parenthetical

attributions

2010-03-08T10:10:00.001-08:00

"I didn't know if you eat tuna fish, because of your...situation."
- My grandmother, referring to my vegetarianism

"I spit reality, Lisa."
- BiG, while rapping about Scoonie

"Remember when you were in college and you taped a bunch of cable tv shows for me? Thanks."
- text from my brother (absolutely no context)

"He correctly used the word 'idiom' and that made me want to jump his bones then and there."
- my friend D about a date

"You're like the grandpa I never fucked."
- BiG, on my old person habits
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what i did this weekend

2010-01-17T17:02:00.000-08:00

miscellany

2009-12-07T07:06:00.000-08:00

BiG: "What's your favorite prime number?"
Me: "I don't remember what prime numbers are."
...
BiG: "Who was your favorite 90210 guy: Perry, Priestley, or Ian Ziering?"
Me: "I liked Brian Austin Green...He was the nerd."
BiG: "He wasn't the nerd...He was like the Chachi of 90210."

----

I'm sorry, but I think mock-layer sweater-shirts are a cop out.

---

I don't think obsequious is a pretentious word to use. Do you?

---

My boyfriend and I went to sleep at 10 pm on a Saturday night. KEWP, I will never make fun of you again.

---

i'm it

2009-10-27T05:54:00.000-07:00

Lindy Loo bestowed upon me the Honest Scrap Award, which means she tagged me on a blog meme. (I feel oh-so-2005!)

Once awarded, thank the person that gave it to you, list 10 honest things about yourself on your blog, pass the award on to 7 other bloggers and don't forget to let those 7 bloggers know you've chosen them.

1. Last night I feel asleep while fantasizing. (Not about sex, but about the colors I would knit sweaters.)

2. I can't stand when cats and dogs have crud in their eyes. Sometimes I will secretively wipe it out--or not so secretively.

3. When we are in production at work and I'm walking through the empty theater and backstage, I feel lucky to have such a cool job.

4. When we're not in production for a long stretch of time (say 5 months), I really miss being busy and I get stir crazy.

5. I prefer to match my underwear to my outfit.

6. I worry too much about life instead of just living it.

7. I have always been a writer but I have always had incredible difficulty ending a piece of writing. It's usually abrupt and hasty. Is this a metaphor?

8. I'm a great speller but bad at pronouncing words.

9. I'm very critical of myself and others, but I admit--I have nice handwriting.

10. I might use my asthma as an excuse for not exercising more.

Tagging S and Kewp - my other blogger friends have been tagged already!

not the mama

2009-10-19T19:38:00.000-07:00

I decided--with confirmation from friends--that my wallet was a "mom wallet." As in, I could see my mother carrying the same sort of bland, burgundy pocketbook, with stretch marks from copious receipts and coupons for cat food. Thus, it was not cool to pull it out of my purse at a bar, or even Target for that matter.

For a few years now, I have been mildly preoccupied with not appearing "mom-like." I got my hair cut last week and have since been orbiting my head with an array of hair products and gadgets to combat what I fear is a suburban mom 'do. I have better things to do with my time, honestly.

I'm not sure what exactly precipitated my concern about not looking too (stereotypically) motherly. I fear looking like a mom and the attendant assumptions more than I fear actually being a mom. A few years ago I decided when/if I become a mother, I would get a tattoo, as if that would somehow ward off being typecast.

The inherent fear of being typecast could be the root of my mommy discrimination. I have always existed slightly out of the mainstream, or at least historically this is what my peers and/or I have determined. So to be aiming for something that is so very conventional and expected of women--motherhood--is rather uncomfortable. It's an itchy feeling.

But that superficial itch just can't compete with the biological itch of my one ovary, longing to get rid of one of those eggs it's been harboring for the last 30 years. (Suck it up, honey, you've still got a while.)

In the end, should I procreate, once I am in the thrall of a child, it probably won't matter as much to me what sort of wallet I carry. But, for my sake, I hope it does.
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if i twittered...

2009-09-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

this is what I would have said today:

- Fucking mold spores.

- I fear when I'm sixty, my shoe collection will only contain Easy Spirits.

- My mother is bringing me 3 pounds of cheese tomorrow, so, yeah, I'm busy that night.

- My life would be infinitely better if my apartment had more crown moldings.

- Is it wrong to listen to Moby while working at an opera company?

.

potent quotables

2009-09-23T19:13:00.000-07:00

"I think wearing leather pants would be like having giant fruit roll-ups wrapped around my legs."
- BiGHuNk57

"This is Goosey Lucy. She's really into cats." - my former roommate introducing me to his friend.

"It actually made me decide finally that I don’t like Diablo Cody. I think she’s like a spaghetti-o feminist." -Lindy Loo

"Oh, so, he's cheap too. I guess I should have realized when you said you met on a free dating web site." - my mom, referring to BiG

"I seriously don't get how lesbians find the Indigo Girls so hot." -Lindy Loo

"Bitch needs her sleep!" -my boss, about me

"They're like Romanian violinists--all crazy." -co-worker, about IT people

"I mean, hell, he has a bidet." -my friend S on the merits of her boyfriend

.

of parents and lady parts

2009-09-11T12:15:00.000-07:00

I was talking to my parents on the phone today. Both of them. At the same time.

Because even though I live ten miles away and talk to them several times a week, they felt the need to both be on a phone, like it was 1944 and I was making that rare, expensive call home from 1,000 miles away. (Although, sometimes it is better that they are both on the phone, to avoid hearing my mother yelling in the background, trying to make it a three-way conversation anyway--and I realize, I DO THE SAME DAMN THING.)

