Thursday, March 26, 2009

What Do You Think?

Leila left a mortifying message on my mother-in-law's answering machine yesterday. I don't even want to repeat it. It was better than the one she wanted to leave, but I told her, if she did, she'd be in bigger trouble than she'd ever been in in her life.
Did I tell you I've been going to the gym? Twice this week, and I have an appointment with a trainer tomorrow. Not to break a sweat, or get thin, or impress anyone, just to regain some strength; OK, gain some strength (since regain indicates that there was strength there in the first place) in my core. I don't really know what my core is, but I'll find out tomorrow. I'm back on the eliptical, too: eight whole minutes today! I'm back, people, BACK!
I found a couple of fleas on Perry over the last few days. Its sickening. I had a hard time sleeping, and I just feel like I have creepy crawlies all over me. The flea stuff that I put between his shoulder blades shouldn't have worn off yet, so I'm not quite sure what to do. I've had cats for twelve years, and they never had fleas until last year when we had it bad. It wasn't too hard to get rid of, just tedious, but its so gross. I ordered new flea stuff on line, and it says that it kills adult fleas and larvae. I don't even really want to pet my dog knowing he might have larvae on him. Bleh! Poor thing. He needs another bath, but Rob and I are in disagreement about this. He thinks we bathe him too much, and that's why he's itchy, and I think he needs a bath precisely because he's itchy. He's got me over a barrel, too, since I still can't kneel or crouch, so I can't bathe him myself unless I go to the bathe-your-own-dog place that charges $15 to use their special sinks. I think that's outrageous. Yes, we live in a drought state, yes rents are high, but really? $15? Damn my small sink, and my sucky water pressure.
Alright, that's about all I have today. I found out from the husband of one of my readers that she thinks my life is "fascinating." I am at a loss as to how anyone could find any of this remotely fascinating, since I call myself "Bored Housewife" and I sometimes find myself looking out the window while I'm typing because I am bored by what I'm typing. I'll try to come up with something interesting tomorrow. I have to go out and actually do something interesting, and then I'll write about it. I'm sure I can squeeze some laughs out my training session at the gym. Tell me: do I go ahead and wear the elastic-waistband-fat-pants and just own it, or do I try to look more gymmy? See you tomorrow!

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Blue Day, Green Couch

I'm sad about my sofa. Its really stupid, actually, but I am. There are some other things to be sad about right now, like the one-year anniversary of my father-in-law's passing, the fact that I went to the gym and did six whole minutes on the eliptical and I still can't go down stairs properly, but I'm choosing to focus on the sofa.
We bought our sofa before we closed on our house. We were at Busvan's for bargains, which no longer exists, another thing to be sad about, and we found what we thought was the perfect sofa: it was long enough for us to stretch out a take a nap, it was not too firm, not too soft, it looked kind of like a Pottery Barn sofa, with its rolled arms and skirted feet, and it came in green. It was $900. It was the second thing Rob and I ever bought together, besides, you know, the house. The first thing we bought together was... a sofa. Actually, a futon couch. Now we were moving from our small apartment into a small house, and the futon would be relegated to the guest room, an entirely thrilling idea in itself. I didn't want to buy the new, beautiful sofa; I thought we should wait until we were actually in the house and could take measurements and do all the little anal things I liked to do in preparation for a large purchase. So, we were at an impasse, and the way we settled it was the same way we settled almost any point of disagreement: with rock-paper-scissors. I lost, and we bought the sofa, on credit.
Turns out that Rob had totally figured out my rock-paper-scissors pattern. Apparently, I often started with rock, and if it was a tie, I would do the same thing the second time. So I started with rock, we tied, then I did rock again, and knowing that's what I would do, Rob did paper. I don't think this is fair. Now I change things up so I have a fighting chance at winning.
The sofa was delivered after we moved into our house, in the right color green, but the side cushions, which were supposed to be a lighter shade of green, were the same green as the rest of the sofa. It didn't really matter, and wasn't worth making a stink about. We had our sofa. We also were cat sitting for my brother-in-law's two cats while his house was being renovated. One of the cats hardly came out of the closet for the whole three months she was here, but the other one promptly scratched up one of the arms. Cat one, sofa zero. Rob and I ate dinner sitting on that couch way more often than we ate at the kitchen table. We took delicious naps on it, and later, when we got our own cats, they put their marks on it as well. I nursed my baby on that couch, watch endless hours of television on that couch, and fooled around on that couch.
The couch is now 12 years old, and the edges are worn, and the cushions have faded, and there are stains and stuff, but it is no longer my problem.
On Sunday, I sold the couch on Craigslist for $55. She's gone. Off to a second life. Someone else will drool on her during naps now. I'm sure its a good home, I feel good to not have put her in a land fill and to have given a girl just starting out a sofa with a few good years in her for a reasonable price. We got a hand-me-down couch from my mother-in-law. Its only 5 years old, and has its own stains, but its in better shape than our old one. It looks similar, actually, but its not the same. The back cushions are too thick to take a good happy nappy, but if you take them off, its alright.
I know its stupid to be melancholy over a couch, especially an old couch, especially when Busvan's is gone, and the economy has gone straight to hell, and people are starving, but I am. Its not like I had to get rid of my dog, or anything. I felt this way when I donated my piece-of-shit car to the public television station. The wiper fluid was running out from the back windshield as the car rolled away on the tow truck and it looked like it was crying. I am $55 richer, but I don't feel that great about it.
So, goodbye, old couch. You were a good couch. A loyal couch. A somewhat disgusting couch, but a comfortable one. I'll miss you. There may be other couches in my life, but you were my first, if you don't count the futon.
Now I have to go see if my pork loin registers 138 degrees on the meat thermometer. Life goes on, for me, and for my couch.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Oh No! The Big 4 0!

