three years old and my cousin Marty decided that Christmas dinner was a highly opportune time for a practical joke. So the story goes, I made a grand showing of taking Andy Baby upstairs and putting her to bed, in front of all my great aunts and other relatives. Marty sneaks upstairs after me, rouses Andy Baby from doll slumber and sets her on the living room couch, nestled between Great Aunt Kitty and Great Aunt Nonie. (naughty Andy Baby!)
I spy the recumbent Andy Baby on the couch - DELIBERATELY FLOUTING MY AUTHORITY - and unleash a torrent of vitriol, i.e., "God damnit Andy Baby, I told you to go to bed, now you go to bed, god damnit Andy Baby." And I carry her off in a huff - kids these days - and Marty stalks up behind me and drags her back downstairs again and we repeat the dog-and-pony-show four or five more times, with me getting increasingly agitated and spleeny at every new Andy Baby sighting, until finally, presumably, my mom asks Marty to please find another way to amuse himself before I become the world's first three-year-old to suffer a nervous breakdown.
As you can see, my instinctive maternal leanings: FAIL.
Over last weekend, Zach conspired with some of my cousins to make an Andy Baby Mii (which is at the same time infinitely more terrifying, and not at all as terrifying, as her IRL persona), and I'll tell you something, you haven't lived until you've witnessed little cartoon Andy Baby swinging away at Wii Baseball.
Here are a couple of other photos from last weekend:
We just loved this sign. No no-good-niks and long-hairs allowed in Yorktown! Where Independence Was Won, I Mean Come On!
Yeah, yeah, I know the Charlie's Angels photo is not an original expression anymore. The thing is, we were doing it long before the recent Charlie's Angels renaissance (shut up yes too there was one), and I expect we will continue doing it long after everyone else has moved on to other, more interesting, photographic poses. When we're 75 we'll release our 60-year retrospective of women doing Charlie's Angels poses. Probably it will win several awards.
Zach's high school pals. "Now it's time for a SILLY PHOTO!" they said. I get pretty nervous around Zach's friends, who are much more proper and upstanding citizens than I am, so I just went with my old standby silly-photo-face: MONSTERRARRRRRR |
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More From The Vault
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Jul. 9th, 2008 @ 12:43 pm
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I have for you today another shining example of the fine work I executed while matriculating within the York County Public School System.
This exciting bit of scholarly achievement comes to you from fourth grade, when yours truly was studying the difference between types of sentences (declarative, interrogative, and exclamatory, in case it's been awhile since you yourself were in the fourth grade) and we had to use a word (like "essay" or "furnish") in each of the three types of sentences. I have always had an affinity for exclamation points, so it's no big surprise that my exclamatory sentences are by far the best ones. And don't worry, you're not missing any contextual information that would make these sentences make sense, or anything silly like that.
1. Go get that barrel!
2. Direct me to the empire! (This is my favorite. In fact it might just be my favorite string of five words on planet earth. I only wish I had reason to say it more often.)
3. Write an essay on Bill Cosby!
4. We must furnish our own knife and fork at lunch! (Economic crises even affect nine year olds, woe.)
5. Put the infant back in the crib!
6. You've got a million pets! (She declares, she exclaims, she predicts her own future.) |
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I Drink Your Milkshake
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Jul. 8th, 2008 @ 08:36 pm
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God, but Yorktown's picturesque.
Yes, so, I've come home to Yorktown, my hometown, Where Independence Was Won, and I'm sitting in the only place where Wi-Fi is available within walking distance of my parents' abode: the spanking new Ben and Jerry's on the waterfront. You know what's incredible? So I walk in, and there's five guys sitting in a little half-moon shape, and they're about 15, and at first my brain kind of goes, oh, open mic night at Ben and Jerry's, really? But no, actually, they're just hanging out and they brought their guitars. It's too much! One of the five is the ice cream scooper du jour, and he told me to let him know if I want anything. This suits me perfectly because I just want to take advantage of the complimentary Wi-Fi (it told me it likes my bag) and snag a milkshake when I vacate, and I was worried the B&J-ers were going to come with some "No purchase, no free Wi-Fi" nonsense, but I forget, this is not New York, and Yorktown denizens are nice. When I was around 19, I used to spend evenings on this very waterfront playing guitars with my friends, but there was no Ben and Jerry's to hole up in back then. We would either sit on the beach or cram into the old (abandoned) post office building. Oh, and the post office got moved and re-outfitted as an event space. I see flashes going off inside there so there is some kind of party, a reunion or a wedding. O the times they are a changing.
