Last night I met a friend and some of her friends who were in town for the premier of a film they were both in* for dinner at the Chateaux Marmont,** and it was one of those times when you meet a couple and instantly love them. I have a feeling these are people that everyone loves, so I shouldn’t feel all that special, I certainly don’t have a corner on that market — but they were warm and kind and beautiful and fashionable in a timeless and unpretentious way, and they really charmed the pants off me. (Not literally. It was not that kind of dinner.)
They were Australian, and now that I’m thinking of it, I have never met an Aussie I didn’t like, either in Australia or anywhere else. And most of them I have liked immensely. What really pushed me over the edge was when we were talking about words that are pronounced differently from English-speaking country to English-speaking country, which I think is always a fun game to play, and she said, “clitoris,” and it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.
“Clitoris” is a word I’ve never felt comfortable saying, along with most words involving private anatomical parts, but the way she said it made me feel like I wanted to say it all the time. With the emphasis on the first syllable; the lightest, most delicate “l” sound; and a brittle, crispy “t.” Clitoris.
“That would make a beautiful girl’s name,” I said. “Clitoris Jane.”
After that discussion, another friend I didn’t know, an American, joined our group, and when my conversation with him lulled for a moment, I found myself saying quietly, “Clitoris.”
Once, many eons ago, a man I loved rejected me for an Australian woman. At the time, I couldn’t understand. But now, knowing how lovely she must sound saying that word, I think I get it.
*Baz Lurhmann’s The Great Gatsby, OMG I CANNOT WAIT
** This sentence makes my life sound way more fabulous than it is.
My blog keeps breaking, so I had to change the theme. This new one is lemony and cute, but the posts with pictures look wonky. I’ll figure it out at some point in the near or far future, so please bear with me in the meantime.
I’ve been away for a while. I actually did do some blogging, just not here. I was living in working in Amsterdam, Netherlands, and I kept a blog called Dam, Girl! about my adventures there. Now I’m back in LA for the time being and intend to resume posting here with some kind of frequency (kind TBD).
So for the past three days, I’ve been driving cross country. I did the first leg by myself, from LA to Albuquerque. That was several-teen hours, partly because one of my brand new, less-than-six-month-old tires sprang a leak (in Needles, California), and I had to stop and pay a lot of money for two brand newer ones that will probably leak even sooner. Maybe I’ll write about that saga later, or maybe it’s too boring.
In Albuquerque, I met my mom, who’d been staying there with my aunt, and she accompanied me on the rest of the trip. On our first day driving, we were tooling along in Texas, and I had to pee, but not that bad. I didn’t want to take the time to stop, and when we did stop, I wanted to find a good snack, so I was being picky and passing exits that didn’t look just perfect. Then I got distracted telling a story, until, all of a sudden the “not that bad” turned into, “really damn bad.” So I’d get off at the next exit, no big deal. Except there was no next exit. for miles. and miles. and miles. And then there was one, but it was just some weird farming stuff. Then nothing. I would have pulled off and gone in some bushes, except there were no bushes. The land was so flat, if I’d peed right there, every passing car would have seen my bare ass and/or hoo-ha, and the pee, too, and that’s just too much. So finally there was another exit, at a place called Wild-a-something. It didn’t look too promising, but there were buildings there, and oftentimes buildings have bathrooms, and I couldn’t wait for one more minute.
The first building I stopped at was a motel. I pulled up, hobbled out, went into the office, and dinged the little bell. “Hi!” I said, with as charming a smile as I could muster, given the code-red circumstances. “Do you have a restroom?”
“No, no public restroom,” he said. “That’s why we have the sign.”
Well, I didn’t see any MFing sign, I was too busy not peeingmypants, excuuuuuse me. And I must veer off topic to point out that this man was obviously NOT from Texas or any part of the South, for that matter, or I can guarandamntee you he would have let a lady pee.
“It’s an emergency,” I pleaded, and anyone who looked at my face and the way that I couldn’t walk would have seen the emergence of the situation.
“There’s a gas station a few blocks that way,” he said.
So I hobbled back to the car, slid gingerly into the driver’s seat, and drove down to the gas station. Pulled up. Stopped the car. And saw a sign that said, “Bathroom out of order.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said in front of my mom.
There was one more building in this ridiculous “town,” and I went there. On the door, there was not one but two signs that said, “Private business. No public restroom. Next exit 7 miles.”
I grabbed the doorknob and entered, having no idea what kind of business this was. Inside, there was a woman behind a desk and two men standing around talking. I looked at the woman with sheer panic, eyes as big as those weird cartoon cats with grossly huge eyes, and these are the words that came out of my mouth, all at once, and really high, yet with intense gravity:
“I know you say no public restroom, and I respect that, but I can’t wait 7 miles.”