Yesterday we officially celebrated Rob's fortieth birthday. He wanted a bowling party, with some friends and their kids, and that's what he got. We bowled, we ate pizza, I got a deliciously sweet sheet cake from Ted at United Market, everybody had a perfectly nice time.
It was my suggestion that Rob grab a few buddies and go down to the local dive-bar (ours is called The Silver Peso, or just The Peso) and have some drinks and do some man-like things. I should also mention at this point that Rob's college roommate lovingly flew in from Ohio to surprise him. So Rob, Jeffery and Marc went to the Peso. This is where the wheels came right off the wagon. Marc didn't know how he would get home, and decided to just figure it out later. They played pool, had beers, and started with shots of rumplemans peppermint schnaps. I was home and in bed by 9:45, and at 12:30 the boys came home. Marc was shouting for me to make sandwiches or something (he was joking, he's a happy drunk) and as Jeffery went off to bed I heard him say, "I am getting way too old for this shit." Rob came to bed and seemed completely sober, didn't snore or get up in the wee hours, reaching for the aspirin.
Then morning came.
I was awake, but I didn't want to stir and wake up the sleeping giants. By and by, I heard Jeffery get up and Marc mutter something, so I got up, put on my robe and went out to survey the damage.
Jeffery looked like someone tried to tie his face into a pony tail. He was all scrunched up and red and puffy, sitting in our big green chair. Marc was an even prettier sight. He had crashed on the sofa, and Rob, ever the gracious host, had given him the dogs blanket off the floor to sleep under, and the poor guy was laying there in his hat and his jacket, freezing, since Rob had also, out of habit, turned the heat down on his way to bed. I went back to the bedroom and asked Rob if he wanted to suffer with his friends, and he came out, looking not-too-bad actually, and perched next to Marc's feet on the sofa. Marc didn't seem to be able to move, so Rob just had to cozy in there. I started to make them a pot of coffee and some toast, and Rob suddenly shot up and ran to the bathroom where he "launched" as Marc so eloquently put it. He came back and had some alka selzer (I wonder if Rob is the only person who still takes alka selzer, but he swears by it) and horked that up too. We were all laughing at him, poor guy. He has had to hold my hair back so many times (not from drinking, but from morning sickness) as I puked my guts out, and would just rub my back and say soothing things, but when he pukes, he's on his own. The best I can do is shout, "Are you okay?" from a few rooms over.
Jeffery and I went to get Marc a sausage McMuffin with egg in the next town over, and then went to the 7-11 next door to get tomato juice for bloody marys . He was amazed that our 7-11 sells organic milk; that's California, for you. We got home, Marc's wife was on the way to pick him up, Rob booted again, and Jeffery made bloody marys. Marc's eyes were still glistening when he finally got up, and I think he was still drunk. His wife took one look at him, while their three kids were whooping it up in the back seat, and said, "Well, you're going to be no use to me today." I had to call later to see if Marc had any idea why the sofa cushions that were thrown behind the sofa were all wet. Turns out it had nothing to do with him, but it was fun messing with him, trying to see if he happened to remember peeing on them or anything.
They were a pitiful mess, and normally, I would not think it was funny, and I would not make them coffee or get them McDonalds. I would be the type of wife who would make Rob get up and mow the lawn or something. But this was a special occasion, my man's fortieth birthday, and its a good idea for them to be reminded that they aren't twenty anymore, and they're "getting too old for this shit."
Now Rob and Jeffery are at the batting cages, doing more man things, and I have a third of a sheet cake left over, and it is calling to me, seductively. I just keep a fork in the cake box and eat big forkfulls whenever I walk by.
Happy Birthday, honey! Hope you remember it!