I told them I had talked to my doctor about getting another ultrasound (NO, not for detecting babies, for detecting things that have taken up residence in the space my left ovary once occupied).

"Oh, is it a transvaginal ultrasound?" my mother asked unnecessarily.

"Um, yeah."

Which is apparently the natural segue into her asking if I examine my breasts every month.

"I bet Dad is really excited to be talking about vaginas and boobs this morning."

"Yeah, it's a little much for only having had one cup of coffee so far," he replied.

"'Transvaginal' is really not something one should handle on only one cup of coffee," I said.

"I'll ask your mother what 'transvaginal' means later."

"You do that."
.

a streetcar named bizarre

2009-09-09T20:47:00.000-07:00

Somehow it is much easier to eff up public transportation in countries in which I speak the language...like America, for instance.

My latest PT bumble was in Portland, OR (home of Babymama). I got off the bus a stop early, a stop farther away from the train I needed to take to my Aunt's house. No biggie. Ask the average clean-cut hipster on the corner.

"Just keep walking three blocks and you'll see it," he says.

Not 30 seconds later, a nearby homeless man cheerfully volunteers, "You looking for the train? Just keep walking three blocks."

"Oh, thanks," I reply.

"I'm wearing a bra," he says, lifting his sweatshirt to reveal satiny black soft cups perched on a pasty white chest. He felt he needed to share this fact with me, clearly, so I thought it best to play sympathetic therapist.

"Oh, that's cool," I said mildly.

"You know, for shits and giggles," he explained.

"Well, that's what it's all about, isn't it?" I replied.

***
Frankly, I'd much rather have a homeless man show me his lingerie than proclaim that "Satan's gonna get yer ass," as one said to me last year. I guess that's the difference between Portland and Cleveland.
.

i just wrote a whole post about alcohol

2009-09-05T13:11:00.000-07:00

Unlike most college students, my weekends in college were not spent cultivating a taste for beer. There was the occasional rendezvous with peach or peppermint schapps, so when I started drinking legally, I would sheepishly sidle up to the bar and squeak out a request for a "Sex on the Beach" or "Amaretto Sour."

At least I knew I was lame. But I was dork enough to continue ordering frou-frou drinks, honoring my tastebuds over hipness.

After college, I developed a taste for wine, and, just like that, I felt I was finally an adult. It didn't taking getting my first "real" job or moving into my first apartment or getting a cat. No, it took a frickin' glass of wine. Sometimes when I have a glass of wine at a nice-ish restaurant, I still get a twinge reminder "I am an ADULT, drinking wine out of a WINE GLASS! How did I get here?!"

With wine, I now had something else to order at a bar. It was liberating. Except at dive bars. Then it was about as liberating as wearing a Lacoste sweater to a Metallica concert. Why couldn't I just be comfortable swilling can after can of PBR?

I tried beer. I made an honest go of it--and by honest go, I mean I took sample sips of friends' beers. I could handle beer; it just didn't interest me. I couldn't fathom drinking enough of the swill to get drunk--and isn't that point, my friends?

So, wine, with the additions of Cosmopolitans, fruity martinis, and vodka tonics to my repetoire. (I also don't recommend ordering a "Cosmo" at a dive-y bar. It's been more than once that the bartender hasn't known how to make it. I underestimated the influence and reach of Sex and the City, clearly.)

I just figured I'd always be that occasional alcohol outlier--the pretentious nerd who orders wine at the corner bar. Eh, I was becoming ok with that.

But I've turned a corner, my friends.

It started with Strongbow. Good stuff, apple-y. But expensive and not always available. Then I tried an Indigo Imp pale ale (proudly brewed in the Cleve, natch!) and I immediately drank the whole damn thing. And then I drank it again.

One night, I stopped at a bar to meet some friends and I had limited time, so--flush with confidence of my Indigo Imp drinking success--I just poured myself a beer from their pitcher. It was Bud Light. And it wasn't that bad.

I know you true beer drinkers will wince at that, evoking the gods of microbrews, stouts, and lagers. But I'm telling you: It's progress. I can blend in with "regular folk." I can embrace my blue collar roots of unschooled palates and meager paychecks.

If I go to an unfamiliar party and someone offers me a can of beer, no longer will I say, "No thanks, but perhaps you have some Sauvignon Blanc?" That is victory.

.

trade off

2009-09-01T09:34:00.000-07:00

I haven't been to an Indians' baseball game since I was nine or ten. That means I have NEVER been to Progressive Field (nee Jacobs Field). I don't feel the least deprived.

But my baseball abstinence will be coming to an end in a couple weeks. BiGHuNk57 has invited me to a game, under the dubious auspices of a "work event." And in my newfound spirit of compromise, I agreed. Even BEFORE he told me I could bring my knitting.

As a trade off, BH57 agreed to watch an opera on DVD with me. I will allow him as many beers as his heart desires. (Even though, clearly, opera is better with wine.)

So, I will soon have set foot in two of the three professional sports arenas in town. (I went to a Cavs game for work once--but they were playing an Israeli team, so I'm not sure if that counts.) I have deftly avoided Browns' games, even getting out of the high school marching band gig there with the flimsy excuse that I was working AT A DOLLHOUSE SHOW.