“That way, please,” she said, and I almost cried with thanks, hobbled to the bathroom, and for all practical purposes, the saga ended. I didn’t pee my pants.
As another side note, though, I noticed that the water in the sink had been left running, and if I hadn’t turned it off, who knows what that would have done to their water bill.
A funny thing about my apartment is that, for some reason, whatever my downstairs neighbor is cooking, I smell in my bathroom. For the first year that I lived here, I could never figure out why my bathroom smelled like mustard! I’d take out the trash, pour baking soda and vinegar down the sink drain (an earth-friendly and bubbly way to clean out your drains, btw), and scratch my head in wonderment.
Then, we got a new neighbor. And the mustard smell immediately stopped, to be replaced by spaghetti. That was the night I figured it out. “Why does my bathroom smell like spaghetti? Wait, I smelled spaghetti when I walked by downstairs. OHHHHHHH.”
Yes, this new neighbor had a whole different recipe book of kitchen smells. And for the most part, it was an improvement, not to mention an adventure. I’d awake and stumble into the bathroom, greeted by the aromas of coffee and oranges. While I showered, I’d smell bacon frying. As I moisturized, I’d be enveloped with wafts of pancakes and maple syrup. What would my bathroom smell like when I returned home that night, I’d wonder. Croques monsiuer? Chicken Cordon-bleu? Something non-French that I knew how to spell?
Well, this morning I went to take a shower as usual, and was assaulted by an olfactory affront. My bathroom smells right now, unmistakably, of dog food. I had a dog as a child, and I know what a can of Alpo smells like, and that’s what they’re cooking downstairs. I know they don’t have a dog, either.
The moral of this tale, really, is that I know way too much about my neighbor downstairs. If I smell enough bacon in the morning, I’ll slip a bottle of Tums under his welcome mat on my way home from work. No I don’t, that would be crazy.
I’m taking an international flight in a couple weeks, and I’m wondering if they’ll let me carry my guitar on board. I was on the “Fragile and Perishable Items” page of the United Airlines website trying to figure this out, and I found this curious paragraph. It was actually its own section, right under “Seafood.”
United Airlines will accept one jerry can containing up to 10 liters (2.64 gallons) of Zamzam water as checked baggage at no extra charge.
The jerry can must be properly packed in a plastic covering to avoid leakage and damage to other bags.
Jerry cans containing Zamzam water are not permitted as carry-on or in cabin baggage.
If more than one jerry can is checked, the extra jerry cans will be subject to excess baggage charges.
What in the HELL? What is Zamzam water? For crying out loud. They’re talking about this Zamzam water and these jerry cans like these are things everyone knows about. I’ve been on this earth for 33 years, and I don’t have the foggiest clue. Am I a dumdum? These words don’t even ring a bell, like, “Ohhh yeah, jerry cans — those are those, you know, those… ohh, it’s on the tip of my tongue!” No, friends, it is not on the tip of my tongue. It’s not even close to the tip of my tongue. It’s not anywhere near my tongue at all. I can promise you that this is the first time I’ve ever heard these words, that no one has ever mentioned a jerry can in my presence, nor Zamzam water. Especially not Zamzam water. I would remember that.
They’re definitely things they use on “The Flintstones,” or on Mars, though, right? I’m just making sure. And if I can take “Zamzam water” and “jerry cans” (obviously items from Mars) on my international flight, surely, goodness and mercy they’ll let me take my guitar… right?
OK… Can we talk for a second about pajama jeans?
What’s wrong with this picture?
I first saw them in Rite Aid on my lunch break with my friend Lindsay. I was all, “Whaaaaaaat the fuuuuuuuuuuck????” Since then, I’ve seen a few ads and have watched the infomercial, none of which did anything to make me less horrified.
Here’s the thing: I like that clothing has become more casual over the last century. I appreciate that I can go shopping without a corset, a petticoat, tiny, pointy high heels, and even without pantyhose. I like that I can even go to work in pants, a sweater, and flats. But there is a line. And pajama jeans have crossed it.
One of the tag lines in the ads is, “Just because you’re busy doesn’t mean you can’t look sharp!”
REALLY? Are they saying that we’re too busy to get dressed in the morning??? I wonder what we’re supposed to be doing that takes priority over putting on clothes. Texting? Skyping? Checking Facebook? Taking the kids to lessons? Answering work calls? What?
