I don't have it in me to write a tome tonight (though I'm sure I will anyway). I'm worn out from screaming at the Packers and Cowboys as if they could hear me all the way in Dallas. (I gave it my all. They might have heard me.) I went out to watch the game with the guys (and girl) on my fantasy football (FF) team. My dad wanted to go out and watch the game as well, so I brought him along.
I thought it would be fun to screw with the FF guys, so I sent an email out to everyone letting them know that I would be bringing my dad tonight. I also added that my father thinks that I'm a perfect angel and that it would be great if they could help me continue to perpetuate that myth. I knew most of the guys would know that I was completely kidding. I'm sure it's hard for you to imagine me ever being a demure, quiet person just from reading what I write. Imagine if you know me in person. I must have gotten my sense of humor from one or both of my parents, right? (The answer is both. They're both very funny. But while my father is very outgoing, my mother is a complete introvert.)
My sweet boy crush, the one I kissed on Halloween, had no idea that I was kidding though. He went into good behavior mode upon our arrival. He was very polite, and seemed to sit up a bit straighter. When my dad wasn't looking, he would smile knowingly; proud that he was keeping my secret.
At one point, he was shielding his eyes and I asked him what he was doing. "The glare from your halo is blinding me!"
You can imagine his surprise the first time I stood up and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Sack that motherfucker! Son of a bitch! Where's the goddamn defense in this game?!"
His head snapped to the left to see my father's reaction. My father was unperturbed. I doubt he even really heard me. He's been watching football with me my entire adult life. I'm either cussing (that's swearing for the Canadians) at the screen because of a bad play, a bad call, or just because football can be incredibly infuriating; or I'm channeling my dead grandmother by yelling, "Get 'em! Get 'em! Get 'em!" during every play in the countriest accent ever. (I try not to let my grandmother watch the games with me unless I'm in the comfort of my own home. You can't take Memaw just anywhere. What? Y'all don't call your grandmothers "Memaw?")
It was a great game tonight all the way until the end. The end was unfortunate. I hate to ever see the Cowboys win a game, and the bastards have won eleven of them this year. Every time that I go hang out with the gang to watch football, I have a great time. I really should go at every opportunity.
I have to admit I'm feeling a bit regretful (and I HATE to feel regret) about writing about my Canadian adventures. While you might think it's because I revealed that I'm a total whore when I'm outside of my area code, it's not that at all. I'm completely at ease with who I am. I'm a 36-year-old woman who was with one man her entire adult life. I'm sowing my wild oats. I've earned the right.
No, it's that I keep getting more and more visitors from the Toronto area. I didn't think to ask those who knew about the blog to keep it a secret. Truly, this is no one's fault but my own. (Please don't feel bad if you've shared the URL.) I just wasn't using my brain to its full capacity.
But I know, sooner or later, it's going to get back to Luke/Austin, and when I put myself in his shoes and read the entries, it makes me feel bad. I'm not a catty person. It's just not in me. I can laugh at other people, but I laugh at myself most of all. And I generally only laugh at people who find their situation laughable as well. I never laugh at the less fortunate. (I'm a perfect angel, remember?)
When I wrote those entries, it was knowing that I'd never see nor talk to Luke/Austin again. I knew I wouldn't call him by his real name, just as I don't use my own name here. The chances of him finding it and reading it were, in my tunnel-visioned mind, slim to none. Should he find my blog, perhaps he'll read it as it was intended - in a jesting manner - though it's more likely that he'll feel as though he is being maligned for all of the world to read. (Don't worry, Luke/Austin [should you happen upon my space on the web], my readership is intentionally small.)
Anyway, that's where I'm at ... In a state of indecisiveness.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
My Canada Adventure: Part Three
Alright, where were we?
Oh, yes. Canada.
Did you know that the Canadian dollar is worth more than the American dollar now? I had no idea! The second night I was there, we stopped at a bank in order for me to exchange some money, and while there I learned that the Canadian dollar is indeed more powerful than our George Washington. Quite a shock, I tell you.
After we left the bank, we went across the street to Zeller's (which I think is the equivalent to K-Mart here in the states) to buy a game. We chose Taboo, which I wrote about the other day. This particular night, they only had one cashier working, and the line was getting a little out of control. Wanda, bless her heart, was doing her best to get everyone checked out in a timely manner, but obstacles kept coming up that were keeping her from doing so.
We were all getting a little antsy, so I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. As I lit my cigarette, a man rode up on his bike. He'd seen the brand (Marlboro Lights) and asked if he could have one since, and I quote, "American cigarettes are so much better than Canadian cigarettes." I gave him a cigarette (though it killed me to do so since I'd left my duty-free carton of cigarettes on the plane, and didn't know if I would ever see them again. And word on the street is that no Canadian cigarette was going to compare! I did see them again, for the record. Those Canadians are honest, y'all!). He then asked if he could have a couple of dollars, you know, to get something to eat. I momentarily forgot that I'd just exchanged some money and told him that I only had American money, and you know what he said?
Wait for it.
"It's cool. I'll take it. You'll just have to double the amount."
Hahahahaha. Haha. Ha. Ha. Ha. That was funny, eh? Whew. (Raise your hand if you love what Bush has done for our economy and getting it shoved in your face by the guy that's begging you for money.) I gave him $5 Canadian because, damn, he deserved it.
Something tells me you don't really care about the exchange rate of our dollars, though. It IS relevant to my story. (Somehow. I'm sure of it. I'll MAKE sure of it.)
So, Luke and I had arrived at House of Lancaster, a strip club. (Link probably not safe for work.) It sounded quite regal, but it was a strip club. How regal could it be? I hoped it would be a royal good time nonetheless. (Get it? ROYAL good time. Heh.) As we enter the club, Luke's major concern is what we're going to do with the Heineken while we're inside. God forbid we lose the beer! (I like a man who has priorities.)
We walk up to the counter where Ron Jeremy's doppelgänger (Did you see that, Leila? I used an umlaut! And I owe it ALL to you!) is standing, and Luke asks if perhaps we can check the beer into the coat check. RJ didn't think that was such a swell idea, but he ceded that he would be willing to place the beer behind the counter for us. RJ is nothing if not accommodating. The girl at the register informed us that the cover was $2 per person.
$2!
What a bargain! Finally! A deal that's way below US standards! Here, at House of Lancaster, I can get in for a minimum of $8 cheaper than I can get into any strip club in my hometown. That exchange rate doesn't seem so bad now! (I knew I could work it in there.) I generously pay the cover charge because I'd been dying to get rid of my $2 coins. They confuse me.
Luke and I make our way to a table and before we've even settled in, I see a girl bounding across the club in our direction. "Look!" I exclaimed. "Here comes Miss America!" Before I knew it, a girl wearing something resembling the American flag had jumped into Luke's lap and was hugging and kissing him.
"Where have you been? I've been worried about you! You haven't returned my calls! You didn't show up when you were supposed to! Is something wrong?!?"
He looks like a fish out of water. He keeps moving his lips, but no sound is coming out. He's floundering; pun intended. He's saved by the bouncer, though, because at that moment he (sadly, not RJ) arrives to tap Miss America on the shoulder to ask her to remove herself from Luke's body. She hops down, and crouches beside him, and continues to look pleadingly at him for answers.
Then she notices me.
"Hi, I'm [some fake name, but we'll continue to call her Miss America]. This guy is my boyfriend. But he hasn't been calling me or coming to see me or anything!"
She thrusts her bottom lip out into a pout and looks back at Luke. Luke continues to look like a deer in the headlights. I'm finding the situation quite comical. A waitress arrives, and Luke is able to break his state of catatonia momentarily to place an order for a drink - a strong drink. Miss America and I order a drink as well, and while we're doing so, Luke conveniently excuses himself from the table.
Miss America plops into his seat and grins broadly at me. "He's not really my boyfriend," she says. "I just really, really wish he was!"
"Please don't let me stand in your way. In fact, I'll be happy to leave right now," I graciously offer.
(No, really. More than happy.)
"Don't be silly! I want you to stay. This is fun!"
She continues to talk at a rapid pace; telling me all about herself, and how much she likes Luke. She tells me that she's 22. I tell her she's too young to tie herself down. (Luke, by the way, is 36. He was born in June. You know I asked. So, while he acts similar to those sinister Scorpios that I always find myself entangled with, he's a Gemini.)
The rest of our stay at the strip club is kind of a blur. (I ordered a strong drink too, and quickly switched to beer after I realized I was quite drunk.) Luke and Miss America disappeared for a bit. I chastised two men in front of me for catcalling one of the dancers, but not giving her any money. They explained that they didn't have any money, and besides she pretty much hated them and they weren't allowed to go anywhere near her. I decide that I will go give her some money for having to endure their obnoxious hooting.
A woman giving a dancer money? That apparently doesn't happen often in this club. The place came alive. The DJ said, "Well, well, well ... We have LADY coming to the stage, folks!" I blush madly, and am grateful for the low lights of the club. Everyone cheers as I go to place the money in her g-string.
Over the loudspeaker, I hear, "Whoa, whoa! No touching, ma'am!"
Oops.
I skulk back to my table feeling like a lecher; the table from which Luke is still missing. My two new best friends, the dancer's stalkers, are waiting with high-fives for me. "That was great! Hey, we were thinking ... would you be interested in coming home with us?"
What the hell? It's not like I'm in a strip club, wearing a low-cut shirt, sitting all alone, and looking like I want to go home! Why would they ask such a thing of me? Oh, wait, that's exactly what it looked like!
"You guys don't have any money, remember?"
(At the time, in my inebriated state, I patted myself on the back for my quick retort. Days later, I realize that I sounded like a prostitute not willing to deal with low-rent tricks.)
Luke, who suddenly looks like a knight inshining slightly tarnished armor, reappears, and I ask if we can leave. I'm looking forward to bed. To passing out in bed, to be exact. We retrieve the beer from RJ and hail a cab. (Cab service is excellent in Toronto.) His house is conveniently nearby, so we were home in minutes.
As we go inside the door, Luke starts kissing me again. I was either emitting you-can't-kiss-worth-shit vibes, or I straight up told him that his kissing was sub-par (still a little fuzzy here) because he asked me to teach him how to kiss. The nurturer in me wanted to pat him on the head, grab him by the hand, and lead him up the stairs (it was a tri-level townhouse) for lessons. I just led him up the stairs for lessons. (Better not to be condescending, I think.)
We land in the kitchen where more kissing ensues, and it is improving slightly. He's being a little softer, moving a little slower, heading in the right direction. It gave me a bit of hope that perhaps he was teachable in all areas of dealing with the opposite sex. Things might not be so bad after all. We continue to make out and throw in a little heavy petting for good measure.
"Let's take a bath," he says. "I have a large jacuzzi tub."
"Jacuzzi tub?"
"Yes."
"With jets?"
"Yes."
"And bubbles?"
"Yes!"
"Yes! Let's!"
(I do love a good bath.)
We run the water into his glorious tub and step in. Pure bliss. We lay at our respective ends and relax for a bit. I'm nearly comatose from pleasure overload. (And, no, the jets were not positioned between my legs; however, hindsight is 20/20.) Some time passes - perhaps minutes, perhaps hours - and we both realize, at seemingly the same time, that the other person still exists. We maneuver around so that we can resume our make-out session.
Then he said those fatal words...
"Do I make you horny, baby?"
[screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech]
WTF? When did Austin Powers join the party?
I giggled. Then I giggled some more. Then I was laughing. Luke/Austin, being completely obliterated, laughed right along with me.
I stood up and said I was going to find some towels. Luke/Austin pointed me in the direction of where the towels were, and somehow I got lost in his townhouse. I'm wandering around, dripping wet, freezing my ass off, searching for the towel closet. I stumble upon it (somewhere, and it might have even been back in the bathroom) what feels like 30 minutes later, and grab us some towels. Huge, cushion-y towels. I wrap myself up, and wrap up Luke/Austin who looks like a drowned cat as he just stands there shivering and looking miserable.
I then went and crawled into his bed, and assumed he would follow. I planned to feign extreme sleepiness, and it wasn't going to be all that hard to do. But he didn't come. And he still didn't come. And he still didn't come. I pictured him frozen into an ice block in his jacuzzi tub and thought I better check on him.
He was just as I left him. With a towel wrapped around himself, shivering, and still dripping wet except where the towel was covering him.
"T-t-t-tooo c-c-cooooold," he said.
Jesus. And he calls himself a Canadian?