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Dog Days of Summer?

I am so hot. And not in a good way. Its 72 degrees in my house, and I am boiling! Its been really warm and sunny the last few days and I am bitter and annoyed. Winter lasted about fifteen minutes, the rain came and went, and spring is flourishing every where you look. Summer is long enough without it starting in March. Everyone you talk to is talking about how great the weather is, how beautiful it is, and I am so grumpy about it.
Fall and winter are my favorite seasons. I'm an indoor sort of gal, and when the weather is so nice all the time, you feel so much pressure to go out and "enjoy" it. I like cold drizzzely days, the sound of my heater flaming up, blankets, scarves etc. and all this sunshine does not go with my plan. I don't like hot. I feel like I can always get warmer if I'm cold, but its hard to cool down once I'm hot. I am already dreading summer, and the three or four-day stretches of 100 degree weather. I have no insulation or air conditioning, and by two in the afternoon my house is an oven and I am cranky.
If this "winter" is any indication, we are in for a hot summer, and I am just not made for heat. I don't remember it being this hot when I was growing up here, but I also wasn't carrying extra poundage. Its a dry heat, but it still sucks. I'm going to check if the farmer's almanac is on line and see what it says about this summer.
They closed the McDonalds near my house, and they're replacing it with an upscale burger place with cocktails. I'm choosing not to see this a sign from the universe. Unless the sign is to drink more cocktails.
I washed my sofa slip covers today, and they are a tiny bit cleaner. I think we need to budget for a new sofa in the next year or so. Stained and worn out sofas look like college, and even though I feel like college, I want to look like a grown up. Most days, I don't feel a day over nineteen, and I feel like I'm playing house, and sometimes I look around and wonder "where the hell am I?" Just like that Talking Heads song "And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile, And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, And you may ask yourself - well, how did I get here?" How indeed!
College kids don't spend a lot of time scrubbing bathrooms, so I can use that excuse.
Do they still sell that bitter apple stuff that you put on kids fingers to make them stop chewing? Leila constantly has her fingers in her mouth and it drives me nuts. Especially since I know how often she washes her hands.
Sorry I'm a little all over the place today. Its just too damn hot. I think I have to move to a colder climate.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