I'm not sure BH57 has any desires to attend a Browns' game, but there aren't enough operas in the world he could sit through to get me to go.
.

socialist media

2009-08-03T13:25:00.000-07:00

1997: My first email account

2003: Friendster

2005: Myspace

December 2004: My first blog

June 2006: My first real cell phone

September 2008: Facebook

April 2009: Added more texting minutes to my phone

August 2009: Still Twitter-free
.

PSA to my family* and friends

2009-07-30T10:37:00.000-07:00

Please stop having babies and getting married. My bank account can't handle it.

* Brought to you by Catholicism.
.

create-a-list

2009-07-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

I have crafting ADD.

I have dozens of ambitions for various craft projects or activities ricocheting around in my brain. It's overwhelming for a gal with nerves as tenuous as mine. Just thinking of the hems to sewn, the hats to be knitted, the fruits to be canned makes my body consider shutting down...so none of these Martha-y activities will see the light of day.

But I am a maker of lists. I think that is sufficiently evident if you have been around me for more than 10 minutes. And I have been inspired by Mighty Girl and her Mighty Life list. I thought perhaps it might give me some comfort, direction and sense of accomplishment to write a list of creative projects I wished to tackle--and using this blog, with all 5 of my readers, to hold me accountable.

This will likely be an evolving list, as I add to it. Small and large, the tasks are there. What aren't included are some projects for people who may read this blog. (And, yes, I am including one item that I can already cross off. That is what list makers do.)

In no particular order:

~~Plant a garden~~
~~Make ice cream~~
~~Harvest many tomatoes, make sauce and puree to freeze~~
Can tomatoes
~~Finish knitting my sweater~~
Reupholster dining room chairs
Make cheese
~~Cook beans from scratch~~
Finish Katherine's purse (her Xmas gift)
Finish Leslie's blanket (from Xmas 3 years ago)
Reupholster ottoman
Make a collage for Mom and Dad
Make pillow for living room
Make throw pillows for bedroom (with fabric I bought 5 years ago)
Paint kitchen cart
Make scrapbooks with photos and writing
Sew a dress for myself
Make a quilt
Knit a baby sweater
Make shampoo and hand soap from scratch
Learn how to pin-curl my hair
Refinish end table
Repaint bedroom furniture
Build a table
Re-tile something
Sew bag for knitting
Make homemade cards to have around or in advance
~~Finish knitting scarf for Hartman~~
Knit summer scarf
Design/create a large piece of art to hang in my house
Knit a blanket
Make a pie crust from scratch
Write more
Compile some of my favorite writing in a booklet, of my design
Make a chandelier
~~paint desk~~
~~harvest seeds to save for sowing next year~~
do crewel embroidery
start seedlings

Let the crossing off commence!
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vocally separated at birth

2009-07-24T07:16:00.000-07:00

Uber-librarian Nancy Pearl
+
Cleveland candy maven Adele Malley.

no, no, NO

2009-07-08T16:26:00.000-07:00

Rompers

Pleats

the body breaks

2009-07-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, my mother pointed to my bare feet and said, "Looks like you're going to get bunions."

Whaaaa? Aren't those an affliction of the gnarled old women who would come into Famous Footwear when I was 16, searching for the perfect pair of Easy Spirit sneakers into which to wedge their achy, deformed feet?

What the heck are bunions anyway? (Other than a word, through the potency of rhyme, that deterred my consumption of Funyuns.) Apparently, they are the enlargement of the bone/tissue at the base of the big toe. This relieved me somewhat of my fear that bunions were some sort of abscess of nastiness, if you were to slice one open, thousands of little trolls would scurry out. Nonetheless, I urge you NOT to do a Google image search for bunions.

My incipient hallux valgus is not the only physical manifestation that my body is aging, that age 30 starts the downward slide into infirmity. Examples:

My child-bearing hips have reached a girth that just screams "Please let us help push a baby out, lest we are rendered useless, save for making shopping for jeans a travail."
It's unclear if said hips will ever get to fulfill their duty, given my ONE ovary.
HOWEVER, my missing ovary ($100 reward for finder) may be REGROWING itself. It's the little ovary that could. Or it's a fibroid. Hurrah for female anatomy.
Often I wake up and my fingers feel like stiff sausages (or soysages, as the case may be.)
My hip routinely slips out of place, leaving me either uncomfortable or in spasmodic pain and having to tell people "Oh, I'm sorry I can't; my hip is out," leaving them to wonder if I am one smokin' 70-year old.
Rarely do I stay up past 1 am. (But that might just mean I'm boring.)

Thankfully, I have yet to find a gray hair or discernible wrinkles. Give me a week or two.

what does it mean?

2009-04-06T09:47:00.001-07:00

- When you dream that the boy you had a crush on for two and a half years in middle school offers you a particularly gooey Rice Krispie treat?

- When you dream that someone stole your couch?

- When you dream you're drunk and carrying around a drunk baby?

all in a day's work

2009-03-16T12:43:00.000-07:00

Two things I legitimately had to do for my job today:

- Look up euphemisms for "farting"

- Organize a bar crawl

- Look for cheesy 70s clip art

'Tis rough, 'tis rough.

do i have a problem?

2009-03-09T19:12:00.000-07:00

I bought two vintage train cases within one week.

I can't say it won't happen again.

when good clothes die young

2009-02-25T07:33:00.000-08:00

Today I am mourning.

Of all the myriad people and things about which I could mourn, I am mourning the demise of a denim skirt. (In addition to mourning, I am now extending my arm for a cursory slap on the wrist for my conspicuous shallowness.)