We hear a door close right then, and Luke/Austin snapped into action. Thankfully, his catatonic states are short-lived. He tells me that it's his roommate, the guy who initially attracted me at the party, and that he better run down and talk to him. He goes into his bedroom, grabs a long-sleeve shirt, pulls it over his head, and heads out the door with his bare bum there for the world to see. It was the last vision I had before falling asleep.
Speaking of sleep (my favorite segue), and I hate to do this (I do!), I must sleep. I won't leave you hanging too much by letting you know ahead of time that he did not get to poke his special tool in me. Channeling Austin Powers was a bad, bad idea.
If you're reading this and know Luke/Austin in real life, please know that it's truly not my intention to be mean. He was a sweet guy who was very drunk, thus making him easy fodder. I would think that Luke/Austin would tell you that he had a great time that night, and I did as well. This was fun stuff. Of course, his opinion might change were he to encounter these posts, and his feelings would probably be hurt as well. I don't know him well enough to gauge his reaction. I ask that you not share this site with him for the latter reason alone.
Oh, yes. Canada.
Did you know that the Canadian dollar is worth more than the American dollar now? I had no idea! The second night I was there, we stopped at a bank in order for me to exchange some money, and while there I learned that the Canadian dollar is indeed more powerful than our George Washington. Quite a shock, I tell you.
After we left the bank, we went across the street to Zeller's (which I think is the equivalent to K-Mart here in the states) to buy a game. We chose Taboo, which I wrote about the other day. This particular night, they only had one cashier working, and the line was getting a little out of control. Wanda, bless her heart, was doing her best to get everyone checked out in a timely manner, but obstacles kept coming up that were keeping her from doing so.
We were all getting a little antsy, so I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. As I lit my cigarette, a man rode up on his bike. He'd seen the brand (Marlboro Lights) and asked if he could have one since, and I quote, "American cigarettes are so much better than Canadian cigarettes." I gave him a cigarette (though it killed me to do so since I'd left my duty-free carton of cigarettes on the plane, and didn't know if I would ever see them again. And word on the street is that no Canadian cigarette was going to compare! I did see them again, for the record. Those Canadians are honest, y'all!). He then asked if he could have a couple of dollars, you know, to get something to eat. I momentarily forgot that I'd just exchanged some money and told him that I only had American money, and you know what he said?
Wait for it.
"It's cool. I'll take it. You'll just have to double the amount."
Hahahahaha. Haha. Ha. Ha. Ha. That was funny, eh? Whew. (Raise your hand if you love what Bush has done for our economy and getting it shoved in your face by the guy that's begging you for money.) I gave him $5 Canadian because, damn, he deserved it.
Something tells me you don't really care about the exchange rate of our dollars, though. It IS relevant to my story. (Somehow. I'm sure of it. I'll MAKE sure of it.)
So, Luke and I had arrived at House of Lancaster, a strip club. (Link probably not safe for work.) It sounded quite regal, but it was a strip club. How regal could it be? I hoped it would be a royal good time nonetheless. (Get it? ROYAL good time. Heh.) As we enter the club, Luke's major concern is what we're going to do with the Heineken while we're inside. God forbid we lose the beer! (I like a man who has priorities.)
We walk up to the counter where Ron Jeremy's doppelgänger (Did you see that, Leila? I used an umlaut! And I owe it ALL to you!) is standing, and Luke asks if perhaps we can check the beer into the coat check. RJ didn't think that was such a swell idea, but he ceded that he would be willing to place the beer behind the counter for us. RJ is nothing if not accommodating. The girl at the register informed us that the cover was $2 per person.
$2!
What a bargain! Finally! A deal that's way below US standards! Here, at House of Lancaster, I can get in for a minimum of $8 cheaper than I can get into any strip club in my hometown. That exchange rate doesn't seem so bad now! (I knew I could work it in there.) I generously pay the cover charge because I'd been dying to get rid of my $2 coins. They confuse me.
Luke and I make our way to a table and before we've even settled in, I see a girl bounding across the club in our direction. "Look!" I exclaimed. "Here comes Miss America!" Before I knew it, a girl wearing something resembling the American flag had jumped into Luke's lap and was hugging and kissing him.
"Where have you been? I've been worried about you! You haven't returned my calls! You didn't show up when you were supposed to! Is something wrong?!?"
He looks like a fish out of water. He keeps moving his lips, but no sound is coming out. He's floundering; pun intended. He's saved by the bouncer, though, because at that moment he (sadly, not RJ) arrives to tap Miss America on the shoulder to ask her to remove herself from Luke's body. She hops down, and crouches beside him, and continues to look pleadingly at him for answers.
Then she notices me.
"Hi, I'm [some fake name, but we'll continue to call her Miss America]. This guy is my boyfriend. But he hasn't been calling me or coming to see me or anything!"
She thrusts her bottom lip out into a pout and looks back at Luke. Luke continues to look like a deer in the headlights. I'm finding the situation quite comical. A waitress arrives, and Luke is able to break his state of catatonia momentarily to place an order for a drink - a strong drink. Miss America and I order a drink as well, and while we're doing so, Luke conveniently excuses himself from the table.
Miss America plops into his seat and grins broadly at me. "He's not really my boyfriend," she says. "I just really, really wish he was!"
"Please don't let me stand in your way. In fact, I'll be happy to leave right now," I graciously offer.
(No, really. More than happy.)
"Don't be silly! I want you to stay. This is fun!"
She continues to talk at a rapid pace; telling me all about herself, and how much she likes Luke. She tells me that she's 22. I tell her she's too young to tie herself down. (Luke, by the way, is 36. He was born in June. You know I asked. So, while he acts similar to those sinister Scorpios that I always find myself entangled with, he's a Gemini.)
The rest of our stay at the strip club is kind of a blur. (I ordered a strong drink too, and quickly switched to beer after I realized I was quite drunk.) Luke and Miss America disappeared for a bit. I chastised two men in front of me for catcalling one of the dancers, but not giving her any money. They explained that they didn't have any money, and besides she pretty much hated them and they weren't allowed to go anywhere near her. I decide that I will go give her some money for having to endure their obnoxious hooting.
A woman giving a dancer money? That apparently doesn't happen often in this club. The place came alive. The DJ said, "Well, well, well ... We have LADY coming to the stage, folks!" I blush madly, and am grateful for the low lights of the club. Everyone cheers as I go to place the money in her g-string.
Over the loudspeaker, I hear, "Whoa, whoa! No touching, ma'am!"
Oops.
I skulk back to my table feeling like a lecher; the table from which Luke is still missing. My two new best friends, the dancer's stalkers, are waiting with high-fives for me. "That was great! Hey, we were thinking ... would you be interested in coming home with us?"
What the hell? It's not like I'm in a strip club, wearing a low-cut shirt, sitting all alone, and looking like I want to go home! Why would they ask such a thing of me? Oh, wait, that's exactly what it looked like!
"You guys don't have any money, remember?"
(At the time, in my inebriated state, I patted myself on the back for my quick retort. Days later, I realize that I sounded like a prostitute not willing to deal with low-rent tricks.)
Luke, who suddenly looks like a knight in
As we go inside the door, Luke starts kissing me again. I was either emitting you-can't-kiss-worth-shit vibes, or I straight up told him that his kissing was sub-par (still a little fuzzy here) because he asked me to teach him how to kiss. The nurturer in me wanted to pat him on the head, grab him by the hand, and lead him up the stairs (it was a tri-level townhouse) for lessons. I just led him up the stairs for lessons. (Better not to be condescending, I think.)
We land in the kitchen where more kissing ensues, and it is improving slightly. He's being a little softer, moving a little slower, heading in the right direction. It gave me a bit of hope that perhaps he was teachable in all areas of dealing with the opposite sex. Things might not be so bad after all. We continue to make out and throw in a little heavy petting for good measure.
"Let's take a bath," he says. "I have a large jacuzzi tub."
"Jacuzzi tub?"
"Yes."
"With jets?"
"Yes."
"And bubbles?"
"Yes!"
"Yes! Let's!"
(I do love a good bath.)
We run the water into his glorious tub and step in. Pure bliss. We lay at our respective ends and relax for a bit. I'm nearly comatose from pleasure overload. (And, no, the jets were not positioned between my legs; however, hindsight is 20/20.) Some time passes - perhaps minutes, perhaps hours - and we both realize, at seemingly the same time, that the other person still exists. We maneuver around so that we can resume our make-out session.
Then he said those fatal words...
"Do I make you horny, baby?"
[screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech]
WTF? When did Austin Powers join the party?
I giggled. Then I giggled some more. Then I was laughing. Luke/Austin, being completely obliterated, laughed right along with me.
I stood up and said I was going to find some towels. Luke/Austin pointed me in the direction of where the towels were, and somehow I got lost in his townhouse. I'm wandering around, dripping wet, freezing my ass off, searching for the towel closet. I stumble upon it (somewhere, and it might have even been back in the bathroom) what feels like 30 minutes later, and grab us some towels. Huge, cushion-y towels. I wrap myself up, and wrap up Luke/Austin who looks like a drowned cat as he just stands there shivering and looking miserable.
I then went and crawled into his bed, and assumed he would follow. I planned to feign extreme sleepiness, and it wasn't going to be all that hard to do. But he didn't come. And he still didn't come. And he still didn't come. I pictured him frozen into an ice block in his jacuzzi tub and thought I better check on him.
He was just as I left him. With a towel wrapped around himself, shivering, and still dripping wet except where the towel was covering him.
"T-t-t-tooo c-c-cooooold," he said.
Jesus. And he calls himself a Canadian?
We hear a door close right then, and Luke/Austin snapped into action. Thankfully, his catatonic states are short-lived. He tells me that it's his roommate, the guy who initially attracted me at the party, and that he better run down and talk to him. He goes into his bedroom, grabs a long-sleeve shirt, pulls it over his head, and heads out the door with his bare bum there for the world to see. It was the last vision I had before falling asleep.
Speaking of sleep (my favorite segue), and I hate to do this (I do!), I must sleep. I won't leave you hanging too much by letting you know ahead of time that he did not get to poke his special tool in me. Channeling Austin Powers was a bad, bad idea.
If you're reading this and know Luke/Austin in real life, please know that it's truly not my intention to be mean. He was a sweet guy who was very drunk, thus making him easy fodder. I would think that Luke/Austin would tell you that he had a great time that night, and I did as well. This was fun stuff. Of course, his opinion might change were he to encounter these posts, and his feelings would probably be hurt as well. I don't know him well enough to gauge his reaction. I ask that you not share this site with him for the latter reason alone.
Delayed
My best friend's daughter turned eighteen today. I couldn't be at her birth because I was a freshman in college and I had a Biology final the next day. So, I met Jess on her second day of life. I really can't believe she's eighteen. It makes me feel really, really old. (You see why these wild and crazy nights of debauchery are necessary every so often. I have to remember that I'm young. [Compared to an 80-year-old anyway.]). <- No idea what kind of crazy punctuation that is, but I'm going with it.
We're going out to dinner tonight to celebrate her birthday. I tell you this because it means that it will be awhile before I put up the next installment of my adventure. I promise that I will not lay my little head down tonight until I have written it.
We're going out to dinner tonight to celebrate her birthday. I tell you this because it means that it will be awhile before I put up the next installment of my adventure. I promise that I will not lay my little head down tonight until I have written it.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
My Canada Adventure: Part Two
I feel I should preface this entry with a disclaimer.
You know the saying, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?" That's pretty much how I feel when I leave my area code(s)*. The entire rest of the world is my Vegas. But how fun would it be if I never got to talk about my adventures outside of the area code? So, really, I suppose my motto should be something along the lines of "What happens outside of my area code, happens guilt-free; Additionally, it gets told to whoever will listen." That's how I've been living my life for the past two or so years. (Also, this is one hell of a long entry. You've been warned.)
So, um, as you know, I left my area code this past weekend.
On Saturday night, Cindy and I attended the "Fifth Annual White Trash American Thanksgiving" party. It was at the apartment of a girl who is a friend of Cindy and of Venetia, Cindy's sister. I'm pretty sure the only thing at the party that was even close to being white trash was me (which was fitting since I was also the only American). The party was thrown in a gorgeous loft located in downtown Toronto. The loft was beautifully appointed. The tables were a vision in white with white tablecloths and white plates set for 20 people. There was nothing trashy about all that white. On the contrary, it was quite elegant.