I always seem to get a little maudlin when I come here. It's beautiful and all, but almost too poignant and pastoral. Too much history, personal and universal. Too many ghosts here.
I came home to celebrate the Fourth of July with my family - the Fourth being, for the Hamiltons, a Very Big Deal for time immemorial as the house is in the historic district and people travel from all over the area to cram into town and observe the terrible crafts, consume terrible confits, mock the terrible parade, and so forth. My four best friends from high school were all in town as well, owing to a special planetary alignment, and it was great to see them.
Now my pals in serenadesterdom are playing "I Will Survive." I wonder if they're doing the Cake version. Probably. Maybe they have never even heard of Gloria Gaynor? Well, I am not going to ask them. I already feel about thirty. And I am thirty, so that's terrible. I am very aware of my age whenever I look at my old photos, playbills, and letters, and since I am in the process of sorting through my old papers and childhood miscellany (streamlining, anticipating future move of all remaining Yorktown-bound possessions to NYC apartment), I feel very old. And like I've lived a bunch of different lives. But also, since I left parts urban for parts suburban edging toward rural, time has slowed down for the moment, which is nice.
I do want to tell you: in the midst of picking through my mélange du childhood, I ran across this awesome project I made when I must have been about seven. It's Thanksgiving-related, and there is a series of four drawings, labeled, in order, "Pilgrim," "Turkey," "Indan," and "Pumpken." Notice how my ability to spell becomes increasingly tinged by apathy. The drawings, only half-hearted to begin with, reflect that same tendency. The last drawing is of a scribbled-over cornucopia, and the label, a solitary backwards letter "c." After that mind-blowingly lame attempt, I apparently abandoned the project altogether, as about eight blank pages follow.
Anyway, Yorktown. |
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If This Doesn't Terrify You To The Very Depths Of Your Soul, I Don't Know What Will
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Jul. 3rd, 2008 @ 07:40 am
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That's right. It's a shark-in-the-box. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES. |
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I think this entry is technically a Thanbauk
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Jul. 2nd, 2008 @ 10:24 am
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An egg white and tofu breakfast wrap sounds awful.
And is not as good as it sounds.
It was free, though.
Hey, blueberries.
_____
EDIT! I was reading the Wikipedia entry for The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock earlier, which is a poem that I know very well from reading and reciting it, if not hundreds of times, certainly a hundred times. You know what totally ruins a great poem? Pedantic, grinding overanalysis! I know right! I am totally the first one to realize this! Rise up, schoolchildren of the world! Your instinct is right; you don't need to learn poetry analysis! (But you do need to learn poems.) I mean honestly, who cares what Eliot meant when he said "the yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes"? The Wikipedia entry wrings its hands over that all, "is he talking about a cat, or is he being literal, what does it all SYMBOLIZE?" Oh my gosh, barf. It's a great string of words and it evokes exactly what it wants to evoke. You know, some references are helpful to know, like when a poet alludes to the Bible or Shakespeare, but for the most part, obsessively strip searching every word individually for every possible shade of meaning is way less satisfying (and helpful) than just reading the poem a hundred times and letting it live inside you.
I wish I had an Andy Rooney icon for this Livejournal Edit, which is longer by a lot than the original entry.
Lastly, I am leaving town tomorrow for parts Southerly. I will be celebrating our Nation's Independence in the home of my ancestors! Where Independence Was Won! |
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More Moribundity, Please!
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Jul. 1st, 2008 @ 10:54 am
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START YOUR DAY OFF RIGHT WITH A LITTLE PRESERVED SKELETON ACTION
Best line (I think; there are so many delicious phrasings): "The process went disastrously wrong, robbing the head of most of its facial expression, and leaving it decidedly unattractive."
Nat, who forwarded me that link up there (probably hoping to cause me emotional distress, truth be told), claimed that in order to allow me to post this exotica for you, I must also talk about how awesome he is. I bet he thought I wouldn't actually take him at his word on this, but check it out, here's an old choogle between myself and ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) alexlady:
Alex: Holy poop, did we love Nat's show.
me: I know, it's great, isn't it?