I bought this skirt at Target back in the summer of 2002, along with purchasing a copy for KEWP, who had her eye on it. My hips were a little less ripe for child bearing at the time, so it was a bit loose. But I also hadn't quite mastered properly fitting my clothes to my body yet, so it still worked. (And now, with my mastery down and incipient saddle bags riding below my waist, it's almost a perfect fit.)

It has been my "go-to" skirt (a term I steal from KEWP, who shares my affection for this clothing staple). Denim goes with everything. Actually, "denim" would even be a glorification of the fabric most of us know as "jeans." It is more of a somewhat-sturdy cotton made to resemble denim. (It is from Target after all.)

And that was its eventual downfall--a lack of resilient, hefty fibers. One quick skirmish with a unfortunately situated piece of jagged metal and my fashion foundation was torn asunder.

I did not fling my aggrieved body across the desk, wailing (like I did at age 17 when I found one of my brand-new brown clogs to be fodder for the dog's mouth). I showed restraint (or rather the stoicism of a 50s housewife, as I channeled my angst into cleaning my office).

I must admit, though, that perhaps the fashion unconscious of the universe knew I had been considering cheating. That I had been searching for another denim pencil skirt to add to my closet--one of real denim. And rather than be cast aside for a newer model, my tried-and-true committed the only suicide it could.

Now that my denim skirt is too disfigured for professional wear, I am too aware of its virtues, realizing just how difficult it will be to replace. And I am humbled.

very seriously considering a move to California

2009-01-12T07:06:00.000-08:00

2009, literally

2009-01-02T12:08:00.000-08:00

This is not so much a resolution but an exercise in redemption. Redeeming the fact that I was an English major, the fact that my youth was filled with books and words, the fact that some of my peers read at a prolific rate and I don't seem to.

Thus, I present a modest list of books I hope to read in 2009. Based on my GoodReads list, as well as my current library queue. Will this change? I'm sure, but I like to make lists. And I want to challenge myself.

1. The People's History of the United States

2. ~~Girl with Glasses: My Optic History~~

3. ~~The Wordy Shipmates~~

4. ~~Feminism and Pop Culture~~

5. ~~Franny and Zooey~~

6. No Turning Back: The History of Feminism and the Future of Women

7. Bill Bryson's African Diary

8. ~~Animal, Vegetable, Miracle~~

9. ~~College Girls: Bluestockings, Sex Kittens, and Co-Eds, Then and Now~~

10. The Time Traveler's Wife (abandoned!)

11. The Mysteries of Pittsburgh

12. ~~We Thought You Would Be Prettier: True Tales of the Dorkiest Girl Alive~~

13. Flapper: A Madcap Story of Sex, Style, Celebrity, and the Women Who Made America Modern

14. Love and Other Four-Letter Words

15. My California: Journeys by Great Writers

16. White Teeth

17. The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup: My Encounters with Extraordinary People

18. ~~Are you there Vodka, It's Me, Chelsea~~

19. ~~I Was Told There Would Be Cake~~

20. ~~Female Chauvinist Pigs~~

21. ~~It Sucked and Then I Cried~~

22. ~~The Pleasure of My Company~~

23. ~~Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress~~

24. ~~In a Sunburned Country~~

25. ~~Shelf Discovery: The Teen Classics We Never Stopped Reading~~

26. ~~The Know-it-all: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World~~

27. ~~In Defense of Food~~

28. ~~Queen of the Oddballs~~

under not-so-bright ideas

2008-11-11T11:43:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I suggested to a friend that before I purchased the book Getting Off for a mutual friend, I first look to see if it's at Half-Price Books.

As soon as I said it, I realized that purchasing a used book about masturbation would not be such a great idea.

have you ever...

2008-10-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

...rewritten a list of "things to do" (which only you would be reading) because you didn't like the penmanship on the initial list?

...kept some hair clips from when you were eight and kept them with your office supplies, not to use them but just for the wave of nostalgia when you would come across them when looking for paper clips?

...i have.

residue of mich fest

2008-08-27T05:47:00.000-07:00

I keep dreaming that I am walking around topless.

meta grocery list

2008-08-20T20:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I went to Target with a mental to-buy list: wine and underwear.

As I browsed aisles that contained neither wine nor underwear (the inevitable Target time suck), I considered my mental to-buy list.

Ha, ha, wine and underwear, that's funny. I should blog about how I bought both wine and underwear at Target but the two items were, unfortunately, unrelated. Yes, I'll do that; I haven't blogged in a while...Should I mention that they're just boring beige underwear? No, I must not disabuse my readers of the notion that I rock a sparkly thong every day.

Then I got to the wine aisle, where Yellow Tail was $2 more than at Giant Eagle. My potential blog fell apart. I couldn't pay two whole dollars more for wine that I didn't need anyway just so I could devulge inane personal information masquerading as repartee.

But I seriously considered it. For the sake of the blog.

feminist utopia

2008-08-12T19:23:00.001-07:00

Lindy Loo's definitive Michigan Womyn's Music Festival experience was a garlicky snatch.

My definitive Mich Fest experience was watching a mother at the Babes in Toyland shopping booth offer a display vibrator to her four-year old to play with. "Do you want to feel it vibrate, sweetie?" she asked.