I'm normally quite chatty from the moment I meet someone, but for some reason it took a bit of the drink to loosen my tongue that night. I think I felt a bit out of place. (Elegance + me = Does not compute.) Cindy and I were two of the first guests to arrive despite our unintentional attempt at being fashionably late. By the time the bulk of the guests arrived, Grey Goose and I had met a few times and I was feeling more comfortable in my skin. I think I might have been the most nervous to meet Venetia as she's been reading my blog for years, and I felt I had a lot to live up to because of it. (Don't ask me what I thought I had to live up to, because I have no idea. It's stupid, I know. In the end, it was like we knew each other already and there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. We hugged upon meeting and were comfortable from the start. We just didn't get much time to talk for reasons that shall become clear.)
I had chosen a seat that happened to be in the pathway to the bedroom where everyone was putting their coats. This allowed me to meet everyone pretty soon after their arrival at the party. Everyone was incredibly friendly, which, along with the Grey Goose, helped to put me at ease. Cindy was really hoping that I would play up the Texan in me, but I found that my inner Texan disappears with nervousness. (Besides, I become more sure each day that I was really meant to be a Canadian.)
A couple of people mentioned that they thought they had met me before. At the first mention of it, I said, "I think that's impossible. Well, unless maybe you were in Vegas," as I scrutinized the guy to see if he was familiar to me as well. (He wasn't, but I wouldn't have been averse to becoming more familiar with him, if you know what I mean.) (I sound like a dirty old man.) After the third person told me that they thought they knew me, I said, in exasperation, "It's Carrie Fisher. I look like fucking Carrie Fisher."
"That's it! Princess Leia! You know, people have told me that I look like Luke Skywalker."
I laughed, and tried to remember what the relationship between Luke and Leia was. Were they brother and sister? Lovers? I didn't know as I haven't seen the movie since I was six-years-old. I wasn't sure if he was throwing me a cheesy pick-up line or just relating his own experience of being a look-alike. It turns out he was throwing me a cheesy pick-up line. (It also turns out they were brother and sister. Ewww.)
I was actually much more attracted to his friend at the beginning of the night. (Oh hell, I was attracted to most of the men at the party. It's been THREE MONTHS since I've had sex. I'm hitting the point where pretty much everyone seems worthy of consideration.) But as Luke (his name for the telling of this story) and I were both smokers, we spent more time together - out on the balcony, the designated smoking area. He became more attractive to me for a reason I couldn't immediately put my finger on. And, honestly, a part of it might have been that he was obviously attracted to me.
We were seated for dinner around 9pm (I think) and the hostess chose where everyone was to sit with the intention being that she would pair people up that didn't know each other well so that they could get to know one another better. Cindy plead for us to be seated at the "party table," but instead we were seated among an investment banker, a mother-to-be, and a tire salesman (nothing being wrong with any of those, of course, but they're not generally associated with being wild and crazy), with Luke being the tire salesman. (It's his family's company, so I suppose he's more than just a tire salesman, but it sure felt like we were getting the sales spiel as he droned on and on and on and on about tires. Yawn.)
As dinner progressed, Luke let his intentions be known. He wanted to take me home with him. I also realized why I had suddenly found him more attractive; he reminded me of my first love, both in looks and personality (Ahem. Warning sign #1, T.). I must have appeared to be amenable to the idea, and perhaps even vocalized it, because Cindy laid down the law to Luke.
"I want her back tomorrow morning. I only have her for a short time. Don't get attached. No, seriously, don't get attached. Also, take care of my friend. She's my sister from another mother."
He nodded his assent to each of her stipulations. I felt as if I'd just been given permission to do something illicit. (Oh, yeah, I was just given permission to do something illicit.) Luke was ready to go, but I wanted to stay longer so I told him we'd go in another hour. I also wanted to talk to Cindy without Luke being a part of the conversation. I mean, this seemed like a good idea, but I was also a tiny bit (read: a lot) tipsy. After I received her reassurance that my presence wasn't necessary at the hotel room, I felt better about the whole thing.
Over the course of the next hour, Luke and I would exchange glances, but spent our time talking with other people. Cindy was also trying to ferret out information about our man, Luke. As we were talking to a couple, we ascertained that Luke and another woman at the party had once had a brief relationship. Word on the street was that Luke was a lousy lay. (Yo. Warning sign #2!)
Now remember, I'm going through withdrawals. I'm not sure where the researchers came up with a woman's sexual peak being in her early 30's because my libido is so much more active at 36 than it ever was in my early 30's. (Though the cause of my lackadaisical libido could've been that I was married to an asshole and that I was depressed, but I digress.) In any case, I started to rationalize this tidbit of information. Perhaps it was a bitter break-up and her way of retaliating was to say that he sucked in bed. Or maybe she and I have different criteria for what constitutes good sex. And is bad sex such a terrible thing? I mean, how bad can it be? I decided it was time for me to leave with Luke and find out. We said our goodbyes, he grabbed a six-pack of beer, and we went downstairs to hail a cab.
(Lest you all think I was acting with no regard for my safety, remember that he was friends with the majority of the people at this party who in turn were friends of Venetia and/or Cindy. I wasn't concerned for my safety at all.)
Once we were in the cab and he had locked lips with me, I realized my first mistake: I hadn't kissed him before we left the party. Had we kissed BEFORE we left the party, we wouldn't have left the party together. I'm not even kidding. Kissing. Is. So. Important. As Luke is ramming his tongue in and out of my mouth, I'm inwardly groaning at my stupidity. I put my hand on his face, pull away, and say, "Let's get to know each other. Let's talk."
We made some idle chit-chat with him going in for a kiss when he could and me pushing him back away as subtly as possible.
"What do you think about stopping by a bar near my house for one more drink before we go home?"
What do I think? Yes! YES! One more drink will give me some time to try and figure out how I want this situation to play out and, at the very least, make me care a little less about his kissing skills.
"That sounds great," I replied.
"How do you feel about going to a strip club?"
"Really?"
"Really."
"Why not? When in Canada ..."
So, off we went to the strip club where the bouncer bore an uncanny resemblance to Ron Jeremy.
To be continued...
*What's that saying? Don't shit where you eat?
You know the saying, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?" That's pretty much how I feel when I leave my area code(s)*. The entire rest of the world is my Vegas. But how fun would it be if I never got to talk about my adventures outside of the area code? So, really, I suppose my motto should be something along the lines of "What happens outside of my area code, happens guilt-free; Additionally, it gets told to whoever will listen." That's how I've been living my life for the past two or so years. (Also, this is one hell of a long entry. You've been warned.)
So, um, as you know, I left my area code this past weekend.
On Saturday night, Cindy and I attended the "Fifth Annual White Trash American Thanksgiving" party. It was at the apartment of a girl who is a friend of Cindy and of Venetia, Cindy's sister. I'm pretty sure the only thing at the party that was even close to being white trash was me (which was fitting since I was also the only American). The party was thrown in a gorgeous loft located in downtown Toronto. The loft was beautifully appointed. The tables were a vision in white with white tablecloths and white plates set for 20 people. There was nothing trashy about all that white. On the contrary, it was quite elegant.
I'm normally quite chatty from the moment I meet someone, but for some reason it took a bit of the drink to loosen my tongue that night. I think I felt a bit out of place. (Elegance + me = Does not compute.) Cindy and I were two of the first guests to arrive despite our unintentional attempt at being fashionably late. By the time the bulk of the guests arrived, Grey Goose and I had met a few times and I was feeling more comfortable in my skin. I think I might have been the most nervous to meet Venetia as she's been reading my blog for years, and I felt I had a lot to live up to because of it. (Don't ask me what I thought I had to live up to, because I have no idea. It's stupid, I know. In the end, it was like we knew each other already and there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. We hugged upon meeting and were comfortable from the start. We just didn't get much time to talk for reasons that shall become clear.)
I had chosen a seat that happened to be in the pathway to the bedroom where everyone was putting their coats. This allowed me to meet everyone pretty soon after their arrival at the party. Everyone was incredibly friendly, which, along with the Grey Goose, helped to put me at ease. Cindy was really hoping that I would play up the Texan in me, but I found that my inner Texan disappears with nervousness. (Besides, I become more sure each day that I was really meant to be a Canadian.)
A couple of people mentioned that they thought they had met me before. At the first mention of it, I said, "I think that's impossible. Well, unless maybe you were in Vegas," as I scrutinized the guy to see if he was familiar to me as well. (He wasn't, but I wouldn't have been averse to becoming more familiar with him, if you know what I mean.) (I sound like a dirty old man.) After the third person told me that they thought they knew me, I said, in exasperation, "It's Carrie Fisher. I look like fucking Carrie Fisher."
"That's it! Princess Leia! You know, people have told me that I look like Luke Skywalker."
I laughed, and tried to remember what the relationship between Luke and Leia was. Were they brother and sister? Lovers? I didn't know as I haven't seen the movie since I was six-years-old. I wasn't sure if he was throwing me a cheesy pick-up line or just relating his own experience of being a look-alike. It turns out he was throwing me a cheesy pick-up line. (It also turns out they were brother and sister. Ewww.)
I was actually much more attracted to his friend at the beginning of the night. (Oh hell, I was attracted to most of the men at the party. It's been THREE MONTHS since I've had sex. I'm hitting the point where pretty much everyone seems worthy of consideration.) But as Luke (his name for the telling of this story) and I were both smokers, we spent more time together - out on the balcony, the designated smoking area. He became more attractive to me for a reason I couldn't immediately put my finger on. And, honestly, a part of it might have been that he was obviously attracted to me.
We were seated for dinner around 9pm (I think) and the hostess chose where everyone was to sit with the intention being that she would pair people up that didn't know each other well so that they could get to know one another better. Cindy plead for us to be seated at the "party table," but instead we were seated among an investment banker, a mother-to-be, and a tire salesman (nothing being wrong with any of those, of course, but they're not generally associated with being wild and crazy), with Luke being the tire salesman. (It's his family's company, so I suppose he's more than just a tire salesman, but it sure felt like we were getting the sales spiel as he droned on and on and on and on about tires. Yawn.)
As dinner progressed, Luke let his intentions be known. He wanted to take me home with him. I also realized why I had suddenly found him more attractive; he reminded me of my first love, both in looks and personality (Ahem. Warning sign #1, T.). I must have appeared to be amenable to the idea, and perhaps even vocalized it, because Cindy laid down the law to Luke.
"I want her back tomorrow morning. I only have her for a short time. Don't get attached. No, seriously, don't get attached. Also, take care of my friend. She's my sister from another mother."
He nodded his assent to each of her stipulations. I felt as if I'd just been given permission to do something illicit. (Oh, yeah, I was just given permission to do something illicit.) Luke was ready to go, but I wanted to stay longer so I told him we'd go in another hour. I also wanted to talk to Cindy without Luke being a part of the conversation. I mean, this seemed like a good idea, but I was also a tiny bit (read: a lot) tipsy. After I received her reassurance that my presence wasn't necessary at the hotel room, I felt better about the whole thing.
Over the course of the next hour, Luke and I would exchange glances, but spent our time talking with other people. Cindy was also trying to ferret out information about our man, Luke. As we were talking to a couple, we ascertained that Luke and another woman at the party had once had a brief relationship. Word on the street was that Luke was a lousy lay. (Yo. Warning sign #2!)
Now remember, I'm going through withdrawals. I'm not sure where the researchers came up with a woman's sexual peak being in her early 30's because my libido is so much more active at 36 than it ever was in my early 30's. (Though the cause of my lackadaisical libido could've been that I was married to an asshole and that I was depressed, but I digress.) In any case, I started to rationalize this tidbit of information. Perhaps it was a bitter break-up and her way of retaliating was to say that he sucked in bed. Or maybe she and I have different criteria for what constitutes good sex. And is bad sex such a terrible thing? I mean, how bad can it be? I decided it was time for me to leave with Luke and find out. We said our goodbyes, he grabbed a six-pack of beer, and we went downstairs to hail a cab.
(Lest you all think I was acting with no regard for my safety, remember that he was friends with the majority of the people at this party who in turn were friends of Venetia and/or Cindy. I wasn't concerned for my safety at all.)
Once we were in the cab and he had locked lips with me, I realized my first mistake: I hadn't kissed him before we left the party. Had we kissed BEFORE we left the party, we wouldn't have left the party together. I'm not even kidding. Kissing. Is. So. Important. As Luke is ramming his tongue in and out of my mouth, I'm inwardly groaning at my stupidity. I put my hand on his face, pull away, and say, "Let's get to know each other. Let's talk."
We made some idle chit-chat with him going in for a kiss when he could and me pushing him back away as subtly as possible.
"What do you think about stopping by a bar near my house for one more drink before we go home?"
What do I think? Yes! YES! One more drink will give me some time to try and figure out how I want this situation to play out and, at the very least, make me care a little less about his kissing skills.
"That sounds great," I replied.
"How do you feel about going to a strip club?"