Alex: He impress me fo reals.
me: He's wonderful. So talented. He's one of those people who's just like, no fair, you're fucking good at EVERYTHING.
Alex: And NICE, that a-hole.
me: Let's eat his brain so we can absorb his power.
Alex: Oooh, there's a Christopher Pike book like that.
Watch your back, Cassidy. Also, I hope I have suitably embarrassed you so that you will no longer make such petty, self-aggrandizing demands on my time.
RABBIT, RUN. NO, MAKE THAT RABBIT, CHASE PEOPLE.
There has been a disturbance in the cosmos (of our apartment), and we're having a little issue with our house rabbits. Here is the issue: Greta is a lunatic. Thank you.
Oh, all right, you require more information than that. (Or: you don't require any more information at all, in fact you wish me to stop nattering on about my pets ad infinitum, but haha, that is never going to happen, what did you, just start coming here?)
As you know, there are four different species of creature living at my apartment. The balance of this, somewhat inexplicably, has always just worked. The dogs bark at the cat, the cat jumps on top of something. The cat swats at the dogs clawlessly, the dogs run away. The cat chases the rabbits, the rabbits hold their ground. The dogs snap at the rabbits, the rabbits hop straight in the air, causing the dogs to wander off, bemused. The humans refer to the pets by undignified nicknames, the pets excrete bodily fluids on the humans' carpets to startle and unnerve. Like I said, it's all in healthy balance.
It's a delicate balance, though.
Because rabbits are possesed of a frothy and contentious nature, our two rabbits live separately, one in the bedroom, one in the living room. We didn't intend to get a second rabbit, as you know, but Artie's such a sweet girl that we haven't been able to part with her. She has enjoyed free reign in our bedroom, which means there is often more hay strewn around my boudoir than is ideal, but overall she is not exceptionally messy and it's worked fine. But then she peed on our bed. She was yelled at (there is nothing like yelling at a rabbit to make a person feel so hopelessly ridiculous, by the way) and then remanded to the living room, an action which catalyzed an irreversible deathslide into mayhem and madness.
Greta, having already made her preferences long known about a second rabbit in the house, really does not like having Artie invade our living room -- wait let's use the accurate pronoun, her living room -- and demonstrates her feelings by darting all over the room in a crazed tempest, hiding, gnawing at things, and charging the various occupants of the space. Obviously, we cannot actually let the rabbits physically interact because Greta will tear Artie apart.
I know you probably imagine rabbits as gentle, mild little creatures who do not do much more than scratch themselves and wriggle their noses in an adorable manner, but I'm telling you, it's a fuckin soap opera around here these days. The territory needs defendin, and by god, the territory goan get defended.
Two nights ago, Greta charged me, and since I hadn't done anything to provoke her, I called her out. Zach rolled onto the floor to calm and soothe her, at which point she charged him too and then ACTUALLY BIT HIM. She never bites, never ever never nerver erver, so when two sad, tiny rabbit fangmarks presently raised angry wens on either side of Zach's hand, it caused us both a lot of real distress. Now she's started chasing Ned. Ned will wander into the room from a sleep, and she darts after him for blood. He runs away, legitimately terrified. This may sound funny, the four pound rabbit having the four-times-her-size cat hot-heeling it out of the room, but if only you could see Ned pathetically hugging the wall and eyeing the savage from afar, all "...mrow?", you would not find it funny, not at all.
So we're at an impasse: Can't continue the logistical nightmare of housing two separate rabbits, can't give up Artie, and can't bond the nice rabbit with the hateful crazy one. I believe the only option left to us now is to start drinking in the morning, right?
I USE IMPORTANT-SOUNDING WORDS SO THAT I'LL SOUND SMART ON THE INTERNET
Zach got a Wii for his birthday (oh, all right: I GAVE him a Wii for his birthday. please admire me) so I've been greedily researching games online. From one "Big Brain Academy" Amazon customer review: "I have a morbid fascination with ersatz tests of mental agility." I love this. I imagine this guy slavering over paper bound IQ tests, perhaps carving them all to shit and dripping blood between his fingers, reciting Beasts of Satan lyrics as he susses out the hidden pattern in a series of geometric figures. "I will join Mensa," he says to himself, "or so help me, I'll dig up a weeks-old corpse and eat it in front of a kindergartner." Oooh, morbid. "Or on second thought, maybe I'll just do both!" I have probably spent too much time envisioning the guy with the morbid IQ test fascination, haven't I? By the way, I realize he also used the word "ersatz" incorrectly, or at least weirdly, but I can forgive him that one because ersatz is such a cool word. Let the record show: I am always in favor of words with terminal z's.