Start 'em young!

their marketing department is a 7-year old

2008-08-11T20:16:00.000-07:00

Maybe if you click on the "Education" tiger, it takes you to a web page that says:

"You are clearly not fit for a career in education if you sought to learn more about obtaining an teaching degree by clicking on garish animated gif of a cartoon tiger. However, Chuck E. Cheese is currently hiring."

TWSS, part II

2008-08-06T12:09:00.001-07:00

My co-worker sent this gem to me:

(from the site xkcd)

TWSS

2008-08-03T11:47:00.000-07:00

"That's what she said." It's the new "If you know what I mean."

Disseminated far and wide via The Office, it has penetrated even non-viewers. Myself, I can barely get through a day without it. As if everything that's said around my workplace wasn't already gravid with innuendo, tacking TWSS onto the few innocent sentences ups the ante.

The other day, I had to swallow it several times because I figured I was becoming much too liberal with the phrase. I have to remember that Michael Scott is the originator of TWSS and he is a gratingly annoying character, albeit endearing in a pitiable sort of way. (I don't need to invite pity by excessively invoking a pop culture phrase; I have more legitimate reasons to be pitied.)

TWSS is a fickle mistress, though, like most pop culture references. It went flaccid on me recently. I was playing cornhole my friend D and his two female friends. He was explaining the game to me and said "If you get it in the hole, you get three points." How could I resist that set-up?!

"That's what she said," I muttered. "

Oh," said D. "Did Mary already explain that to you?"

(Note to my friends: Please watch The Office so I can make jokes without looking like a dumbass. Thank you.)

cat nerds

2008-07-19T11:24:00.000-07:00

When I came home from work yesterday, my cats were listening to NPR.

Scoonie looked at me as if to say "It's Science Friday, duh."

(For the record, I hadn't left the radio on for them (unlike some of my cat-owning friends--ahem, LMS and SS.) No, they'd turned it on themselves. Smart pussies.)

red all over

2008-07-15T09:22:00.000-07:00

It was only last week that I finally got the joke:

"What's black and white and read all over?"
A newspaper.

Now I can share the humor with second graders everywhere.

at the hop

2008-07-06T16:20:00.000-07:00

It didn't happen in high school. But it finally happened: I went to the Prom.

This was the Prom of the 20 and 30-something nerdster set, held at everyone's favorite indie music venue in Collinwood. I ratted my hair, laced up my Chucks and pulled on a vintage 50s dress. I got some great photos with my "dates." (That's me with one of my dates; she did NOT even let me get to third base with her in the backseat of my parents' Buick! Faces obscured because I'm never going out with THAT freezer pop again.)

We thought the girl to guy ratio would be leaning heavily toward the estrogen end of the spectrum, but we were pleasantly surprised to see just as many guys as gals--and dressed in tacky prom gear as well. A number of these guys turned out to be playing in the evening's bands. Instead of playing the latest Pabst Blue Ribbon-sponsored jams, they took the music back a few decades. They bore an intentional resemblance to the band playing at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance in Back to the Future.

While my main dance partners were my lady friends, I did dance with two guys. The first I cut in on as he danced with a guy friend in that "I'm comfortable enough with my sexuality to dance with another man, yet i'm homophobic enough to act retarded about it" sorta way. We danced for perhaps a minute before his girlfriend strode over and pulled him away.

The second guy asked me to dance, the jitterbug no less. I decided he was rather cute. We chatted a bit while lindy hopping. He was studying to be a priest. Catholic, not Episcopal; I asked.

It didn't matter. I got to wear chiffon and tulle.

work it

2008-07-03T16:19:00.000-07:00

I never had much love for the crosswords. But my avoidance grew out of the frustration of attempting the puzzles and not evincing an immediate aptitude for them. (Quite analogous to when one attempts to befriend the popular crowd and her efforts are rebuffed, so she decides to revile them instead. I wouldn't know about that personally though. Never.)

Crossword puzzles were the realm of my father. He attempted to share his hobby with me by asking me answers like "What is the name of the actress who plays Blair on The Facts of Life?" (Lisa Welchel. For the record, I only had to google it for the spelling.) I didn't have the inherent patience my dad seemed to possess for crossword puzzle solving (or, perhaps, the meds to inspire that patience.)

I didn't comprehend how, with my verbal skills, I could have so much trouble. Weren't crosswords a badge of nerds? I was one of those; where was my badge??!

I resigned myself to a crossword-less life. Until the last year. I started at my new job in August, and it's a vastly more social workplace (even though there's only about 10 employees.) So I started eating lunch regularly with three of my co-workers and one day we nonchalantly started doing the newspaper crossword. (At least the ones early in the week.) We helped each other along. I didn't get [too] frustrated. And...it was fun.

Fast forward seven months: Addiction.

Though our lunchtime puzzle solving is an on/off relationship (currently: on), I am committed in my off hours, too. The cerebral buzz, perhaps, replaces the intellectual stimulation I'd been missing from college. Just as crosswords invigorate my mind, they calm me at the same time. I genuinely look forward to doing a puzzle before bed.

I've realized it takes more logic than verbal skills to be a good puzzle solver. It also takes cultivating a familiarity with the crossword lingo. (Ewes: popular with puzzle makers and bestialists alike.)

83-year old woman in a 28-year old body!

2008-06-26T06:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not referring to myself. (I am 29, for the record. Even though "I’m 29 years old, dammit! And I want to sit in a comfortable chair, and watch television and go to bed at a reasonable hour!"*)

My co-worker/friend (co-friend?) latch hooks while watching "Dancing with the Stars." She also spices up her speech with gems like these:

"I haven't had a bagel in a coon's age!"