"Really?"
"Really."
"Why not? When in Canada ..."
So, off we went to the strip club where the bouncer bore an uncanny resemblance to Ron Jeremy.
To be continued...
*What's that saying? Don't shit where you eat?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
My Canada Adventure: Part One
Cindy's gone to bed and will leave for work with the sunrise tomorrow, so effectively our visit is over. I hate the goodbyes. It seems so unfair that we live so far, far away from each other. One of us (or both!) needs to become independently wealthy so we can start racking up the frequent flier miles (that we'll never use because, hey, we're independently wealthy.)
I've had a wonderful, adventurous trip to Canada. It went by way too fast and I really wouldn't be opposed to a blizzard hitting tomorrow morning and trapping me for an extra day or two. Sadly, the snow is forecast for tomorrow evening after my plane has already taken off, and even then it wouldn't be enough to strand me in Canada.
I arrived here late Thursday (as I mentioned a time or two already) and Cindy and her family were kind enough to wait to eat until I arrived. They had cooked me a Thanksgiving dinner. I swear, it was the best food I've ever, ever, ever eaten. I'm certain I would've said that even if it hadn't been 14 hours since my last meal. Cindy's husband, Kevin, is a chef and I know (know!) that I would weigh a trillion pounds if I were married to him. We stuffed our bellies and then everyone headed off to bed - since it was a school night - with the exception of Kevin and me as we started watching Team America: World Police.
Did I mention that I had gone to bed at 2am on Thursday and had then woken up just two short hours later at 4am to find out that my flight was canceled? I was running on really low fuel by Thursday night. I'd slept fitfully on the plane rides because they were small, cramped planes. I slept fitfully on the van ride to Cindy's house because I couldn't fully fall asleep in fear that I would drool on my neighbor or snore in their ear. (Y'all worry about that too, right?) So, when Kevin and I sat down to watch the movie, it didn't take long for me to start dozing off even though the movie was quite funny.
I was sitting on the couch with a dog snuggled up to me on either side. I had my arms draped over them (a Beagle and a Newfoundland) and felt quite cozy. I was soon off to visit the sandman and I stayed there, on the couch, perfectly upright until 6:30am when I startled awake and realized that I felt like I was 80 years old. I was sore; I was stiff; I was moving slowly. I shuffled my way to the stairs, grabbed onto the handrail, and heaved myself up the stairs and to my bed where I climbed in fully-clothed to sleep until 11am when Cindy woke me up and surprised me by staying home from work.
We spent the day reading our books beside each other in bed. We both dozed off for a bit. It was a truly perfect day. I was finally lured downstairs by the smell of another delicious concoction ala Kevin. (See? I've even picked up French since I've been here! I'm so clever, oui?) I only took a small sample - of a delectable shepherd's pie with prime rib and Gruyere cheese - because Cindy and I had reservations for dinner at a bistro and I didn't want to ruin my appetite. And thank goodness I didn't! The food was so fantastically good. We also had a drink or three. I had two Salty Dogs (which I call something completely different back home) and Cindy had two chocolate martinis.
During her second martini, the chef, whom Cindy knows from when her husband was a chef there as well, came over and told Cindy that he wasn't making a judgment call for her, not judging at all, but that she might want to keep in mind that each of her martinis contained 3oz. of alcohol and that her driving might be impaired. They're so politically correct in Canada. We reassured him that neither of us were driving and ordered more alcohol.
We finished off the night with a shot of flaming Sambuca. Sambuca tastes like black licorice which is pretty much the worst taste EVER. It does the trick of taking you from a slightly buzzed state to an "I am the funniest person in the world and everyone should hear what I'm saying so I'm going to talk really loud so that no one within a 100 yard radius will miss a single word I say" state, so it does have a redeeming quality. (Or does it?) These particular Sambucas did not want to be drunk (drank?) though because we could not blow their flames out. We would blow with all of our might and the flames would just lap back towards our faces. But we didn't let the fear of third degree burns on our faces keep us from getting our drink on; we kept blowing and blowing and blowing. I huffed and puffed, Cindy huffed and puffed, and after a lot of huffing and puffing, Cindy messily blew out both of our flames. My hero! We chanced our lips being burned off by the incredibly hot glass and poured that vile liquid down our throats, and I related my previous escapades with Sambuca from when I was in Vegas with Laurie and Sandy. Good times, good times. And then it was time to go outside and let the people on the street share in our conversations while we waited for our ride.
On our way home, we took a side trip to see a comet (which looked like a really bright star) and to go to a 7-11. Because even though it's -8 degrees Celsius outside, it's never too cold for a Slurpee. We don't have 7-11's in my city any longer, and whenever I see one, I have to get a monster Slurpee. They're so much better than Icees. So, I got a gargantuan Dr. Pepper Slurpee and we headed home to play Taboo.
I love to play board games. I never get to play them, so anytime I do makes me so incredibly happy. My ex-husband and I used to host game nights while we were married, but while they started out being mostly board game game nights, they ended up being Blackjack only game nights the last few years of my marriage. I need to start hosting a game night once a month. That would be swell.
Cindy and Mike won, but only because their counterparts - Kevin and I - were a bit inebriated. (Okay, they probably would've won anyway, but I like to imagine that it's because of the former.) It's quite difficult to think quickly when your faculties aren't at 100%. You're yelling, "I know this! I know this! What's the word?! Oh, I know I've heard the word before! Do I know the word? You Canadians have some funny words. I do? Okay, um, um, um, um, um, ummm, ummm, ummm, ummmmmmmm..." "Time!" Yep, another round without a single point because you failed to come up with "Canoe." Mike, on the other hand, could give one clue to Cindy and she'd shoot off the answer.
"Engineered Stucture."
"Bridge!"
"Medicine."
"Antidote!"
WTF? Who thinks of "antidote" first thing after hearing "medicine"? Cindy, queen of Taboo, that's who. And she'd never even played before! It was quite amazing. We went to bed soon after (and I slept in a bed from the start this time) and I slept wonderfully until I awoke fully refreshed at 8am. On a Saturday. Dude. So not right. Saturdays are for sleeping.
Speaking of sleep, it's my bedtime. I have a plane to catch tomorrow (unless that miraculous blizzard comes), so I will write Part Two tomorrow night.
Stayed tuned for the next installment where I go to a party, have a blast, meet Luke Skywalker, go to strip club, take a bath with Austin Powers, and do the walk of fame.
I've had a wonderful, adventurous trip to Canada. It went by way too fast and I really wouldn't be opposed to a blizzard hitting tomorrow morning and trapping me for an extra day or two. Sadly, the snow is forecast for tomorrow evening after my plane has already taken off, and even then it wouldn't be enough to strand me in Canada.
I arrived here late Thursday (as I mentioned a time or two already) and Cindy and her family were kind enough to wait to eat until I arrived. They had cooked me a Thanksgiving dinner. I swear, it was the best food I've ever, ever, ever eaten. I'm certain I would've said that even if it hadn't been 14 hours since my last meal. Cindy's husband, Kevin, is a chef and I know (know!) that I would weigh a trillion pounds if I were married to him. We stuffed our bellies and then everyone headed off to bed - since it was a school night - with the exception of Kevin and me as we started watching Team America: World Police.
Did I mention that I had gone to bed at 2am on Thursday and had then woken up just two short hours later at 4am to find out that my flight was canceled? I was running on really low fuel by Thursday night. I'd slept fitfully on the plane rides because they were small, cramped planes. I slept fitfully on the van ride to Cindy's house because I couldn't fully fall asleep in fear that I would drool on my neighbor or snore in their ear. (Y'all worry about that too, right?) So, when Kevin and I sat down to watch the movie, it didn't take long for me to start dozing off even though the movie was quite funny.
I was sitting on the couch with a dog snuggled up to me on either side. I had my arms draped over them (a Beagle and a Newfoundland) and felt quite cozy. I was soon off to visit the sandman and I stayed there, on the couch, perfectly upright until 6:30am when I startled awake and realized that I felt like I was 80 years old. I was sore; I was stiff; I was moving slowly. I shuffled my way to the stairs, grabbed onto the handrail, and heaved myself up the stairs and to my bed where I climbed in fully-clothed to sleep until 11am when Cindy woke me up and surprised me by staying home from work.
We spent the day reading our books beside each other in bed. We both dozed off for a bit. It was a truly perfect day. I was finally lured downstairs by the smell of another delicious concoction ala Kevin. (See? I've even picked up French since I've been here! I'm so clever, oui?) I only took a small sample - of a delectable shepherd's pie with prime rib and Gruyere cheese - because Cindy and I had reservations for dinner at a bistro and I didn't want to ruin my appetite. And thank goodness I didn't! The food was so fantastically good. We also had a drink or three. I had two Salty Dogs (which I call something completely different back home) and Cindy had two chocolate martinis.
During her second martini, the chef, whom Cindy knows from when her husband was a chef there as well, came over and told Cindy that he wasn't making a judgment call for her, not judging at all, but that she might want to keep in mind that each of her martinis contained 3oz. of alcohol and that her driving might be impaired. They're so politically correct in Canada. We reassured him that neither of us were driving and ordered more alcohol.
We finished off the night with a shot of flaming Sambuca. Sambuca tastes like black licorice which is pretty much the worst taste EVER. It does the trick of taking you from a slightly buzzed state to an "I am the funniest person in the world and everyone should hear what I'm saying so I'm going to talk really loud so that no one within a 100 yard radius will miss a single word I say" state, so it does have a redeeming quality. (Or does it?) These particular Sambucas did not want to be drunk (drank?) though because we could not blow their flames out. We would blow with all of our might and the flames would just lap back towards our faces. But we didn't let the fear of third degree burns on our faces keep us from getting our drink on; we kept blowing and blowing and blowing. I huffed and puffed, Cindy huffed and puffed, and after a lot of huffing and puffing, Cindy messily blew out both of our flames. My hero! We chanced our lips being burned off by the incredibly hot glass and poured that vile liquid down our throats, and I related my previous escapades with Sambuca from when I was in Vegas with Laurie and Sandy. Good times, good times. And then it was time to go outside and let the people on the street share in our conversations while we waited for our ride.
On our way home, we took a side trip to see a comet (which looked like a really bright star) and to go to a 7-11. Because even though it's -8 degrees Celsius outside, it's never too cold for a Slurpee. We don't have 7-11's in my city any longer, and whenever I see one, I have to get a monster Slurpee. They're so much better than Icees. So, I got a gargantuan Dr. Pepper Slurpee and we headed home to play Taboo.
I love to play board games. I never get to play them, so anytime I do makes me so incredibly happy. My ex-husband and I used to host game nights while we were married, but while they started out being mostly board game game nights, they ended up being Blackjack only game nights the last few years of my marriage. I need to start hosting a game night once a month. That would be swell.
Cindy and Mike won, but only because their counterparts - Kevin and I - were a bit inebriated. (Okay, they probably would've won anyway, but I like to imagine that it's because of the former.) It's quite difficult to think quickly when your faculties aren't at 100%. You're yelling, "I know this! I know this! What's the word?! Oh, I know I've heard the word before! Do I know the word? You Canadians have some funny words. I do? Okay, um, um, um, um, um, ummm, ummm, ummm, ummmmmmmm..." "Time!" Yep, another round without a single point because you failed to come up with "Canoe." Mike, on the other hand, could give one clue to Cindy and she'd shoot off the answer.
"Engineered Stucture."
"Bridge!"
"Medicine."
"Antidote!"
WTF? Who thinks of "antidote" first thing after hearing "medicine"? Cindy, queen of Taboo, that's who. And she'd never even played before! It was quite amazing. We went to bed soon after (and I slept in a bed from the start this time) and I slept wonderfully until I awoke fully refreshed at 8am. On a Saturday. Dude. So not right. Saturdays are for sleeping.
Speaking of sleep, it's my bedtime. I have a plane to catch tomorrow (unless that miraculous blizzard comes), so I will write Part Two tomorrow night.
Stayed tuned for the next installment where I go to a party, have a blast, meet Luke Skywalker, go to strip club, take a bath with Austin Powers, and do the walk of fame.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Magical White Powder
Thursday, November 22, 2007
DC!
Jinxed
Do you guys remember Cindy saying, "You're so cute. Unless it's a blizzard of epic proportions, followed by freezing rain, your flight won't be delayed. We have snow here for a long time....how do you think we fly out in the winter?"
You don't? Well Murphy remembered. He's like an elephant; he never forgets.
My flight? Canceled.
I'm now traveling from my fair city to Denver (the opposite direction of where I'm heading) to Montreal to Toronto for arrival 9 hours later than my original flight. Let's place bets on which city I get stuck in: Denver or Montreal.