OH, HARRY POTTER NERDS, WE'RE JUST ACCIO-ING AT STRAWS NOW, AREN'T WE
The following "maybe you missed it" bit of ephemera hails from either Mugglenet or The Leaky Cauldron, or maybe just a really terrible dream I had. Please read it aloud to yourself in your very best Irkel voice. Employ snorting.
"In St. Mungo’s, when they are going to visit Mr. Weasley: They climbed a flight of stairs and entered the "Creature-Induced Injuries" corridor, where the second door on the right bore the words 'DANGEROUS' DAI LLEWELLYN WARD: SERIOUS BITES. If you put these words on a sign, they would read:
Creature-Induced Injuries
Dangerous
Dai Llewellyn Ward
Serious Bites
Take the first word of each of these and what do you get get? Creature Dangerous Dai Serious? No - Kreacher dangerous, Die Sirius." |
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Egregious.
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Jun. 30th, 2008 @ 05:42 pm
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Look, I've got no proof for this statement, none at all, and I never will because the website is so deliciously, nefariously vague, but I think that whoever dreamed up these appalling specimens is obviously -- obviously -- a dude. And not just any dude. A fearful, fanatical, pervy, self-important, inherently deviant dude who muses CONSTANTLY about, like, rape fantasies, and who really believes that women's bodies, in and of themselves, are instruments of the devil and exist solely to torture him and tempt him into sin. To absolve himself, the only thing he can do is hope to teach women and girls -- oh my god I really hope he doesn't have a daughter -- to fear, shame, and stigmatize their own bodies.
"Limit cling!" "Add modesty and style!" "Highlight the face, not the body!"
...
I MEAN SERIOUSLY. FUCK THAT GUY.
PS. This entry was a lot funnier, in my head, but as it turns out, I'm just mad about it. |
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Drunken Family Portrait!
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Jun. 28th, 2008 @ 02:41 am
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Actually, only one of us is drunk.
And this isn't even the whole family. Missing one (1) cranky rabbit.
La!
Here are some other tries at drunken family portraits:
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Exclaim.
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Jun. 26th, 2008 @ 11:50 am
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First of all! Today is my live-in boyfriend's birthday! And here's his prasn, a livejournal entry proclaiming him the best! What, you thought I was going to make him a cake or something? Come on!
For you on your birthday, Zachary, I made an extremely cranky rabbit:
Yeah, happy fucken birthday. THUMP.
Livejournal Land! A task for you!
I need some new blogs to read. Almost all of my standard favorite blogs are now people with kids, which means that the blogs are now parenting blogs, which, yay for kids, obviously, but they aren't for me, and neither is reading about toddler woes or getting a baby to sleep through the night. Obviously, I don't fault the person for becoming about All Kids, All The Time, as that is a rather important thing to happen to a person. But... I need to read about stuff that is not sippy cups.
So! I need your favorite personal blogs! I don't care what the focus is as long as the person is funny and uses big words. In return, if you are not already reading her, may I recommend elysesewell. |
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Fangirl Update
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Jun. 25th, 2008 @ 11:43 am
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Livejournal Land, I've seen my favorite band a little over 20 times now. More than some fans, maybe, but way fewer than most diehards. Still, though, I am no Indigo Girls concert virgin. And yet, I've never gotten very close to the stage. I once weaseled my way to within 6 rows at Music Midtown in Atlanta in 1998 (where my friend and I swore up down and from side to side that Amy smiled at us), and I was in the second row at Radio City once, but a) there's a pit in front of the front row, and b) that venue eats.
Well, all that's about to change.
BECAUSE WE'VE GOT MOTHERFREAKING FRONT ROW SEATS PEOPLE.
Okay, I need to go find a paper bag to breathe into, truly. Our seats for the September 24th show upstate are center section, slightly Amy side (omgpee), and in the front row. FRONT. ROW. Also? The show is two days before my birthday. Also also? The weekend following this show is the big Pendulum Swinger dancer reunion event, so I'm hoping this means they're all skipping the earlier show. I love to make fun of the dance on here, but when I see people actually doing it at shows, I get irrationally angry. I accidentally attended their big reunion last year, and: matching T-shirts. Do you understand? Matching. T-Shirts.