"These costumes are older than the hills."

"We have enough brochures here to choke a horse."

"I haven't been to see the orchestra since Fido was a pup."

She's only 28.

* Did I just quote Friends on my blog?! I'm sorry, I'm really sorry.

scoonie meets the birds

2008-06-24T08:56:00.000-07:00

leSnore brought over her birds a while ago when we had a crafting/movie night together, and Scoonie was quite taken with them. Captain Macaroni and Pip (the birds) will be his roommates in a couple months, as long as Scoon doesn't think they will look better in his stomach. Delaney, for her part, was afraid of the birds and ran and hid.

house frau

2008-06-04T06:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was explaining something I was doing around my house to a co-worker and he said I should have a web cam following me around.

Not because my at-home antics are homemade p0rn worthy, but because I'm weird.

Recent household activities, which one might consider weird:

- Drilling a hole into a Scrabble game piece

- Wearing a dust mask around

- Spray painting sticks, while wearing Osh Kosh B'Gosh striped overalls

- Drilling holes into a large Rubbermaid container

- Sewing a homemade maxi pad

- Chatting with my cats

- Repeatedly poking a pencil into my back

- Cutting out photos of Burt Reynolds

- Ratting my hair

There was logic for all of these activities, mind you. (Except chatting with my cats.)

c-word

2008-05-27T07:58:00.000-07:00

I lost a turn at Scrabble because I put down the word "clit" but my parents said I couldn't use it because it was an abbreviation.

eclectic

2008-05-13T13:16:00.000-07:00

One of my many pet peeves* is when people list their musical taste as "eclectic." And when you ask them to expound upon this seemingly open-minded descriptor, they reply with "you know, anything from Nickelback to Rascal Flats to Norah Jones." Yes, as eclectic as Q104, bastion of musical diversity.

No, no. Eclectic is evidenced in the mix CD my cousin Jocelyn made for me. I hadn't played it in a while, but I had it on while driving a co-worker yesterday. A subdued, folky rock song ended. And then helium-filled voices burst from the stereo in a chorus of "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." This elicited a chuckle out of my passenger, followed by more when the second song started: a lively klezmer number. There were straight out guffaws at the next song, "Ice Ice Baby." (And not only because I knew all the words.)

My co-worker called it musical whiplash. I call it eclectic.

* Other: Body-jarringly loud bass music; misuse of quotation marks; lack of vegetarian choices everywhere; the sound of ripping fabric; i could go on...

Ready to meet Zach & Kelly at The Max

2008-04-22T12:25:00.000-07:00

This is my painting outfit. When I put on a jean jacket to head to painting class one night, I was struck at the rad '80s vibe I had unintentionally cultivated. (Though I did not peg the pants.)

convo with 'rents

2008-03-26T14:15:00.000-07:00

Mom: So is there anything good that happened this weekend?

Me: .....I bought a towel.

Dad: You have been here for an hour and half and didn't tell us this yet?!! C'mon.

scent of a woman

2008-03-22T21:14:00.000-07:00

My genetically-mandated future as a Super Senser was portended late one night in sixth grade. Katie K was sleeping over on the night before a big ice skating party. She and I spent part of the evening writing a love letter for a dumb-as-rocks seventh grader she liked. When it was complete, she gave the stationery several healthy spritzes of cologne. (And then we broke out into the song "Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee.")

Not 15 minutes later, my bleary-eyed mother knocked at my door, demanding the origin of the potent odor. While I regarded her nostril upset disdainfully, little did I know she had bequeathed her super sense of smell to me.

Yes, people smell things.* But I smell them harder.

Smells crawl up into my nose and, instead of habituating themselves, they obnoxiously jab at my olfactory senses. And it makes me FREAK out. I have to stop. the. smell.

Thus, when a co-worker was wielding a can of Lysol the other day, I jumped out of my chair and accosted her. "What are you doing with that? Are you going to spray that places where I can SMELL it?" Because you might as well just kick me in the face.

Not quite as noxious as Lysol are onions. Damn if every recipe I ever want to cook uses those effing malodorous bulbs. I refuse to touch a raw onion--because the SMELL might permeate my skin--so I'm about two recipes away from bodily injury because I stab an onion with a fork while slicing and dicing with a large knife. Then there's the post-cooking odor. Theoretically not bad but it lingers in the house for days and jams up my nostrils. Not enough of candles in the world, my friends.

Although my super sensing mother eschews any sort of purposefully scented lotions, she occasionally uses perfume herself. I can handle the lotions but any time I've tried perfume, by the end of the day I look like a suicide risk, wrists raw from desperately scrubbing the smell off me.

My super sensing also extends to the auditory realm, but I'll stick with one neurosis at a time here. Suffice it to say, I'm on the prowl for a giant sterile bubble I can live in.

*Except for Bo; he does not smell things.

web stats

2008-03-16T19:28:00.000-07:00

• Number of friends I have met through the internet: 9

• Number I still regularly talk to: 4

• Number of friends I reconnected to through the internet: 3

• Number of friends I met through selling something on Craigslist: 1

• Number of guys I've met through the internet and gone on dates with: 7

• Number of those guys I made out with: 3

• Number of times in a year in which I bought something from the internet: about 35

• Number of unfinished blog posts for this blog: 11

• Number of people who actually read this blog: about 6

hotter, sexier, steamier

2008-03-09T15:33:00.000-07:00

This weekend, trapped in my house because of a blizzard, I caught up on abc.com with episodes of Lost that I have missed. Even online, though, there are commercials. And I was subjected to numerous ones promoting Dancing with the Stars, a show I have never seen and never want to see. Especially because their promo promised a "hotter, sexier, steamier" season because of a bevy of C-list celebrities--including Steve Guttenberg and Penn Gillette.