Hmph.
You don't? Well Murphy remembered. He's like an elephant; he never forgets.
My flight? Canceled.
I'm now traveling from my fair city to Denver (the opposite direction of where I'm heading) to Montreal to Toronto for arrival 9 hours later than my original flight. Let's place bets on which city I get stuck in: Denver or Montreal.
Hmph.
Yikes!
(This has been a test of mobile blogging. If it works, expect lots of drunken photos, and possibly some sober ones, from the great land of Canadia.)
Edited to add: Yippee!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
A Day in the Life
I don't think I'm ever going to be the same again after seeing and reading this. Pure nightmare material.
I've had a crazy, hectic day. Let me detail it for you.
8:15am - Wake up late.
8:35am - Get into car to go to work; it doesn't start.
8:55am - Car starts. (It's an electrical issue that I'm going to get taken care of any day now.)
9:20am - Get to work (late) and WORK. I seriously work. Dude.
10:30am - Start to worry about my FedEx package that was supposed to have been delivered before 10am.
10:31am - Keep working feverishly or ... something.
11am - Fret some more about FedEx package.
1pm - Everyone leaves work. Except me. I continue to work while I glance at the door every 30 seconds to see if the FedEx package is being delivered YET. It isn't delivered.
3:30pm - Curse FedEx. I have stuff to do! Lots of it! DAMN IT!
4:15pm - Leave to run errands that cannot be put off any longer. Say multiple curse words.
4:25pm - Stare at the locked door of the bank in disbelief.
4:25:30pm - Crying ensues.
4:30pm - Pull into motor bank while continuing to cry.
4:31pm - Look pathetic enough to get one of my checks cashed even though it is over the limit so I don't have to travel internationally with only $4 in cash. Also make deposits totaling more than four years of my salary.
4:35pm to 5:30pm - Finish running errands for work.
5:30pm - Rush to meet my ex-husband to make a trade: Kids' left behind stuff for some child support. I think I got the better end of the deal (in this instance).
5:35pm - Money flies out of my hands and into the coffers of giant corporations (aka Saturn and Sprint) via my father.
5:37pm - Race to make it to the dry cleaners so that I am able to actually wear decent, warm clothes in Canada.
6:30pm - Get clothes, drive home, get inside, remember that I have a prescription to pick up, turn around, go back to car, and drive to pharmacy.
6:40pm - Hear my name called as I enter the pharmacy area. Turn to see who it is and cringe.
6:41pm - Work out a payment plan with my ex-landlord (who was fortunate enough to run into me after I avoided his calls for the last three weeks) for the electric bills he didn't tell me about until they were astronomically high thus causing me to avoid him like the plague while I figured out which street corner is the most profitable.
6:45pm - Leave with prescription for happy pills in hand and finally head home to pack my suitcase and clean my terrifyingly messy apartment.
6:45pm to present - Half-ass clean my apartment since it's the last thing I want to be doing, make a list of things to pack, dawdle, chat online with Cindy, play Scrabble, procrastinate, etc.
I must go to bed soon. Abrasaint and I are leaving for the airport at 4:42am. (See what I mean about him being a saint? He's driving me to the airport at FOUR FORTY-TWO IN THE MORNING! ON A HOLIDAY!)
I hope that you all have a wonderful holiday. I have no doubt that mine will be splendid.
And in the spirit of Thanksgiving, thank you all for being so wonderful. You make writing here such a pleasure.
I've had a crazy, hectic day. Let me detail it for you.
8:15am - Wake up late.
8:35am - Get into car to go to work; it doesn't start.
8:55am - Car starts. (It's an electrical issue that I'm going to get taken care of any day now.)
9:20am - Get to work (late) and WORK. I seriously work. Dude.
10:30am - Start to worry about my FedEx package that was supposed to have been delivered before 10am.
10:31am - Keep working feverishly or ... something.
11am - Fret some more about FedEx package.
1pm - Everyone leaves work. Except me. I continue to work while I glance at the door every 30 seconds to see if the FedEx package is being delivered YET. It isn't delivered.
3:30pm - Curse FedEx. I have stuff to do! Lots of it! DAMN IT!
4:15pm - Leave to run errands that cannot be put off any longer. Say multiple curse words.
4:25pm - Stare at the locked door of the bank in disbelief.
4:25:30pm - Crying ensues.
4:30pm - Pull into motor bank while continuing to cry.
4:31pm - Look pathetic enough to get one of my checks cashed even though it is over the limit so I don't have to travel internationally with only $4 in cash. Also make deposits totaling more than four years of my salary.
4:35pm to 5:30pm - Finish running errands for work.
5:30pm - Rush to meet my ex-husband to make a trade: Kids' left behind stuff for some child support. I think I got the better end of the deal (in this instance).
5:35pm - Money flies out of my hands and into the coffers of giant corporations (aka Saturn and Sprint) via my father.
5:37pm - Race to make it to the dry cleaners so that I am able to actually wear decent, warm clothes in Canada.
6:30pm - Get clothes, drive home, get inside, remember that I have a prescription to pick up, turn around, go back to car, and drive to pharmacy.
6:40pm - Hear my name called as I enter the pharmacy area. Turn to see who it is and cringe.
6:41pm - Work out a payment plan with my ex-landlord (who was fortunate enough to run into me after I avoided his calls for the last three weeks) for the electric bills he didn't tell me about until they were astronomically high thus causing me to avoid him like the plague while I figured out which street corner is the most profitable.
6:45pm - Leave with prescription for happy pills in hand and finally head home to pack my suitcase and clean my terrifyingly messy apartment.
6:45pm to present - Half-ass clean my apartment since it's the last thing I want to be doing, make a list of things to pack, dawdle, chat online with Cindy, play Scrabble, procrastinate, etc.
I must go to bed soon. Abrasaint and I are leaving for the airport at 4:42am. (See what I mean about him being a saint? He's driving me to the airport at FOUR FORTY-TWO IN THE MORNING! ON A HOLIDAY!)
I hope that you all have a wonderful holiday. I have no doubt that mine will be splendid.
And in the spirit of Thanksgiving, thank you all for being so wonderful. You make writing here such a pleasure.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Contrary to Appearances, I Was Not on Hallucinogenic Drugs While Writing This Post
I'm FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Wait... Did I just say that out loud? I feel terrible for saying this, but I was pretty happy to kiss my children goodbye today. If only so I can get my house in order (yet you see that I'm blogging and the last time I checked the house doesn't get any cleaner while one blogs. Just think how clean my house would be if it did! I mean I'm not a frequent blogger, but when I do blog, it's profuse.). My house is a complete and total disaster after this past weekend.
I'm seriously considering "Abrasaint" as my neighbor's nickname. It's totally fitting. He didn't lodge a single complaint the entire weekend even though it sounded like I was running a boot/torture camp or, alternately, had fostered a couple of angry elephants what with all of the banging and clanging and screaming going on up here. Additionally, he brought me Diet Dr. Pepper during my time of need when I had too many kids in the house to drive anywhere. (You know because my ex-husband had my van repossessed during our divorce. I'm not bitter.) My kids owe him their lives! Diet Dr. Pepper was the only thing getting me through the weekend! (And the heroin*, of course.) Seriously though, he's a saint. Thus he has been dubbed "Abrasaint." (Apparently, while writing, I moved from considering to deciding.)
So, you know how you check your Amazon wishlist every so often to see if anyone has bought you a gift? And you know no one has, but there's always the chance so you go look anyway? You click on the "purchased items" link and WHOA! TWELVE things have been purchased from your wishlist! TWO! YEARS! AGO! When the hell do they clear that stuff off? I'm tired of the little jolt I get when I think I'm getting twelve presents only to find out that it's the same twelve things I've already received (and I am very grateful for all twelve things lest you think I'm not). If I visited often enough, I would remember that I already have twelve items purchased off my wishlist and not get that little jolt of material gluttony. But because I check it so infrequently, and because I did so many drugs in the 60's**, I always forget. Something tells me the fact that I just typed "twelve" about 200 (or 5) times will ensure that I'll remember it for the rest of my days. "Honey, remember that time back in 2007 when I had twelve things that had been purchased off of my wishlist?" Oh yeah, I don't have anyone to call "Honey." Whatever. I'll relate the story to the other old ladies in the rest home while we play Canasta (whatever that is).
One thing that stinks about being a female in your thirties (and presumably beyond) is all of the sudden you have these hairs that appear overnight underneath your chin. They're not short hairs. They're usually a minimum of two feet long. That might be a slight exaggeration, but they are certainly long enough to be noticed by everyone. Everyone but you. When you peer into the mirror, you don't see a thing. That's because the hair is transparent from the front view. From the side? It's black and coarse and curly and hideous. Oddly, though, if you attempt to view it from the side in the mirror, you can't see it. You know what? I think what's actually happening is that the hair has no reflection at all. It's a vampire hair!
It only comes to your attention when you see someone staring at it, and you reach up to touch your face in the area from which they can't tear their eyes away. It's then that you feel the monstrous hair and you want to die right there in the spot that you are inhabiting. But lightning doesn't strike you to fulfill your wish, so you make a comment about being a werewolf and how you didn't realize that a full moon was near, and run to the nearest restroom (washroom, if you're Canadian). Once there, you yank at the hair in vain and find that the hair is practically invincible and it won't be taken without the use of a special tool. No, not that kind of special tool! Tweezers! But your tweezers are never, ever where you last left them because they've been enchanted by the vampire hairs on your chin. It's nuts, but totally true! I guess the moral of the story is this: If you're a woman who has not yet reached the age of thirty, revel in your hair-free chin and start warding off the vampire hairs with a nice garlic moisturizer each night. (The fact that you'll be sleeping alone at night since no one will come near you will be worth it. You'll see!)
*I'm currently reading Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me, and there's a lot of heroin talk in the book. I've apparently got heroin on the brain. Let me go on record and say that I have not had sexual relations with heroin, nor have I ingested it in any form.
**I didn't really take any drugs in the 60's. I wasn't even born yet. My mother, on the other hand, might have taken a slew of drugs and that would explain so, so much.
I'm seriously considering "Abrasaint" as my neighbor's nickname. It's totally fitting. He didn't lodge a single complaint the entire weekend even though it sounded like I was running a boot/torture camp or, alternately, had fostered a couple of angry elephants what with all of the banging and clanging and screaming going on up here. Additionally, he brought me Diet Dr. Pepper during my time of need when I had too many kids in the house to drive anywhere. (You know because my ex-husband had my van repossessed during our divorce. I'm not bitter.) My kids owe him their lives! Diet Dr. Pepper was the only thing getting me through the weekend! (And the heroin*, of course.) Seriously though, he's a saint. Thus he has been dubbed "Abrasaint." (Apparently, while writing, I moved from considering to deciding.)
So, you know how you check your Amazon wishlist every so often to see if anyone has bought you a gift? And you know no one has, but there's always the chance so you go look anyway? You click on the "purchased items" link and WHOA! TWELVE things have been purchased from your wishlist! TWO! YEARS! AGO! When the hell do they clear that stuff off? I'm tired of the little jolt I get when I think I'm getting twelve presents only to find out that it's the same twelve things I've already received (and I am very grateful for all twelve things lest you think I'm not). If I visited often enough, I would remember that I already have twelve items purchased off my wishlist and not get that little jolt of material gluttony. But because I check it so infrequently, and because I did so many drugs in the 60's**, I always forget. Something tells me the fact that I just typed "twelve" about 200 (or 5) times will ensure that I'll remember it for the rest of my days. "Honey, remember that time back in 2007 when I had twelve things that had been purchased off of my wishlist?" Oh yeah, I don't have anyone to call "Honey." Whatever. I'll relate the story to the other old ladies in the rest home while we play Canasta (whatever that is).
One thing that stinks about being a female in your thirties (and presumably beyond) is all of the sudden you have these hairs that appear overnight underneath your chin. They're not short hairs. They're usually a minimum of two feet long. That might be a slight exaggeration, but they are certainly long enough to be noticed by everyone. Everyone but you. When you peer into the mirror, you don't see a thing. That's because the hair is transparent from the front view. From the side? It's black and coarse and curly and hideous. Oddly, though, if you attempt to view it from the side in the mirror, you can't see it. You know what? I think what's actually happening is that the hair has no reflection at all. It's a vampire hair!