(If you are confused, please Google "Pendulum Swinger dance." It will tell you all you need to know. Actually, it will tell you a lot that you never wanted to know.)
Anyway, basically: SQUEEEEEEEE
AND NOW, TODAY'S FUNNIEST EMAIL CHAIN SO FAR
_____________________
From: Zach W
To: Angela, Zach J
My first fired-up letter to the New York Times, and it's about root beer!! Ha!
Angela, this is in reference to this lovely article that ZPJ shared with me: Hi Eric -
As a self-avowed root beer rector, I take great pride in the fact that two of America's greatest examples of the soda are crafted right here in New York. I would be disheartened to learn of their exclusion in this tasting, and shocked to see them rank outside the top 10 if included.
The brands I speak of are Utica's Saranac and Ithaca's Ithaca Soda Co. The former can (and must!) be enjoyed on-tap at Harlem's Dinosaur BBQ while the latter is the only root beer I'm aware of that includes hops among its ingredients - lending it a complex and truly singular flavor.
Any chance of providing Times readers with the full list of tested root beers?
Sincerely,
Zach W _____________________
From: Angela
To: Zach W, Zach J
Hahahhaha, I love this. I am so happy. You just called yourself a root beer rector. Oh my gosh my boyfriend is totally 80 years old and shaking his fist at the Times.
_____________________
From: Zach J
To: Zach W, Angela
I'll get him a cane and a case of root beer for his birthday... i'm not sure which would make him more excited...
_____________________
From: Zach W
To: Zach J, Angela
I can hear everything you guys are saying.
_____________________
From: Zach J
To: Angela, Zach W
Which is surprising, given your shocking old age...
_____________________
From: Angela
To: Zach J, Zach W
OOOOOH BURRRRN
_____________________
From: Zach W
To: Zach J, Angela
What will burn is your house. And all that lives in it.
_____________________
From: Angela
To: Zach W, Zach J
Who are you looking at? If you burn down MY house you are gonna be really sorry because all your electronic cables will perish too.
_____________________
From: Zach J
To: Zach W, Angela
And if you burn down my house... well... ummm... Benny the Cat will be royally pissed... NO MORE SNAGGLETOOTH FOR YOU!!!
_____________________
From: Zach W
To: Zach J, Angela
Sorry - that was meant for the NY Times writer. |
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Introducing!
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Jun. 23rd, 2008 @ 06:14 pm
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Fun new hair color: black!
I have never had black hair before, so this is pretty exciting. I have been brunette for most of my life, but I've done blond and red for shows in the past, and you know all about the purple. This weekend, I was briefly red again for about 18 hours, but it was less of an auburn type experience and more of a Bozo type experience (disastrous photo evidence here, please destroy it once you have viewed it), so I trucked myself down to the salon for a fix-up. I thought red might have the highest likelihood of rinsing out so I could be purple again, but then I decided, all right, screw it: black hair.
I'm liking it.
This weekend was excellent par excellance, Livejournal Land. I took some peoples' money at poker, I went to a diner with four of my favorite people, we checked out Dram Shop (verdict: yay!) I was salon'd on by Zach (fun! also: relaxing scalp massage much more relaxing when loving partner is performing it instead of reluctant hair stranger) then later by professionals, I went to the world's greatest street fair (I adore street fairs, but this one was especially ace), got some strawberry ice cream at this place in Boerum Hill, and okay, seriously, transcendant. Also seriously, lucky for my waistline it's not that close to me. Bought some cheese at the Stinky cheese shop on Smith Street, and visited Freebird Books (purchased: 8 books) and the new and utterly fabulous South Brooklyn Pizza, and oo, this pizza snob likes it there. Good. So good. Top Three for sure. So yeah, it was a good time, this weekend. Bonus: I think we almost died by lightning strike while sitting at an outdoor bar waiting for the pizza place to open. I was drinking a Raspberry-lime Rickey at the time which, while decent, would not be my choice of last beverage before death by lightning strike. So I am glad I will live to see another cocktail.
PS. What is that in my mouth, in the red hair picture?