I Want to Smack the Universe

The universe is speaking to me today, and I have to say I'm not fond of what its saying. But that's always the way it is when the universe speaks to me. It usually doesn't just check in and say hello. Its like a pesky kid sister who is always in your face or messing with your stuff, and makes faces at you, and you can't smack her because you'll just be in bigger trouble. I would like to smack the universe today, but I'll just be in bigger trouble.
I am having a really hard time getting my act together lately. I am tired all the time, and I don't know if I'm really still recovering from my illness or if its just my regular amount of sloth and fatigue. I thinks it a little of both, and sometimes I know for sure that its part of my recovery because I feel drunk and fuzzy, and that is not part of my normal laziness. I am trying to reboot my life and trying to remember how to do what I do. I'm having little hiccups like going to the store and forgetting my bags and forgetting to buy bleach even though bleach was the one thing I really wanted at the store. Or putting in a load of white wash and then realizing that the reason I did the load in the first place was to wash my husband's white turtle neck that he's been soaking in a tub on the kitchen counter, and its still in the tub while the white load is almost done. Also, I start a project, like doing laundry or organizing a closet, and I get tired out midway through and everything just stops, and piles are every where. Things just aren't coming together, and I'm starting to feel really bad about it.
Today, I decided that there was one project that I could absolutely do beginning to end, that would have a significant impact. One of the shelves in our bathroom vanity broke, and for months now my make up and lotions have been sitting on the counter. The bathroom counter is pretty small, so it really gums up the works in there. So I took out the un-broken shelf and got in the car and went to tap plastics (Tap! Tap Plastics! The Fantastic Plastic Place!) to get a half inch piece of clear plastic cut to size. I got there and the tattooed guy behind the counter told me that it wouldn't work, that the plastic would bow in the middle, and though I still find this hard to believe, I appreciate that he didn't waste my time or sell me something that I'd have to replace again. He suggested I go to a glass place in Novato and order a piece of tempered glass. Novato is further away than I wanted to drive, and I don't know where the glass place is, but I do know where there is a glass place closer to my house, so I went there, frustrated, but knowing that I could feel good about at least ordering a piece of glass. I drove to the glass place - actually I drove past the glass place and had to circle around - only it wasn't a glass place anymore, it was a remnants place, and it wasn't even open. As far as I could see, it wasn't even a remnants place anymore. I returned home from my fool's errand, and now I'm right back where I started, except that now, all the other jars and bottles that were on the un-broken shelf are all over the bathroom counter, too. I have a lot of make up for someone who hardly ever wears make up.
Right after I got sick, I joked that the universe really doesn't want me to go to the gym, and that its telling me to stay on the couch where I belong, and I'm starting to believe that that little jokey joke is full of truth. Rob was saying the other day that he completely rejects the idea that the people who are multi tasking busy stress cases are somehow living more virtuous lives than those of us who prefer to take it easy, and that really resonated with me. I'm wondering if one of the lessons I was supposed to learn from my near-death experience is that it is perfectly alright for me to do nothing. My mother would have a cow if she knew I was contemplating such an existence, but for the next two hours, I'm going to lay back on the couch, forcibly snuggle my dog, and watch a movie on TV, and do nothing. I suspect that I will feel better than I do coming home from driving around in circles getting nothing done.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