It only comes to your attention when you see someone staring at it, and you reach up to touch your face in the area from which they can't tear their eyes away. It's then that you feel the monstrous hair and you want to die right there in the spot that you are inhabiting. But lightning doesn't strike you to fulfill your wish, so you make a comment about being a werewolf and how you didn't realize that a full moon was near, and run to the nearest restroom (washroom, if you're Canadian). Once there, you yank at the hair in vain and find that the hair is practically invincible and it won't be taken without the use of a special tool. No, not that kind of special tool! Tweezers! But your tweezers are never, ever where you last left them because they've been enchanted by the vampire hairs on your chin. It's nuts, but totally true! I guess the moral of the story is this: If you're a woman who has not yet reached the age of thirty, revel in your hair-free chin and start warding off the vampire hairs with a nice garlic moisturizer each night. (The fact that you'll be sleeping alone at night since no one will come near you will be worth it. You'll see!)
*I'm currently reading Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me, and there's a lot of heroin talk in the book. I've apparently got heroin on the brain. Let me go on record and say that I have not had sexual relations with heroin, nor have I ingested it in any form.
**I didn't really take any drugs in the 60's. I wasn't even born yet. My mother, on the other hand, might have taken a slew of drugs and that would explain so, so much.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Prolificacy
I've been remiss in posting. As such, I have quite a lot to say, but have no idea where to start. So, I shall write what pops into my head while paying no attention to keeping it chronologically correct. Be forewarned, it might take you a week to read it.
I'm going to Canada! Cindy, after hearing that my Thanksgiving weekend trip with Sarah fell through, graciously bought me a ticket to come spend the holiday with her. I leave at no-one-should-be-up-that-early-o'clock on Thursday and return home on Monday afternoon. I'm so excited to have so many days with her. It's rare that we get to see each other for more than a weekend. She's taking me to a White Trash American Thanksgiving party on Saturday night, and I have gladly volunteered to be the resident White Trash American.
It will also be the longest time I have been away from my children since the divorce (and only the second longest time ever). Their dad and I split a ten-night period in half so that he could take them to a beach house with his family for the holiday. This left me with five whole nights with no children, and it seemed logical that I should take the opportunity to visit the Great White North and one of my best friends. I am so, so excited. It will even be COLD there - something that almost never happens here - and I will get to wear the scarf, hat and gloves that my mother purchased for me two years ago that I've yet to wear. (If I can find them, that is. God only knows where they are. Are you there, God? It's me, T. Where are my scarf, hat and gloves?)
I just looked at the weather forecast for my stay and I see that snow is predicted for Thursday and Saturday. Thursday makes me nervous as I will be so, so upset if weather delays my getting to Cindy. Saturday sounds great, but I also know that we'll be doing some traveling that day so I hope that it doesn't mess that up. Something tells me that the Canadians are used to a bit of snow, so I think we'll be fine. Southerners, on the other hand, start wrecking their vehicles once the first flake of snow hits the ground, and it's probably best if I don't drive during the inclement weather. I would love to see some snow though and I hope that it snows at least one of my days there.
I went out with a fellow PTA mother on Thursday night. (I'm no longer a card-carrying member of the PTA since I was completely broke when the envelope for dues came home. I suppose I could still join, but really? Eh. I gave them years of my blood, sweat and tears. I'll just go on field trips and help out in the classroom.) She had found out her husband was cheating on her and kicked him out after 15 years of marriage, and wanted to talk to me about how my divorce affected my children. We started at one venue for dinner and drinks then moved to another neighborhood bar that I'd never been to because it looked a little sketchy. She failed to mention on the way over there that we were going because her husband's girlfriend would be there. That was, well, it was a little tense.
That aside, I had a great time. My sister-in-law and her husband and a couple of their friends showed up unexpectedly. We were all happily surprised to see each other. I also spent a lot of the evening talking to the man next to me at the bar. I thoroughly enjoyed his company and I felt a pang of sadness at the thought of never talking to him again. So, I brazenly (for me anyway) gave him my number as he was leaving. I might be naive (and there's really no "might" about it), but he really didn't seem to be feeding me lines, and when he said that it was the first time that anyone had ever given him their number, I believed him. (Don't burst my bubble. Let me revel in my naivete' a bit longer. Also, someone please explain to me how to put an accent over a letter. Explain it as if my IQ is about 75.) He still hasn't called two nights later, but I'm not giving up hope. I'm also not getting my hopes up. I've found a place in between too much hope and too little hope and have gotten cozy.
I lost a $100 bill earlier this week. $100 is A LOT of money to me, so I was pretty devastated. I'm thinking that when I paid for my lunch on Tuesday with five $1 bills, I must have actually given her four $1 bills and the $100 bill. I called the restaurant and asked them to please call me if their till was $99 over, but, shockingly, I didn't get a phone call. My nephew was with me when I made the discovery and tried to make me feel better by rationalizing that $100 is only two dinners out, so I could just eat in for two nights instead and it would be okay. It's actually about two weeks worth of groceries, so his perception is just a tiny bit off. I thought it was very sweet that he tried to cheer me up and fix the problem because he's only 8-years-old. (I swear the need to fix things is inbred in men, and it's not always an endearing quality.) Thankfully, I get my Christmas bonus on December 1st. So if I had to lose $100, it really couldn't have happened at a better time.
I caught the end of my first love's wedding ceremony tonight on the internet. Unfortunately, by the time my neighbor and I logged on, all that we were able to see was the Elvis impersonator singing "Viva Las Vegas" with the two of them smiling brightly at him. I wonder if they, like me, were thinking, "When the hell is this song going to end? I don't remember this song being twenty minutes long." I'll probably never know what they were thinking because I received a polite, but pointed response to my gaffe of an email that basically said, "Have a nice life, you bitter wench." So, I'll use my vivid imagination to figure out what they were thinking as "Elvis" sang on and on and on and on to only the two of them and whoever else happened to be watching it on the internet.
One of the features of Blogger that I dislike is that when they send an email letting you know that you've received a comment, you don't get the commenter's email address so that you can respond to the comment personally. I've sometimes found that I want to reply directly to the writer of the comment instead of responding in the comments. I can't do that with Blogger and it's quite irritating. If you haven't received a response to a comment you've left, blame it on Blogger. I'm moving any day now. Right, Scout?
I'm on night two of my five consecutive nights with the kids, and I'm also on night two of having two kids in addition to my own. Last night, I made the unintentional mistake of falling asleep before them and they were up until at least 1am watching Nick at Nite. (That's the last time any of them remember seeing the time.) My lovely children were up at 7am. That's six hours or less of sleep. You can imagine how my evening has gone. I put them to bed early tonight (thus my being able to write a novella), so I'm hoping that tomorrow brings more laughter and a lot less whining. If it doesn't, I might have to run down the street and see if I can cop some Valium on the street corner. Or heroin. Whatever. Just something to make me not care whether the kids are bickering or crying or whining or yelling or methodically destroying the house room by room.
It's currently pouring down rain and it's forecast to rain tomorrow as well. I've been wanting a rainy Sunday for a long time, but I really wanted it to fall on a weekend that I didn't have kids (and two additional kids) so that I could stay in bed all day and read a book. Instead, I'll be trying to figure out how to entertain four children who have no imagination because they've spent their lives in front of televisions, video games, and computers. (I take responsibility for two of those children.) If they could play outside they would be fine, but being cooped up in the house AND having no imagination is a recipe for boredom.
I know there was more that I wanted to write about, but I suddenly realized that it would be in my best interest to try and get some shut-eye so that I'm mentally capable of being a fun parent tomorrow instead of a grouchy one. Besides, y'all must be tapping your feet wondering when I'm going to quit rambling. My shutting up is a win-win situation.
Cross your fingers that I win tomorrow in Fantasy Football. If I don't, my season's over and I'm out of the money hunt. I'd much rather start the week off on a high note and with the hope of winning some money in the future.
Here's to this week sucking a lot less than last week. It shouldn't be hard to accomplish.
I'm going to Canada! Cindy, after hearing that my Thanksgiving weekend trip with Sarah fell through, graciously bought me a ticket to come spend the holiday with her. I leave at no-one-should-be-up-that-early-o'clock on Thursday and return home on Monday afternoon. I'm so excited to have so many days with her. It's rare that we get to see each other for more than a weekend. She's taking me to a White Trash American Thanksgiving party on Saturday night, and I have gladly volunteered to be the resident White Trash American.
It will also be the longest time I have been away from my children since the divorce (and only the second longest time ever). Their dad and I split a ten-night period in half so that he could take them to a beach house with his family for the holiday. This left me with five whole nights with no children, and it seemed logical that I should take the opportunity to visit the Great White North and one of my best friends. I am so, so excited. It will even be COLD there - something that almost never happens here - and I will get to wear the scarf, hat and gloves that my mother purchased for me two years ago that I've yet to wear. (If I can find them, that is. God only knows where they are. Are you there, God? It's me, T. Where are my scarf, hat and gloves?)
I just looked at the weather forecast for my stay and I see that snow is predicted for Thursday and Saturday. Thursday makes me nervous as I will be so, so upset if weather delays my getting to Cindy. Saturday sounds great, but I also know that we'll be doing some traveling that day so I hope that it doesn't mess that up. Something tells me that the Canadians are used to a bit of snow, so I think we'll be fine. Southerners, on the other hand, start wrecking their vehicles once the first flake of snow hits the ground, and it's probably best if I don't drive during the inclement weather. I would love to see some snow though and I hope that it snows at least one of my days there.
I went out with a fellow PTA mother on Thursday night. (I'm no longer a card-carrying member of the PTA since I was completely broke when the envelope for dues came home. I suppose I could still join, but really? Eh. I gave them years of my blood, sweat and tears. I'll just go on field trips and help out in the classroom.) She had found out her husband was cheating on her and kicked him out after 15 years of marriage, and wanted to talk to me about how my divorce affected my children. We started at one venue for dinner and drinks then moved to another neighborhood bar that I'd never been to because it looked a little sketchy. She failed to mention on the way over there that we were going because her husband's girlfriend would be there. That was, well, it was a little tense.
That aside, I had a great time. My sister-in-law and her husband and a couple of their friends showed up unexpectedly. We were all happily surprised to see each other. I also spent a lot of the evening talking to the man next to me at the bar. I thoroughly enjoyed his company and I felt a pang of sadness at the thought of never talking to him again. So, I brazenly (for me anyway) gave him my number as he was leaving. I might be naive (and there's really no "might" about it), but he really didn't seem to be feeding me lines, and when he said that it was the first time that anyone had ever given him their number, I believed him. (Don't burst my bubble. Let me revel in my naivete' a bit longer. Also, someone please explain to me how to put an accent over a letter. Explain it as if my IQ is about 75.) He still hasn't called two nights later, but I'm not giving up hope. I'm also not getting my hopes up. I've found a place in between too much hope and too little hope and have gotten cozy.
I lost a $100 bill earlier this week. $100 is A LOT of money to me, so I was pretty devastated. I'm thinking that when I paid for my lunch on Tuesday with five $1 bills, I must have actually given her four $1 bills and the $100 bill. I called the restaurant and asked them to please call me if their till was $99 over, but, shockingly, I didn't get a phone call. My nephew was with me when I made the discovery and tried to make me feel better by rationalizing that $100 is only two dinners out, so I could just eat in for two nights instead and it would be okay. It's actually about two weeks worth of groceries, so his perception is just a tiny bit off. I thought it was very sweet that he tried to cheer me up and fix the problem because he's only 8-years-old. (I swear the need to fix things is inbred in men, and it's not always an endearing quality.) Thankfully, I get my Christmas bonus on December 1st. So if I had to lose $100, it really couldn't have happened at a better time.
I caught the end of my first love's wedding ceremony tonight on the internet. Unfortunately, by the time my neighbor and I logged on, all that we were able to see was the Elvis impersonator singing "Viva Las Vegas" with the two of them smiling brightly at him. I wonder if they, like me, were thinking, "When the hell is this song going to end? I don't remember this song being twenty minutes long." I'll probably never know what they were thinking because I received a polite, but pointed response to my gaffe of an email that basically said, "Have a nice life, you bitter wench." So, I'll use my vivid imagination to figure out what they were thinking as "Elvis" sang on and on and on and on to only the two of them and whoever else happened to be watching it on the internet.
One of the features of Blogger that I dislike is that when they send an email letting you know that you've received a comment, you don't get the commenter's email address so that you can respond to the comment personally. I've sometimes found that I want to reply directly to the writer of the comment instead of responding in the comments. I can't do that with Blogger and it's quite irritating. If you haven't received a response to a comment you've left, blame it on Blogger. I'm moving any day now. Right, Scout?