Is this true? Are we too busy? Or are we too lazy? Have we, as a society, reached a point where we can’t be bothered to change from our pajamas into our jeans in the morning? Or from our jeans back into our pajamas at night? Is this too much effort? Do we have to sleep in our clothes and go out in our nightclothes? We’re already apparently too lazy to walk to the TV to change the channel, flush our own toilets, and push or pull a button to put soap on our hands. Are we now too lazy to dress ourselves?
I can kind of understand the appeal if you’re over 90 years old and have a lot of trouble reaching and bending, but that’s really the only acceptable situation. I feel like the main target audience for pajama jeans is people who have just plain given up on life. Because, honestly, if walking from your bed to your dresser is too much effort, something is very, very wrong. And need I mention, if we’re lumbering out of bed and starting our day, wearing our jammies as jeans, does this mean we’re also skipping our shower? Because if you’re taking off the pajama jeans to take a shower, you might as well put on regular jeans. Or, if you’re showering at night, you might as well put on regular pajamas. Unless you’re SHOWERING in your pajama jeans, which I’d believe, because at this point, I’d believe anything.
There are many disturbing things happening in our world today. Pajama jeans may not seem like a disastrous turn of events to you, but I see it as a deadly omen; a harbinger of things to come. Mark my words.
(By the way, someone needs to tell the woman in the ad that she’s too old to wear pigtails.)
Well, this post fits perfectly in the Dumb Stuff I Do category.
It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m in L.A. One thing I’ve done this year is a lot of baking and giving baked goods to people I need gifts for. Last night I made a big batch of 7-layer bars, which are gooey and decadent and amazing. The thing about them is that the gooeyness quickly hardens and becomes sticky and still very decadent, but also really hard to get a knife through. I thought I had cut them at the right stage this time, before they hardened, but come to find out, they still needed more cutting. And in trying to slice through, I was twisting the knife a little bit, and then something bad happened. I felt a little “snap!” and pulled the knife out, and the tip of the knife was missing. Oops.
I looked around in the baking dish, expecting to see the broken-off part right away, but I didn’t see it. I looked at the bar I had just cut. Nothing. I got a different knife, cut the rest of them (without twisting), sat down at the table and pored over the crumbs in the pan. Nothing!!! Where the H did it go???
So… what do I do? Throw them all out? There are some people in my life — people I’m very thankful for — to whom I could probably give a container of bars and say, “Yeah, just take small bites and chew tentatively.” But I can’t say that to my agent or my therapist. I can’t leave a batch on my landlady’s stoop and say, “Hi Sandy, I hope you and your sisters enjoy these 7-layer bars I made! Oh, there might be a knife blade in one of them. Merry Christmas!”
My instinct is that not giving any gift is better than giving the gift of a stab wound to the hard pallet.
I think I need to give Operation Find the Blade one last go-round. (Never mind that I’m totally manhandling all of these bars in the process.) If I don’t find it… what will I do?
Only the ghost of Christmas future can answer that.
This is the perfect time to write about this topic, because I’m at my parents’ house in North Carolina, procrastinating going through some of my old stuff to determine what can be gotten rid of and what I want to take back to LA with me. It’s hard, because I desperately want to lead a clutter-free life, but then I discover things like the costume bin, with my old purple poodle skirt from 5th grade, which still fits, because my genius mother gave it an elastic waistband; a sensational 70s outfit; and the old purple crayon costume, which my mom made for my sister when she was in about 3rd grade, and which I later inherited. At some point, as I grew and the costume did not, it went from head-to-toe round crayon costume to short, tight, sexy crayon costume. And if you can think of anything sexier than a crayon, I’d like to hear about it.
So, what I’m saying is, it’s all going in the suitcase.
I have a weird relationship with clutter. I grew up among a lot of it. Not to go into too much detail, but there is a pack-rat lurking in my household, and when I was little, I was never made to get rid of anything. So I didn’t. Then I went to college, and since I only brought what I needed, a whole new world was opened up to me. A world in which it was easy to keep my room clean! It was clean, and spacious, and I had plenty of room to breathe. That began an insatiable desire to eradicate all clutter in my life. However, like most things, it’s easier said than done. It’s still hard for me to tell what I need and what I don’t. And I get attached to things (see: purple towels). And I kind of believe that anything with a face has feelings, and also, that some inanimate objects have feelings (see again: purple towels). So I want to make sure things get good homes and are appreciated.