I am Ashamed

Okay, its confession time. I really like to bare my soul here and tell all the embarrassing and shameful things about myself (like farts and dirty bathrooms and stuff like that) because I feel like, deep down, you know exactly what I mean, and you have had similar experiences and doubts and my admissions will make you feel a little bit better about yourself. You can thank me later.
The other day, while Leila was in school, I went to the movies by myself. I love to go to the movies by myself in the middle of the day, and I can't remember the last time I did it. Okay, I did it last week, too, but before that, it had been years. So I went to the movies, and I got myself a small coke and a box of those mini butterfingers. I want to emphasize that I did not finish the butterfingers, but I did finish the coke. On the way home, for reasons I can't explain, I pulled off the freeway and went through the McDonalds drive through. The car just steered its way in there. I got a $2.99 mini meal with a double cheeseburger, small fry and a small coke. It was, as always, delicious.
Now, there are women out there, wives, who hide spending from their husbands. They buy new clothes, or something new for the house, and they hide the receipts and pay the visa bill before hubby knows anything about it. I've seen extreme cases on Oprah where women have essentially bankrupted their families with their shopping and starbucks habits, and they lose their houses and stuff. I do not hide spending, it would never occur to me. But what I do hide is eating, usually junk food, but not always. Eating out, even if its $2.99, always feels indulgent to me, like something reserved for special occasions that I don't deserve. I often look to Rob for some kind of permission to eat out, as if his approval removes all costs and calories. This is so f***ked. He long ago learned that to reason with me about food is to beat his head against a wall, and if he judges my food choices, he never shows it. I just love that guy. Anyway, I get Mc Donalds, or a burrito, or my favorite sandwich, or a piece of coffee cake, or candy at the movies, and I hide the evidence. I either throw the bags and containers away someplace other than my house, or I try to bury it under other garbage in our trash can. Sometimes, I leave it in the car, and he eventually sees it, and he never says anything. He knows that these are my own personal demons, and he can't get between us.
So, I had my mini meal, loved every bite of it, was wonderfully full, and I hid the evidence.
Later that same day, he called to tell me that his new glasses were ready, and we decided he would take the bus to Sausalito to pick up his glasses, and Leila and I would pick him up there. Then he suggested that we stop at In N Out Burger for dinner on the way home. Ugh.
I was still full from the mini meal, but I'm so lame that, instead of just saying, "I'm not really that hungry." the crazies got in: If I say I'm not hungry, he'll know that I ate like a pig today, and he might ask me what I ate, then I'd be forced to tell the truth, and he'd find out that I had McDonalds. The subtext of which was, The fact that I am a pig will be re enforced for the one millionth time and this time will be the one that puts him over the edge and he wont love me anymore, and I'll be alone with my loathsome cat and my size extra large pants and my remote control. It took one fraction of a second for all of that to go through my head. My neuroses are really fast. So, I said "Okay!" and knew I was doomed.
I picked him up, we went to In N Out, and I got us a table. It didn't occur to me that I could, at that point, say that I wasn't that hungry and only wanted the smallest possible thing. When I get inside a restaurant like that, the part of me that thinks going out to eat is for special occasions only wants to take advantage of the situation and rational thought leaves me completely. Rob came back to the table with a cheeseburger, fries, and a coke. And I ate it. To my credit, I did not finish the coke, not even close, and we split two orders of fries with Leila, but I ate every delicious bite of that cheeseburger and I don't know how.
I was so full. I was platzing.
We got home, put the kid to bed, etc. etc. and then Rob set before me a plate of orange sections. Now, I wanted to puke looking at more food, but here's the thing: I never eat fruit, and the only way I eat it is if he cuts it up and puts it in front of me. I have asked him to do this so that I don't die of malnutrition. Earlier in the week, he had put an orange on the counter for me, and I had, of course ignored it. He kept telling me I should eat the orange, and I told him that putting an orange on the counter was not the same as cutting it up and putting it in front of me, and that orange would stay on the counter until flies started swarming. I just never reach for fruit. So when he put the orange slices down in front of me, I couldn't very well say I wasn't in the mood for fruit when I had just made a big stink. So I ate it. On the last section, I really did think I was going to die, so I just left it.
Here's the tally: Three cokes, two cheeseburgers, two fries, one orange, and 2/3 of a box of mini butterfingers. I think I had breakfast, too, and I'm hoping it was a simple bowl of cereal but who knows, I can't remember.
I have issues.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Because I Said So