PPS. It turned out to be a piece of lint stuck to the computer screen. Low five. |
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You Would Think A Former Miss America Would Show More Dignity Than This
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Jun. 20th, 2008 @ 09:52 am
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I'm no military expert, but I think the video that my buddy greywingnut, who is a nice person, and who would not do anything to harm me intentionally, posted in the comments of my last entry could be used as a scare tactic to interrogate spies. It wouldn't even take long for them to crack, either. Good lord. Have you watched it? Don't watch it. You will be a worse person for it.
...
Okay, fine, go watch it. But don't immediately throw your computer out the nearest window. Come back so we can commisserate.
The lyrics. Not only is the original song disturbingly and ear-crunchingly repetetive, but whichever lyricist they dragged in off the street and plunked in front of a piano apparently thought nothing of cramming three, four, or five syllables into one syllable. The premise of the bit, shaky though it may be, is that TV-land stars of yesteryear, channelling Mary Martin, career all around the auditorium on guide wires while Vanessa Williams sings about them. In the actual song, the lyric is "I'm flying." But the lyricist has crammed these long character names into the space of the syllable "I'm," so we get "Beavrclevr's flying!" and "GaryColmns flying!"
Livejournal Land, if you were in charge of writing the "I'm Flying" parody for the TV Land Awards show, would you or would you not use one-syllable characters? "Bert's flying," they could have sung. And a Muppet, to boot! That would actually be adorable! Everyone wants to see a Muppet flying! And no one, no one in the world, wants to see Greg Brady flying, unless he is flying into the sun. Cut; print. Or, "Jack's flying," since Sean Hayes could probably have managed to make this situation seem somehow funny instead of soul-crushing and embarrassing. Or "Maude's flying," for god's sake! We see Bea Arthur, she's sitting right there in the audience looking appalled! How the fuck hard would it have been to run over to Bea Arthur, fling the martini glass away, clap on a couple of guide wires and hoist that bitch up? (answer: very hard, because Bea Arthur will deck you.) Or, hear me out, "Rhoda's flying." I know that's two syllables, but it would be worth it to see Valerie Harper being flung around the auditorium like a fish on a line.
Of course, that last bit is probably the kind of thinking that inspired them to invite Jerry Mathers' participation. Who wouldn't want to see Beaver Cleaver defy gravity? As one of the unfortunate souls who has actually seen this happen, I'm going to go out on a limb and answer: everyone. Ugh. "Beavrclevr's flying! (flying!) (flying!) (flying!)" The thing is, no he's not. He's lying there -- in midair, mind you -- like a wet sock. He gives a couple of perfunctory waves in the direction of no one, but for the most part he just hangs there immobile with an "Oh well" expression on his face.
And do not even ask me about the unspeakable evil that is THE FRONT WEDGIE.
I'm surprised they didn't:
"The Count of Monte Cristo's flying!"
"The Communist Dictator of the People's Republic of China's flying!"
"The guy who played the whiny Dad on Alf and then later the irascible and bug-assed coffeeshop manager on Friends who also had a cameo in Grumpier Old Men's flyyyyyyyyyying!"
All of whom would be more compelling to watch than the dude from Love Boat, who actually appears to be swimming.
And people of the world, let's make each other a solemn vow right now. Gary Coleman is not allowed to participate in anything. Ever again. This includes being cast in your inadvised and ill-conceived entertainment project, but it also includes grocery shopping, joining pickup games of Frisbee at the beach, and leaving the house. Have I got your word on this? He may die a shut-in, and I think we should all make our peace with that, as it's for the greater good of humanity. Of course, his ghost would then find a way to come back and pitch a new reality series about the after life -- "The Under World," maybe, or "Survivor," but they draw a line through the word "Survivor" and write, "HAHA, NOT." Oh, and the cast would be filled with the restive earth-bound spirits of people like Bela Lugosi, and Dana Plato, and Carl Betz, and Xavier Cugat, and Barbara Bel Geddes, and Bruno Kirby, and good LORD this is a disastrous train of thought, I would completely watch this show. Still, though. I'm serious about Coleman. As long as he continues to shuffle along this moral coil, he must be monitored carefully and prevented from inflicting himself on the human race any further.
Ahm. At one point in the video, you see a chick (impossible to tell who, but let's say Soleil Moon Frye. Pass it on.) lean way over in her seat in order to look up Vanessa Williams' dress. Look, I'd do the same thing given half an opportunity, Soleil Moon Frye. But I'd probably also wait until the TV cameras were looking the other way.