I'm on night two of my five consecutive nights with the kids, and I'm also on night two of having two kids in addition to my own. Last night, I made the unintentional mistake of falling asleep before them and they were up until at least 1am watching Nick at Nite. (That's the last time any of them remember seeing the time.) My lovely children were up at 7am. That's six hours or less of sleep. You can imagine how my evening has gone. I put them to bed early tonight (thus my being able to write a novella), so I'm hoping that tomorrow brings more laughter and a lot less whining. If it doesn't, I might have to run down the street and see if I can cop some Valium on the street corner. Or heroin. Whatever. Just something to make me not care whether the kids are bickering or crying or whining or yelling or methodically destroying the house room by room.
It's currently pouring down rain and it's forecast to rain tomorrow as well. I've been wanting a rainy Sunday for a long time, but I really wanted it to fall on a weekend that I didn't have kids (and two additional kids) so that I could stay in bed all day and read a book. Instead, I'll be trying to figure out how to entertain four children who have no imagination because they've spent their lives in front of televisions, video games, and computers. (I take responsibility for two of those children.) If they could play outside they would be fine, but being cooped up in the house AND having no imagination is a recipe for boredom.
I know there was more that I wanted to write about, but I suddenly realized that it would be in my best interest to try and get some shut-eye so that I'm mentally capable of being a fun parent tomorrow instead of a grouchy one. Besides, y'all must be tapping your feet wondering when I'm going to quit rambling. My shutting up is a win-win situation.
Cross your fingers that I win tomorrow in Fantasy Football. If I don't, my season's over and I'm out of the money hunt. I'd much rather start the week off on a high note and with the hope of winning some money in the future.
Here's to this week sucking a lot less than last week. It shouldn't be hard to accomplish.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Football Never Lets Me Down
(My fantasy football scores -- I'm the one on the right. You know, the winner!)
I did kick ass in my football endeavors this weekend. It wasn't all bad.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
A Fitting End ...
Jack and Jill's father took them to an annual festival today. When we had our nightly phone call, Jill was telling me all about their day.
She told me that she'd bungee jumped (from the ground, it's complicated to explain and not the point of the story) and that they'd gone to a place that told scary stories. She said her dad was trying to scare her even more during it and that she was going to have nightmares. I reassured her that it wasn't her dad's intention to cause nighttime trauma, though secretly I growled at him for his complete lack of common sense sometimes. Because I'm certain that she'll have her first nightmare tomorrow night when she's at my house and will sleep peacefully tonight.
Just as I thought she was finished with the recap of her day and that we were about to say our goodbyes, she said, "Oh! We also saw the church where Dad is going to get married next year."
"YOU SAW WHAT?! YOUR DAD IS GETTING MARRIED NEXT YEAR?!"
And I'm thinking, "Are you fucking kidding me? Is today some kind of sick joke?!"
"Nooooo," she said. "CHAD* is getting married there next year."
I breathed again and said, "Ohhh! That makes more sense. That's great for Chad." (Sucker.)
I have now decided to cease all communication with the outside world until tomorrow. I'm not fit to be among the public.
*Not his actual name. He has another name that rhymes with "dad."
She told me that she'd bungee jumped (from the ground, it's complicated to explain and not the point of the story) and that they'd gone to a place that told scary stories. She said her dad was trying to scare her even more during it and that she was going to have nightmares. I reassured her that it wasn't her dad's intention to cause nighttime trauma, though secretly I growled at him for his complete lack of common sense sometimes. Because I'm certain that she'll have her first nightmare tomorrow night when she's at my house and will sleep peacefully tonight.
Just as I thought she was finished with the recap of her day and that we were about to say our goodbyes, she said, "Oh! We also saw the church where Dad is going to get married next year."
"YOU SAW WHAT?! YOUR DAD IS GETTING MARRIED NEXT YEAR?!"
And I'm thinking, "Are you fucking kidding me? Is today some kind of sick joke?!"
"Nooooo," she said. "CHAD* is getting married there next year."
I breathed again and said, "Ohhh! That makes more sense. That's great for Chad." (Sucker.)
I have now decided to cease all communication with the outside world until tomorrow. I'm not fit to be among the public.
*Not his actual name. He has another name that rhymes with "dad."
I Can't Believe I'm Wishing for Monday
I'm not a pretty crier. In fact, I look pretty damn awful, and not just immediately afterwards, but for a minimum of a day later as well. In fact, I look worse the day after crying than I do the day of the big cry-fest. My eyes swell up and I appear to be having an allergic reaction. Perhaps I'm allergic to my own tears.
Until today, I hadn't cried in awhile. This is a good thing. There have been points in my life where I couldn't remember the last day I hadn't cried. At this time last year, I was crying a minimum of once a day. I don't remember the last time I cried right now, so that tells me I was due for a good cry.
This weekend from start to finish hasn't been especially great. (The best part is that it's not over yet. There's still plenty of time for additional things to go wrong!) Things just felt off from the minute I woke up on Friday, and soon enough I realized that not only did things feel off, they were off. It has been one thing after another from the moment I woke up on Friday.
I'm going to spare you the boring minutiae of my pain-in-the-ass weekend, but I will share a life lesson that I learned.
When you get an emailed wedding announcement from your first love and you find yourself feeling perplexedly sad causing you to forward the email to two friends saying, "And! I'm surprisingly upset by this announcement. What the fuck?", it's best if you actually send the email to your friends instead of back to your first love. I'm just saying. The response from your friends would probably be a lot more positive than the one from your first love. You will spend the next two hours writing voluminous emails trying to explain that you were saying "What the fuck?" about your being upset and not about their impending marriage. Checking that you are sending the email to the correct recipients in the first place will save you a lot of unnecessary grief.
You're welcome.
I'm now going to finish reading The Glass Castle which is doing wonders in terms of improving my self-confidence as a mother and calming my fears about whether I'm doing a good job. Little things like not having enough money to buy them impulse items are not cause for concern; my kids are fed, clothed, clean and cool (or warm on the rare occasions that we actually have cold weather) and that's what's important.
Until today, I hadn't cried in awhile. This is a good thing. There have been points in my life where I couldn't remember the last day I hadn't cried. At this time last year, I was crying a minimum of once a day. I don't remember the last time I cried right now, so that tells me I was due for a good cry.
This weekend from start to finish hasn't been especially great. (The best part is that it's not over yet. There's still plenty of time for additional things to go wrong!) Things just felt off from the minute I woke up on Friday, and soon enough I realized that not only did things feel off, they were off. It has been one thing after another from the moment I woke up on Friday.
I'm going to spare you the boring minutiae of my pain-in-the-ass weekend, but I will share a life lesson that I learned.
When you get an emailed wedding announcement from your first love and you find yourself feeling perplexedly sad causing you to forward the email to two friends saying, "And! I'm surprisingly upset by this announcement. What the fuck?", it's best if you actually send the email to your friends instead of back to your first love. I'm just saying. The response from your friends would probably be a lot more positive than the one from your first love. You will spend the next two hours writing voluminous emails trying to explain that you were saying "What the fuck?" about your being upset and not about their impending marriage. Checking that you are sending the email to the correct recipients in the first place will save you a lot of unnecessary grief.
You're welcome.
I'm now going to finish reading The Glass Castle which is doing wonders in terms of improving my self-confidence as a mother and calming my fears about whether I'm doing a good job. Little things like not having enough money to buy them impulse items are not cause for concern; my kids are fed, clothed, clean and cool (or warm on the rare occasions that we actually have cold weather) and that's what's important.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Mind Droppings, Part Two
- My internet is wonky at home. It's been up and down for a week. Twice (TWICE!) it's gone down during a Scrabble game which automatically causes a loss and drop in rating. This makes me sad and mad and definitely not glad.
- The Tide containers pictured were the exact same size (though that's not completely obvious from the picture) yet one was 48 loads and the other was 64 loads. I cry, "Bullshit!"
- I saw the kiss recipient earlier this week, and all was cool. He pointed out that he's actually only nine years younger than me rather than ten. This makes all the difference in the world. (Not really.) If I didn't think he was such an awesome guy, I'd totally go for it. But if I've learned anything over the past year, it's that you don't fuck your friends if you want them to remain friends. Perhaps I will continue to kiss him when opportunities arise, though. Kissing and sex are two entirely different entities.
- The Toadies, god love 'em, are touring! My ticket was purchased today. I'm very excited.
- I had to pass on an opportunity to go to the University of Texas/Texas Tech (my alma mater) football game this weekend. I died a little when I did it.
- I still haven't decided on a name for my neighbor.
- I want to go to Vegas!
- Tomorrow is FRIDAY!
- I went to sleep last night just after 9pm. It was entirely unintentional, but I felt great this morning!
- I have to get some work done. I've been entirely unproductive today.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
This is Dedicated to the Man Downstairs
As I was sitting here staring at a blank slate wondering what I was going to write about, it suddenly popped into my head that I'd left my bra and jeans on my neighbor's living room floor.* This, in itself, wouldn't normally be a big deal, but his no-title-as-of-yet-but-it-might-as-well-be-girlfriend (or NTAOYBIMAWBG as I like to call her since it's so much easier to pronounce) was on her way over when I'd left his apartment.
Reading this, you are wondering why my jeans and bra were on his floor, and quite probably thinking that perhaps something is going on between us. I mean, we do spend a lot of time together and, well, my pants and an undergarment were left in his apartment. I would totally think we were getting it on. And that's exactly what I feared NTAOYBIMAWBG would think as well, so I immediately flew down the stairs to get a read on the situation.
I opened the front door and see that I'm too late. NTAOYBIMAWBG has already arrived. I stopped momentarily to try and devise a reason to knock on his door, and then I remembered that I'd left popcorn in his apartment from when we'd gone grocery shopping earlier. (Can you see why a significant other might be a little questioning whether they admit to being questioning or not?) So, the popcorn gives me a reason to knock.
As I'm knocking, I realize that I haven't thought of what to say if my jeans and bra are still on the floor without it sounding like I'm trying to cover something up. As my neighbor opens the door, I glance quickly at the floor and see, with relief, that they're gone. I look at NTAOYBIMAWBG to gauge her reaction toward me and it appears that all is well. I say hello to her, apologize for interrupting, and head to the kitchen where I've left the popcorn.
I pick up the box and casually ask my neighbor (who needs a nickname!) if I'd left my jeans down there in what I hoped was a hushed, but not obviously hushed tone. He replied, "Yes. They're in the garage," all while giving me an "I can't believe you left your jeans and bra ON MY FUCKING FLOOR when you knew NTAOYBIMAWBG was on her way over. Dude!" look.
I smiled at him and hoped that he could read the look I was giving him that said, "Holy shit! I'm such a dumbass! I'm so glad you noticed because I really don't want NTAOYBIMAWBG to get the wrong idea. I'm so, so sorry!"
Damn. I make my life so much more complicated than it should be. It's unintentional, but it's all me.
I've been meaning to write about my neighbor forever, but haven't because I haven't thought of a name for him. I hate to just call him "my neighbor." I also don't want to call him by his real name since it's fairly unique. (Search engines aren't allowed 'round these parts, but better safe than sorry is what my mama always told me.) It's time to bite the bullet and name him. My downstairs neighbor shall henceforth be called ... DN. I amaze myself with my creativity. (Note to self: Add a sidebar with a cast of characters. You know, with your mad html skillz.)
DN (it's not feeling right; something tells me that it will change) is awesome. Seriously, he's always there for me. When I wrote the post proving that all men aren't evil, he really should have been included. Those couches didn't move themselves. DN did the majority of the work because I'm a weakling. And this wasn't the first set of couches he's helped me move, it was the THIRD. (My BFF helped with this set as well as the last set, so she deserves props as well.) As well as a few beds and various other stuff over the past two years. Remember, he's my downstairs neighbor -- he's hauling this crap UP the stairs. He should be nominated for sainthood. (Especially since he's had to listen to my daughter practice her dancing skills over his head many a night.)
We watch a lot of movies together, spend many hours watching bad TV, we shop together, we laugh A LOT, and we lend each other an ear when the other needs it. He's become a really great friend. It's truly sad to think about what it will be like when we aren't neighbors any longer.
I don't tell him often enough how important he is to me and how grateful I am to have him in my life. So, DN, thank you so much for being my friend, my neighbor, my pseudo roommate. You're the best.
P.S. He also takes pictures of things that irritate me so that I can blog about them. From our trip to the store tonight, here is a picture of two Tide containers. See if you can see what it was that got me riled up.