I just watched the most god-awful movie. We have netflix: as many as we want per month, but only two at a time. The only way you get your money's worth is to watch the DVDs and send them back as quickly as possible, so I get stressed when we have those little red envelopes sitting around for weeks. We've been catching up with all the shows our tivo recorded while we were on vacation, and we weren't that thrilled about what was in the little red envelopes, so there they sit. The other problem is this: I am in charge of the netflix queue, so I pick all the stuff I want to see. Sometimes we choose things that we're both interested in, but normally, I manage our entertainment choices. For example, since my stint in the hospital, I just can't watch House or Grey's Anatomy, so Rob doesn't watch them either. I also don't really care for cop shows, or crime movies, or movies with a lot of violence, so that leaves dramas (and those sit around my house for a long time) or chick flicks. We're just now getting to the problem: Rob likes chick flicks. He loved the Sex and the City movie. Many women could just watch the chick flicks they get from netflix during the day, when they have some free time, or when Oprah is in re-runs, but not me. Rob wants me to wait for him, which means the little red envelopes sit and sit and sit. But, last night, we had an aberration: I was saying we should really watch the netflix so we could send them back, and he said, "I don't really need to watch that movie if you want to watch it on your own." Score!
So, this morning, I dropped Leila off at school, came home, had some breakfast, and noticed that I had plenty of time before the water rehab class I wanted to try, to watch this movie, and, maybe, get it in the mail before the mail carrier came. I switched on "Because I Said So" and proceeded to watch this piece of poo. It was so bad, I called Rob at work to tell him the he had dodged a bullet. It was awful. During the movie, I was sitting on the sofa, saying out loud to no one in particular, that this was the worst movie ever made. It was Diane Keaton at her most hysterical (and I mean that in the literal sense, and not that she was really funny) and Mandy Moore, who clearly has no acting chops of her own, so was doing her best Diane Keaton impersonation. Now, I could be wrong about this, but the other actors who where in this movie seemed like they were having a hard time masking their embarrassment. The only redeeming quality was an actor named Gabriel Macht who played "Johnny" (even the names were stupid) and he had about the best smile I've ever seen.
You may be asking yourself, "Why didn't she just turn it off and save herself?" to which I will respond, "that's none of your business." Just kidding. I did watch the whole blessed mess, and I think this is why: I was planning on trying out the aforementioned water rehab class at the pool, most likely populated with octogenarians recovering from recent hip replacement. By the time the movie was over, I looked at the clock and it said 10:50, plenty of time to get on my swim suit and go to the pool. However, I realized, as I turned off the TV, that the clock I was looking at was the only clock in the house that we hadn't changed for daylight savings over the weekend, and the water rehab class was long over. I think, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I knew that the clock was wrong, I knew that if I stopped the movie I'd get up in time to see a different clock with the correct time, and actually have to go to the class. I think I may have tricked myself into being lazier than I already am. There are layers to my laziness now.
Which brings me to my next topic. I read an article this morning about which cities in the United States have particular traits, among them, obesity, depression, fitness, etc. Portland, OR is, according to the story, the biggest buzz kill; they have more depression, suicides, and divorces than other places, and it is cloudy 222 days out of the year. I have been to Portland a number of times, and I did not see any people standing on ledges of tall buildings or crying on street corners. Miami is supposed to be the fattest city. The only person I know who lives in Miami is a size zero; her ears are the size of quarters, and her index finger is the same size as my pinky. I think you could fit three of her in to me. The manliest city is Nashville, TN, where I have never been, and now I think I know why. The study to test manliness of cities deducted points for "emasculating " things such as furniture stores, minivans, and subscriptions to beauty magazines. The fittest city was Salt Lake City, another place I have not been for obvious reasons, and the most recession-proof was Arlington, VA. The most energetic place? The San Francisco Bay Area. My home, my stomping grounds, the place of my birth, and now my albatross. The article says (btw, you can read the whole thing on that the study "measured health, wellness, and overall energy" and that San Franciscans "seem to get things done."
Can you blame me for feeling like a loser most of the time? Look what I'm supposed to live up to! I'm supposed to be healthy, and well, and energetic and get things done; if I were any of those things, this blog would be so boring! I've had four chocolate chip cookies this morning, and, like, seven starbursts! I spent this beautiful morning with my blinds drawn, watching a nightmare of a movie! I'm wheezing as I write this, and I'm not energetic enough to go get my inhaler! They should have interviewed me for their study, and, had I chosen to tell the truth about my life, I would have dragged all those scores right down into the gutter with me. Seriously, most energetic: whatever. I want a coke.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Oh Man! Kind of...

OK, this will be brief. I was flipping channels and came across a show on VH1 called RuPaul's Drag Race. If you have a Tivo, check it out. Its exactly what you think it is: RuPaul, famous drag artiste, judges other drag queens, and keeps a straight face the whole time. (One of them is named Ongina; rhymes with vagina.) I only caught the last few minutes, but so far, RuPaul singled out two queens, and they had to "lipsync for their lives!" and they gyrated around to a Brittany Spears song. One of their wigs fell off, she was dancing so desperately. When Ru' made her final choice about who to eliminate, she told the loser to "Sashay, away." Record it, invite people over, make drinks, and watch it with friends. I think it might be the best show, EVER!