Okay, I've got it. Here is the only way to make this concept palatable: guerilla style celebrity-flying. Picture it! Guys in ninja costumes run over to random celebrities in the crowd, attach the guide wires while the celebrity is looking the other way telling yet another dull story about a key party at John Larroquette's, and wheee! Up in the air! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's Mark-Linn Baker, sailing helplessly along overhead and possibly being crashed into an overhead light fixture! Or Charlotte Rae, whisked up into the heavens against her will! Charo being flung hither and yon by unruly stagehands manning the guide wires. I bet you Neil Patrick Harris would even cry. They could do this to Jerry Mathers, I guess, but the end result would look exactly the same as his voluntary turn. Or oooo: Roseanne. Can you imagine? The kicking, the shouting, the yanking on the cord, the shaking of the hamfist, and all the while Vanessa Williams is down there, syrupily chirping, "ROSEANNE'S FLYING! Look at her! There she is! This seems like! A physical impossibility!" (I am exaggerating the inanity of the lyrics, there, but only by about 5%) and then we cut back to Roseanne and she's just totally mooning the camera. Oh, it could have been, Livejournal Land, it could have been, with a visionary like myself at the helm.
Anyway, I was really hoping that having sat through all torturous six-and-a-half minutes of that video (and cooing "nooo... NOOOO" at the screen) would cure me of having "I'm Flying" stuck in my head, but actually it's been tormenting me even more relentlessly, plus now I have Vanessa Williams' weird vocal inflection to deal with. My life is so full of problems. It's a wonder I get anything done at all. |
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Taste! Good and Otherwise.
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Jun. 19th, 2008 @ 09:36 pm
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Poll #1207709 Tast-i Delight
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: AllWhat is your favorite taste?
Why? I will tell you. I bought a pint of Ben & Jerry's tonight (Coffee, if you must know), as I was very in the mood for it. I ended up scraping about 1/8th of an inch of ice cream from the top of the container and put it back, because my craving was sated. I have always done this with ice cream - I buy pints, I eat some tiny fraction of the pint, and then the unfinished pint languishes in my freezer for time immemorial. It would be very upsetting to ice cream lovers if I told you how many not-going-to-be-eaten-ever pints of ice cream are in my freezer. I like to upset people, so hold on, I will count them. I just counted them. 10 containers, three of which are the large quart size. So I guess you know that my answer is not going to be "Sweet." My sweet drive is low, low, low.
However, as I was thinking about this entry, I typed "taste" into Wikipedia, and holy awesome, you have to check out the top photo and caption. Thanks for demonstrating what taste looks like, Uncle Wikipedia! Now do "smell."
Also, spearmint is better than peppermint. I would have created a poll for that too, but it is pointless to do that when there is no sane person on the planet who would disagree with me.
Speaking of sane people, you know what song I got stuck in my head on the walk home tonight? "I'm Flying," from Peter Pan. Eurgh, awful. I once sang-and-danced in a Broadway revue at a community theater (six words that should strike fear into the heart of everyone who reads them, right there), and one of my songs was "I'm Flying." The setup was, all of the dancers stood in a pod over me and then, as the song started, I was hoisted high into the air. A big giant Hagrid of a man lifted me onto his shoulders and zoomed back and forth across the stage while I sang into a hand held microphone with one hand and flapped my arm in a wan and elementary "flying" gesture with the other hand. Did I mention we were all wearing leotards and silver lame? Well, we were. You know what other song I did? "Tomorrow," from Annie. They even tried to make me do "Broadway Baby," but I put my foot down. Unlikely though it may be, I do have a line, when it comes to how far I am willing to go to sacrifice my personal dignity and apparently the line is "Broadway Baby."
This week, I've been obsessed with this program called Google Sketch Up. If you like interior design or architecture, you should download this program (it's free) with all possible speed. It's really fun to play around with if you are a nerd for designery things, which I am. Currently I am modeling my whole apartment. Glorious! |
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Angela and Zach visit the Tour Eiffel
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Jun. 14th, 2008 @ 01:43 pm
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Oh man! We are like so totally ici! |
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Fruit Carnage
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Jun. 11th, 2008 @ 08:39 am
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Bunnies are notorious sweet-tooths. My personal bunnies are no exception - Greta actually is a little vacuum cleaner in general and will totally Roomba it up behind the dogs every time they leave cookie or kibble detritus on the carpet. Ard's palate is a bit more refined. She seems to particularly be addicted to papaya, while Greta's preferred fruit of temptation (see what I did there?) is pineapple.