*So how did my bra and jeans end up on his floor? We were finishing up Mallrats tonight from when we'd started it over the weekend. I went outside to, um, get some fresh air (aka increase my odds of lung cancer) and I wondered what the hell I was doing still in my jeans. You don't watch movies in jeans! You watch them in pajama pants. Everyone knows that. My garage is downstairs (as most garages tend to be) next to his apartment and I happened to know that my favorite pair of pajama pants were in the dryer waiting for me to put them on. I didn't want to change in the garage because it's a bit untidy, so I changed in his bedroom. Bras are about my least favorite (but most needed) piece of clothing, so off came the bra as well. Completely innocuous and it boils down to my being too lazy to walk up to my own apartment to change.
Reading this, you are wondering why my jeans and bra were on his floor, and quite probably thinking that perhaps something is going on between us. I mean, we do spend a lot of time together and, well, my pants and an undergarment were left in his apartment. I would totally think we were getting it on. And that's exactly what I feared NTAOYBIMAWBG would think as well, so I immediately flew down the stairs to get a read on the situation.
I opened the front door and see that I'm too late. NTAOYBIMAWBG has already arrived. I stopped momentarily to try and devise a reason to knock on his door, and then I remembered that I'd left popcorn in his apartment from when we'd gone grocery shopping earlier. (Can you see why a significant other might be a little questioning whether they admit to being questioning or not?) So, the popcorn gives me a reason to knock.
As I'm knocking, I realize that I haven't thought of what to say if my jeans and bra are still on the floor without it sounding like I'm trying to cover something up. As my neighbor opens the door, I glance quickly at the floor and see, with relief, that they're gone. I look at NTAOYBIMAWBG to gauge her reaction toward me and it appears that all is well. I say hello to her, apologize for interrupting, and head to the kitchen where I've left the popcorn.
I pick up the box and casually ask my neighbor (who needs a nickname!) if I'd left my jeans down there in what I hoped was a hushed, but not obviously hushed tone. He replied, "Yes. They're in the garage," all while giving me an "I can't believe you left your jeans and bra ON MY FUCKING FLOOR when you knew NTAOYBIMAWBG was on her way over. Dude!" look.
I smiled at him and hoped that he could read the look I was giving him that said, "Holy shit! I'm such a dumbass! I'm so glad you noticed because I really don't want NTAOYBIMAWBG to get the wrong idea. I'm so, so sorry!"
Damn. I make my life so much more complicated than it should be. It's unintentional, but it's all me.
I've been meaning to write about my neighbor forever, but haven't because I haven't thought of a name for him. I hate to just call him "my neighbor." I also don't want to call him by his real name since it's fairly unique. (Search engines aren't allowed 'round these parts, but better safe than sorry is what my mama always told me.) It's time to bite the bullet and name him. My downstairs neighbor shall henceforth be called ... DN. I amaze myself with my creativity. (Note to self: Add a sidebar with a cast of characters. You know, with your mad html skillz.)
DN (it's not feeling right; something tells me that it will change) is awesome. Seriously, he's always there for me. When I wrote the post proving that all men aren't evil, he really should have been included. Those couches didn't move themselves. DN did the majority of the work because I'm a weakling. And this wasn't the first set of couches he's helped me move, it was the THIRD. (My BFF helped with this set as well as the last set, so she deserves props as well.) As well as a few beds and various other stuff over the past two years. Remember, he's my downstairs neighbor -- he's hauling this crap UP the stairs. He should be nominated for sainthood. (Especially since he's had to listen to my daughter practice her dancing skills over his head many a night.)
We watch a lot of movies together, spend many hours watching bad TV, we shop together, we laugh A LOT, and we lend each other an ear when the other needs it. He's become a really great friend. It's truly sad to think about what it will be like when we aren't neighbors any longer.
I don't tell him often enough how important he is to me and how grateful I am to have him in my life. So, DN, thank you so much for being my friend, my neighbor, my pseudo roommate. You're the best.
P.S. He also takes pictures of things that irritate me so that I can blog about them. From our trip to the store tonight, here is a picture of two Tide containers. See if you can see what it was that got me riled up.
*So how did my bra and jeans end up on his floor? We were finishing up Mallrats tonight from when we'd started it over the weekend. I went outside to, um, get some fresh air (aka increase my odds of lung cancer) and I wondered what the hell I was doing still in my jeans. You don't watch movies in jeans! You watch them in pajama pants. Everyone knows that. My garage is downstairs (as most garages tend to be) next to his apartment and I happened to know that my favorite pair of pajama pants were in the dryer waiting for me to put them on. I didn't want to change in the garage because it's a bit untidy, so I changed in his bedroom. Bras are about my least favorite (but most needed) piece of clothing, so off came the bra as well. Completely innocuous and it boils down to my being too lazy to walk up to my own apartment to change.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Question Time
My children are each curled up in their respective chairs and reading a book, and it warms the cockles of my heart. (I'm not really sure what "cockles" are, but it must be a good word because it has "cock" in it. Um, I was talking about my kids, right? Yes, let's get back to that.) Anyway, this scene is what I envisioned when I had children. Surely my kids would be avid readers since books would play such a large part in their lives whether they were being read to or watching me read (and, truth be told, there were days when it was only watching me read. Harry Potter release days? They definitely watched me read.).
*************************************************************
Because I had the audacity to even think about how lovely the aforementioned scene was, the situation started deteriorating as I typed the last sentence. Eff you, Murphy!
I noticed that there hadn't been any recent page turning and I thought I ought to survey the goings on in the other room. Lo and behold, my children had scampered off to the bathroom to fill the sink to the top with water to test whether an object floated or not. Some objects were apparently heavier than others and caused the excess water to spill onto the floor. I'm all for doing scientific experiments. I just wish they'd save the messy ones for their dad's house.
We cleaned the mess up, I cleaned them up, and now they're back to plotting their next evil-doings.
***************************************************************
So, you know how sometimes you get drunk at a party? And there happens to be this boy that you think is fantastic there? And alcohol kind of blurs your judgment and you momentarily forget that he's ten years your junior? And when he's leaving, you call him back and plant a big, fat kiss on him? And then later that night you suggestively drunk text each other? And then you wake up the next morning and realize with horror what you've done and thank baby jesus that both of you were too drunk to drive and couldn't drive to each other to make an even bigger mistake?
Yeah? It's happened to you too? Excellent. Perhaps you can lend me some advice then.
How do you handle things the next time you see your young lad (or lass, as the case may be)? Do you pretend it never happened? Do you make a joke about it and laugh it off? Do stick your tongue down his throat the minute you see him?
This is a very important question. It's for a friend, of course.
*************************************************************
Because I had the audacity to even think about how lovely the aforementioned scene was, the situation started deteriorating as I typed the last sentence. Eff you, Murphy!
I noticed that there hadn't been any recent page turning and I thought I ought to survey the goings on in the other room. Lo and behold, my children had scampered off to the bathroom to fill the sink to the top with water to test whether an object floated or not. Some objects were apparently heavier than others and caused the excess water to spill onto the floor. I'm all for doing scientific experiments. I just wish they'd save the messy ones for their dad's house.
We cleaned the mess up, I cleaned them up, and now they're back to plotting their next evil-doings.
***************************************************************
So, you know how sometimes you get drunk at a party? And there happens to be this boy that you think is fantastic there? And alcohol kind of blurs your judgment and you momentarily forget that he's ten years your junior? And when he's leaving, you call him back and plant a big, fat kiss on him? And then later that night you suggestively drunk text each other? And then you wake up the next morning and realize with horror what you've done and thank baby jesus that both of you were too drunk to drive and couldn't drive to each other to make an even bigger mistake?
Yeah? It's happened to you too? Excellent. Perhaps you can lend me some advice then.
How do you handle things the next time you see your young lad (or lass, as the case may be)? Do you pretend it never happened? Do you make a joke about it and laugh it off? Do stick your tongue down his throat the minute you see him?
This is a very important question. It's for a friend, of course.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Untitled Post
I'm feeling scatter-brained tonight. Not sure if it's too little or too much sleep (there's a very fine line between the two and, really, "too much sleep" is an oxymoron), too much candy (yet another oxymoron), or watching The Darjeeling Limited which was Wes Anderson weird, but in a good way.
My friend, Lisa, and I had our bi-monthly (though we try for monthly) dinner and movie night this evening. We were running a little bit late, so when we rushed into the restaurant, we made a point to let the hostess know that our movie was starting in about 30 minutes.
We laughingly said, "We need someone FAST! Put us with the fastest server you have. Now, let's GO!"
She smiled at us, said she understood, she'd seat us with someone quick, and that we'd be out with time to spare.
Then she started walking and said, "I'm not very fast, though." It was then that we saw that she had a noticeable limp thus causing her to walk very sloooooooow. I felt bad that I had rushed her, and even worse because I was laughing my ass off inside my head at the irony of it. (It is ironic, yes? I always mess that up. It seemed ironic to me.)
She didn't take us to a table near the front. She didn't take us to a table in the middle. She took us to a table near the back of the restaurant, on the farthest wall from the door. I think it took about 30 minutes to get there.
We sit down, she walks away (slowly), and when she's finally out of hearing range (about 15 minutes later), Lisa and I burst into laughter. Guilty laughter. We, of course, weren't laughing at her disability, but rather at the fact that she took us to a table SO far away. And at how we had both been thinking to ourselves how messed up the whole situation was as we made our long, uncomfortable trek to the table.
Even though getting to the table took nearly all of our time, we were indeed seated with the fastest waiter in the west. The fastest, but not the most accurate. Lisa didn't get guacamole on her burger (which would have left me in tears) and I had pig on my burger and I'm not a fan of the pig. (It feels cannibalistic. I was born in the year of the boar [not bore!] aka the pig.) But after we inhaled (almost literally) our food, we did make it to the movie with time to spare. (It helped that we thought the movie started ten minutes earlier than it actually started.)
Two comments on the movie:
One, it KILLED me that Jason Schwartzman's character never wore shoes. He traipsed his feet over some nasty stuff. I ALWAYS wear shoes. It's weird, but it's true. It doesn't matter if I'm only walking three feet away, I have my shoes on. (We all have our idiosyncrasies, this happens to be [one of] mine.) So, his running barefoot around INDIA was enough to induce nightmares.
Two, Natalie Portman needs to eat. She's stunningly beautiful, but I don't think I'll ever be able to get the vision of her ribcage, as she stood naked, out of my mind. I much prefer this version of her.
Let's chat. Tell me about your idiosyncrasies.
My friend, Lisa, and I had our bi-monthly (though we try for monthly) dinner and movie night this evening. We were running a little bit late, so when we rushed into the restaurant, we made a point to let the hostess know that our movie was starting in about 30 minutes.
We laughingly said, "We need someone FAST! Put us with the fastest server you have. Now, let's GO!"
She smiled at us, said she understood, she'd seat us with someone quick, and that we'd be out with time to spare.
Then she started walking and said, "I'm not very fast, though." It was then that we saw that she had a noticeable limp thus causing her to walk very sloooooooow. I felt bad that I had rushed her, and even worse because I was laughing my ass off inside my head at the irony of it. (It is ironic, yes? I always mess that up. It seemed ironic to me.)
She didn't take us to a table near the front. She didn't take us to a table in the middle. She took us to a table near the back of the restaurant, on the farthest wall from the door. I think it took about 30 minutes to get there.
We sit down, she walks away (slowly), and when she's finally out of hearing range (about 15 minutes later), Lisa and I burst into laughter. Guilty laughter. We, of course, weren't laughing at her disability, but rather at the fact that she took us to a table SO far away. And at how we had both been thinking to ourselves how messed up the whole situation was as we made our long, uncomfortable trek to the table.
Even though getting to the table took nearly all of our time, we were indeed seated with the fastest waiter in the west. The fastest, but not the most accurate. Lisa didn't get guacamole on her burger (which would have left me in tears) and I had pig on my burger and I'm not a fan of the pig. (It feels cannibalistic. I was born in the year of the boar [not bore!] aka the pig.) But after we inhaled (almost literally) our food, we did make it to the movie with time to spare. (It helped that we thought the movie started ten minutes earlier than it actually started.)
Two comments on the movie:
One, it KILLED me that Jason Schwartzman's character never wore shoes. He traipsed his feet over some nasty stuff. I ALWAYS wear shoes. It's weird, but it's true. It doesn't matter if I'm only walking three feet away, I have my shoes on. (We all have our idiosyncrasies, this happens to be [one of] mine.) So, his running barefoot around INDIA was enough to induce nightmares.
Two, Natalie Portman needs to eat. She's stunningly beautiful, but I don't think I'll ever be able to get the vision of her ribcage, as she stood naked, out of my mind. I much prefer this version of her.
Let's chat. Tell me about your idiosyncrasies.
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