Because when I think hot, sexy and steamy, I think of Steve Guttenberg and Penn Gillette.

TXTing

2008-03-04T18:44:00.000-08:00

- Yer mom.

- C'mon you've heard my "man" voice, haven't you?!

- Non-cat owners are 30% more likely to die of heart disease. Suck on that hairball.

- Only if we cook weed into dinner.

- So I look like a man on American Idol?!!

- A very hot, effeminate man.

- The bread lady said I WAS on Robin Swoboda.

- I know. I think I may have to off myself. It seems like the only right thing to do.

- Punch her in the throat. I am learning a Strokes song on guitar.

- Buy her a snackbox.

- It's 4-odd degrees here. Suck it.

- Douche.

cash in the cupboard

2008-02-24T18:48:00.000-08:00

I found Johnny in the bathroom cabinet when I was looking for toothpaste while visiting KEWP. Apparently Naked Ken is holed up in the other bathroom's cabinet.

craft purge

2008-02-17T18:48:00.002-08:00

Just a guess: Most single twentysomethings who work at non-profits don't have the luxury of a "craft room."

Although I fall into that demographic, I have been lucky (or cursed?) to have extra space in my current and last rentals for craft areas. It's actually been somewhat of a necessity, given all the craft materials that I own. Because I dabble. I don't just knit or sew or paint or make pretty things out of paper--I do all of these crafts. And when I say I do all of these crafts, I mean once in a while.

Still, if I want to make something, chances are I have most of the materials at my disposal. Because I'm just a soul whose intentions are good, I ambitiously reckon that someday get to using all those materials.

But I'm also a soul who does not like clutter, and my current craft room (like that before it) had turned into a repository of clutter. Too much stuff, too unorganized. Being a dabbler means I am easily distracted, so the prospect sorting through the debris of good intentions inspired a fair amount of anxiety in an already anxious person. Call in the Mom.

So Mom came over today to lay down her tough love on me and the craft room. She set me down at the table and forced me to sort through a few sundry boxes of photos and negatives, consolidating into four uniform boxes. I decided that maybe I didn't need every single photo envelope I'd gotten since sixth grade, nor did I need blurry photos of an ex-boyfriend that doesn't even talk to me anymore. And perhaps I didn't need a ticket stub from a college production of Nunsense in 1990.

While I sorted and tossed, my mom went through my containers of fabric. Three large containers. (I had myself consolidated down from four.) "You are NOT going to make anything with this," she, most likely accurately, declared of nearly a third of the fabric. Because I'm 28, not 12 years old, I'm ok with my mother's being right. I'm mature like that.

Later she tackled a drawer of miscellany, waiting for its craft destiny. "Are these birth control compacts?" she asked, incredulously. "Yeaaaah, I guess I don't really need those anymore," I replied. I had saved them with the brilliant intention of making some sort of feminist artwork out of them. It's always my intention that is brilliant, as no brilliant idea to realize the intention ever seems to materialize.

The day ended and I still have a lot of stuff--about two large bookshelves worth. But it's less than what it was, and it's mostly organized. And god knows someday I will find a crafty use for all those stray Scrabble pieces I'm hanging onto.

Air Travel FYI

2008-02-03T15:03:00.000-08:00

You *can* bring a container of pressurized cheese on board with you.*
Well, thank god for that.

* 3 oz or less, please.

oh, internet

2008-02-02T14:30:00.000-08:00

I came across this on a google image search for "lysol ad". (don't ask why I was searching for this, but do this search and you'll be amused, if not rather horrified.)

what happens when you see your ex-boyfriend and his wife at the grocery store

2008-01-17T18:27:00.000-08:00

• Spot the a cute guy nearby in the store and seriously consider* going up to him and asking him to be your boyfriend, if just for two minutes.

• Pray he doesn't see you once more--in the cat food aisle.

• Surprisingly don't shoot fire from your eyes.

• Wonder if perhaps he notices the ring on your left hand--even though it is a fake ruby-like stone the size of a chicken nugget--and maybe he wonders if you are engaged.

• Actually want to be nice and say hi but the look in his eyes emphatically said "don't you fucking say anything to us or you will get fresh pineapple chunks in the face, beeyotch."

• Think now is not the time to buy toilet paper. It just isn't.

• Notice the wife doesn't have a fat ass, dammit.

• Feel like you're in high school again. Same boy, different situation.

• Are really glad you brushed your hair and put on lip gloss. (Because nothing says, 'My life is so fucking amazing, oh, too bad you're not in it' like wearing lip gloss.)

• Repeat " I broke up with him."

• Still cry.

* You know how you get those profound flashes for about a second until you realize they are completely irrational.

possible reasons why I haven't been blogging

2008-01-13T11:44:00.000-08:00

• Love affair with ellipitical machine at gym too hot and heavy

• Find playing with glitter more fun and more glittery

• Too busy taking cute photos of my cats, (e.g.)