It’s also complicated because of this:
My need to eradicate clutter extends beyond my personal space. It extends beyond my house and my parents’ house and my friends and family’s houses to the entire earth. Just knowing that any clutter exists anywhere stresses me out. I wish people would just stop making things. I get stressed going into stores, especially big ones with tons of stuff in them, because it’s all new stuff. Where is it going to go eventually? One day, are we going to drown in stuff? Will we send it out to space and clutter up the universe? It’s like, no matter how un-cluttered I am eventually able to get my space, there is no real escape from it. It’s everywhere. Why are people still making new things? So many things! So many cluttery, useless things! Have you ever been to a Big Lots???? Aaaaaaaaugh!!! And trash!!! Plastic going into the trash!!! And that’s not even getting into the clutter on my computer, or cyber-clutter (I would rather have fewer Facebook friends, because the ones I don’t really know… clutter.) And of course, mental clutter.
So, that makes things complicated. I can’t just get rid of something without thinking about where it’s going. don’t want to throw things away and let them clutter up a landfill. I don’t even want to clutter up Goodwill. I just want to wave a magic wand and make things spontaneously combust. I guess I could burn them, but I don’t want to cause pollution and toxic gases; that’s hardly going to solve anything.
Stress is probably a form of clutter, too, right? It’s a vicious cycle. A vicious, cluttered, cycle of clutter.
If I were Cathy from the Sunday comics section, I’d have little beads of sweat around my face, and I’d be saying, “Ack!”
The following workday conversation is regarding a local news article about a homeless man who built a guillotine in the woods and accidentally cut off his own arm. (as you do.)
Marcy: UM, WHY had he built a guillotine? Was that question never raised?
Lindsay: nobody seems even a little worried abotu that fact that this bum has a GUILLOTINE IN THE WOODS
Lindsay: I KNOW
Marcy: And how did he *accidentally* put his arm between the blades? I’m sorry. You build a guillotene and you cut off your own arm. You are an idiot.
Marcy: Yah, WTF??? Whose arm (or head) did he INTEND to cut off???
Marcy: Well, the good news is, it will now be 50% more difficult for him to murder someone.
This morning I looked for my belt for about 7 minutes. “What in the… ” I muttered to myself. “Where could it have gone? Did it fall? I just had it last night!”
“Beeeellllllt!” I called. It didn’t answer.
But then I found it. Around my waist. Where I had put it minutes earlier.
It’s not even Friday, but I can’t not post about this amazing ad:
I see a lot of these ads come out of the beautiful town of Flossmoor, wherever on Planet Earth that might be. They must know something we don’t, you guys. They seem to have all the answers!
My main question on this one is:
What exactly is the job she’s doing at home? If I click on the link, will it take me to the fololowing job posting?
Wanted: Administrative Assistant for Busy Office
Ideal candidate should have:
3-5 years’ experience in administrative position
Ability to juggle multiple tasks in a fast-paced environment
Bachelor’s Degree in Communications or related field
Experience wearing blue face paint a must
Ability to hold fish in teeth preferred
Citizens of Flossmoor, I’m directing this question to you.
I used to have a section of this blog called “Spam Friday,” in which I made fun of all the spam I received via email and in my blog comments. But this is a new era, and starting today (and whenever else I choose to; I do not promise to do this every Friday), I am instituting “Bad Ad Friday,” in which I make fun of the stupid pop-up ads that are all over the internet.
My combination favorite / least favorite ads are the ones that claim that a “mom” discovered some miracle cure or loophole in the system. Why is the fact that a mom discovered it supposed make it so much more appealing? Like Betty Johnson in Somewheresville, USA, is going to all of a sudden do a double take at her computer screen and go, “DALE, GET IN HERE. It says a MOM discovered this weird old trick that is going to make my teeth 10 shades lighter while also putting money in my pocket and infuriating my dentist. And I know I can trust her, because I’m a mom, too! Never mind that I know nothing about this particular mom or if she knows anything about dentistry, or even how to tie her shoes, for that matter. She’s a MOM, Dale. A MOM!!! I’M CLICKING THE AD!!!”
Another question I have is: Why is it always a weird old trick? Do people think it’s more legit if it’s old? and weird? Because I know of some weird old tricks that I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. (Don’t come near me with those leeches, please!) Science has come a long way, and if given the option between a “weird old trick” and “modern science,” I think I know which one I’ll choose.
I’m going to leave you with a trick from a mom in Lyndhurst (wherever the hell that is; are we supposed to know where Lyndhurst is, or is it a generic town name that anyone in an English-speaking country can realte to: “OH, yeah, someone from Lyndhurst, Dale. WE’VE HEARD OF THAT TOWN! I’M CLICKING THE AD!”)
So this mom discovered this clever wrinkle therapy that makes botox doctors furious (and are there really such things as “botox doctors”? That’s very specific).
I clicked on the ad to find out what the trick was, and as it turns out, she stopped doing meth.
That is a clever trick!