However, neither of them had ever tasted raspberry and oh my goodness, they went so completely apeshit. It was stomach-knottingly cute. Something that is not in the photos but which you should know about anyway is that each of them half-closed their eyes in little transports of bunny ecstasy as they were gobbling up the raspberries. Then, after the raspberries were all gone, they'd nom-nom-nom away at my fingers to suck up any last ghostly particles of raspberry excretion. It was far beyond cute and into dangerous, so I thought it was worth documenting. Livejournal Land, I make no apologies for posting 14 photos of my rabbits eating raspberries! NO APOLOGY! You are the one who is so bored at work that you will totally look at it! Plus maybe I'll include a photo of a naked celebrity at the very end. Anything's possible behind an lj-cut tag!
( Read more... ) |
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Perils of Life With House Rabbit
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Jun. 6th, 2008 @ 10:23 am
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I'm not sure when my adorable little fluffball did this, but wow. This is some impressive handiwork. A few days ago, there were nibbles taken out of a few buttons, but look at this! That's thirteen rubber buttons gnawed completely off! She is a Chew Virtuoso! She has chewed on things before - she's chewed clothes, books, and of course the house special, cords, but this is by far her finest work. Impressive. THANKS, BAD RABBIT. |
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Here Is My Bottom Lip
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Jun. 5th, 2008 @ 01:18 pm
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Okay everyone, I've joined Twitter, and I require that everyone else do the same so that I may obsessively track and monitor your movements.
Look, just do it and don't ask questions. Being on Twitter may be lame, but it is not as lame as not being on it.
I need help, with regards to the Weezer video. I cannot stop looking at it. |
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Taking My Social Cues From Lennie in Of Mice and Men
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Jun. 4th, 2008 @ 05:10 pm
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One thing I like to do is, I like to find a pet, any of the five we have roaming around here, and I like to snorgle it. The pets are all contrarians by nature, so this snorgling usually takes place against the pet's expressed wishes. Sometimes their loudly expressed wishes.
Ned.
See how much they love it!
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| Maggie. | Greta. | Molly. | Artie. |
Pop Quiz! Match the pet to its emotional state.
A. Resigned acceptance
B. Annoyance
C. Blind panic
D. Equal parts irritation and embarrassment
E. Disapproval... deep, abiding disapproval |
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Trouble in Fangirl Land
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Jun. 4th, 2008 @ 10:24 am
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Last night I was a very bad fangirl. Zach bought tickets for us to see the True Colors tour at Radio City. Here's the lineup:
The Cliks
Carson Kressley
Regina Spektor
Kate Clinton
The B-52s
Rosie O'Donnell
Margaret Cho
Cyndi Lauper
Oh... who... I'm forgetting someone. OH THAT'S RIGHT, INDIGO GIRLS.
The concert was slated to start at 7 and end around 11:30. We rolled up at about 7:30, figuring we might miss some Kressley Screech and The Cliks, and maybe a little bit of Regina Spektor's set. And so I'm sure you know what happens as we are climbing the stairs to the balcony. I started hearing faint strains of Indigoeyness (I must have honed in on them like, with magic fangirl sonar, because I shouted "Oh no!" and started dashing up the stairs while Zach was standing on the landing going, "Wait... who?")
So, we missed three songs of their eight song set. Which made me feel like the worst fangirl ever. I made a bet with myself, based on the songs we did see, which songs they played before we got there (Galileo, Shame On You, Power of Two). I hope I win the bet. Anyway, seeing five songs and that's it is totally horrible, so now Zach and I are making plans to see some of their summer tour. Yay!
B-52s were great. We were far away, so we couldn't tell that they looked old, if they do, which I'm guessing yes. But from far away, they just looked all B-52y and fun. It was a great show, full of lefty crowing and happy accepting of all lifestyles. Rosie was awesome ("You have to be brave enough to be annoying, you have to put yourself out there") as were Cyndi and Regina. It definitely had the effect of making me feel very connected to my community. Love, love is good. |
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