Lorelei Gilmore

My feet are freezing right now. Its rainy and cold and I love it. We even had thunder. The dog wigged out, but I could listen to it all day. I was hoping to clean up some today, and maybe make some dinner, but my legs are bugging me, so there you go. The dog got his hair-do done today, so he is very pretty and fluffy, and Leila is doing some training with him in the kitchen. She has successfully taught him to spin in a circle, jump over a stick and crawl under her legs when she says "Tunnel!" I taught him to give his paw, my sister-in-law taught him to roll over. Now if we could only teach him to come and stay and keep off the cat, we'd be in business. "Beg" is a little difficult. He keeps jumping toward the treat instead of sitting on his haunches, and Leila doesn't really know what "beg" looks like. I think the dog is confused, and I can't really blame him. He sure does like those chicken hot dogs, though.
Anyhoo, now Leila and I are going to check out a Gilmore Girls rerun. I've seen the entire series from beginning to end already, and now I'm watching it again. This show is so watchable, even though most of the characters are annoying, and everyone argues all the time. It makes me wonder if people in Connecticut are big arguers. I could never be friends with Lorelei Gilmore. Not like Tori Spelling, or another woman that I saw on TV recently and thought, "I could totally be friends with her." but now I can't remember who it was. I think Lorelei would be a really annoying friend. First of all, she's skinny even though she talks about eating all the time. Remember in Will and Grace, they were always talking about how much Grace ate, and the whole time she weighed 89 pounds? So Lorelei must be a purger, and she talks faster than me, and I get the feeling she thinks her shit don't stink. Luke, the owner of the Stars Hollow diner (we're still on Gilmore Girls, in case you lost track) is pretty sexy when he takes of his baseball cap, which is reason enough to watch the show. His real name is Scott Patterson, if you want to look him up.
I gotta go, I'm missing the show. I really want take out tonight.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Post Vacation Edition

I'm back from Hawaii. I only blogged once during the two weeks I was there (yes, two weeks in Hawaii, I am indeed a spoiled brat) and part of the reason is that my parents were always around, and I didn't want them looking over my shoulder, especially if I was writing about them. Also, my mom just doesn't understand what I'm doing on the computer while in Hawaii, and doesn't understand why I feel the need to update my facebook status, or e-mail my friends, or go to, but I don't understand why she feels the need to read the Kauai island newspaper every day, and watch Larry King. To each his own. There also may be a chance that my dad saw my blog while I was sick. I must have clicked into it while I was at his house one day (I'm always checking for comments, not that I get that many, hint hint) and I must have left it up. But when he mentioned seeing something I had written, I was in the hospital and totally out of it. So now, it is possible that my dad is following my blog. Its a slim chance; I don't think he understands a lot about this stuff, but, Dad, if you're looking at this blog, please give me a sign, so I know not to write anything embarrassing about you. Like, there are moments with my Dad in Hawaii that I would love to write about right now, but I don't want him to read about himself, and I don't want to embarrass anyone. Such a bummer, though, there's some really good stuff.
But, instead, I'll just say this: Eat, drink, sleep, read, beach, pool. That is the summation of my entire vacation. 'Nuff said.
Yesterday, I was cruising around the I-pod App Store, and I found a free one called Atomic Fart. Such a great concept. Its essentially a computerized fart machine, with two dozen different fart sounds, and you can time the fart sounds. One Christmas eve, years ago, my brother brought along a fart machine, and it was hilarious. It was a little plastic thing with, like, three fart sounds, and my brother kept pushing the button all through the evening and we cracked up every time. I don't generally crack up at an actual fart, but the fart machine was all laughs. I thought Atomic Fart would be an improvement, but the fart sounds weren't good. There were only one or two that were funny, and the rest sounded like helicopters, or jack hammers, rather than farts. I ended up deleting the app. Apparently, there is a version of Atomic Fart you can pay money for, and maybe that has better fart sounds. Not worth the 99 cents, though. I'll just make my own fart sounds.
One more thing about Hawaii. We spent one week on the island of Kauai, which, if you don't know, is one of the smaller, more rural islands. Its also gets 400 inches of rain a year, but that's another topic. Anyway. The island is crawling with wild chickens. There are chickens everywhere, and there's no stopping them. You're sitting by the pool, reading your book, and suddenly you notice that a rooster has just walked right under your chair. The roosters crow all day. You become totally accustomed to the sound, and I didn't really mind it. There are also feral cats (lots of good they're doing) and on Oahu we saw mongooses, but the chickens are far more entertaining and educational. I saw two chickens have sex right in front of me, and it was very, very brief. Its a weird sight, so see a chicken walking along the beach. Huh.