• Putting all my time into finishing leftover Christmas cookies and sweets

• Traumatically scarred by an inordinately long game of Truth or Dare Jenga

• Procrastination taking up too much of my time

• Drugs, lots of drugs

• My secret life as a bee

• Lost my creative mojo (DING DING DING...we have a winner!)

in the text

2007-12-04T06:32:00.000-08:00

"Her textiles made his penis twitch."

from Quarantine by Jim Crace

mother, there is no other

2007-11-29T08:37:00.000-08:00

"I'm not going to give you any Saltines until you drink your Pedialyte."

(This was only a month ago, when I happened to be at my parents' house when I was horribly hungover. FYI, Pedialyte tastes like ass.)

Me: "I know what we can get Grandma and Grandpa for Christmas!"
Mom: "What?"
Me: "An Ethiopian child!"
Mom: "No. Way."
Me: "But Grandma loves to write letters."
Mom: "Have you been drinking?"

hearting, of late

2007-11-11T19:14:00.000-08:00

• cowl-neck sweaters

• cumin

• goodreads.com

• Arrested Development...

• ...consequently: saying "I don't want no part of yo tight-ass country club, ya freak bitch!"

• stuffing envelopes with co-workers

• the "personalized" ads on gmail*

• lavender

• Lily Allen

* They scare me a little, too.

not 15 anymore

2007-11-06T07:44:00.000-08:00

You know you're adult when:

- The promise of a free t-shirt doesn't excite you.

- You don't find using a GAP plastic bag for cat litter blasphemous.

- You recognize the names of NPR commentators more than stars on MTV.

incensed

2007-10-21T20:17:00.000-07:00

My basement kinda smells.

I have:
- cleaned it
- lit candles
- put out unused coffee grounds
- sprayed vingear and tea tree oil
- used dessicants
- used air fresheners
- whined a lot

I don't think the odor will dissipate until my cats are moved out and I give it a thorough cleaning again. (This should be soon.) So now I'm content with just adequately covering up the smell (Which, of course, is not as malodorous as it should seem, given my obsessive complaining about it. Key word: obsessive--obsessions can amplify the mundane.)

I finally turned to...incense.

I hadn't avoided the stuff because I'm anti-hippie. I developed an aversion to incense in high school, during my first trips to Daystar boutique (read: head shop) to purchase "radical" bumper stickers and beaded jewelery. I got headaches from the overly fragrant smoky shop. From then on, it seemed to irritate me.

But recently I figured out that the sweet, spicy scent that lingered in my friend L's house and my brother's room was the result of burning sticks of Nag Champa. (I was an honor student; how would I know these things??) I wanted my house to smell like hippies too!

I thought maybe I'd give incense another chance. We got along better this time. I burn it in the basement, so the direct smokiness doesn't bother me, but the herbaceous aroma wafts upstairs.

I feel like I just found a brand of jeans that fit perfectly. Or that I just read a book I have to recommend to all my friends. My life has changed: it smells better.

clinging to summer

2007-10-10T18:42:00.000-07:00

As I have previously opined, I am not fond of fall or winter foods in general. Flipping through October issues of cooking magazines yield few recipes I'm interested in eating, nonetheless making.

So the close of the summer's harvest is bittersweet, as I get my fix of tomatoes, basil, red peppers and corn. This year I got the brilliant idea to savor some of summer's tomatoes long into winter. I would "sun dry" them myself, for I am a cheapskate and don't really want to spring for store-bought ones.

Google led me to some tomato drying methods. I could put them out in the sun (which means I'd have to find a place to set them out and risk bugs, bird shit, etc.). I could dry them in my oven (set at 117 degrees for 12 hours). I could buy a food dehydrator (and spend money??)

My plan came together when I saw a post about car cooking on some web site. Someone harnessed the incubator of a car in summer to bake cookies. Surely, I could do this with tomatoes. Especially with the unseasonably hot weather passing our way.

So I pulled my car into a sunny spot in my driveway and popped in a cookie sheet full of tomato slices. I did this for two days in a row for about 5 hours each day and supplemented with a bit of time in the oven. I left another tray in my car while I parked on the roof of the parking garage at work, in the full sun. At the end of the day, I came back to a tray of delectably shriveled tomato slices--and perhaps some people wondering who the hell left a tray of tomatoes in their car all day.

They can suck it, because I'll be eating homemade sundried tomatoes in January.

blog, i'm just not that into you right now

2007-10-06T12:58:00.000-07:00

maybe if you made me dinner or introduced me to your parents, I'd be more charmed. look into that.

the heart has reasons for which reason does not know

2007-09-18T13:28:00.000-07:00

I have to admit that I cracked a smile at the top 100 reasons you're still single at Radar magazine.

Among them:

17. Posed shirtless for your MySpace page

26. Flash devil horns in wedding photos

49. Cry when you listen to Belle and Sebastian, then, still tearful, blog about it

52. Have more than zero stuffed animals on your bed

57. Own a 60-inch flat-screen plasma television but sleep on a broken futon

82. Have cellulite on your face

lazy sunday saturday

2007-09-16T13:50:00.000-07:00

9:40 a.m.: Phone vibrates on my nightstand. Who the hell calls early on a Saturday morning, especially when one knows the callee was out late at the Ani DiFranco concert? Do not answer.

11 a.m.: Wake up, eat two bowls of Cheerios while reading Martha Stewart Living. I am not fond of fall crafts. I have no desire to stencil on gourds.

Noon: Nice roommate drives me to pick up my repaired car. I write a check that is nearly the amount of one of my paychecks. Think it would be appropos if Tina Turner song "Better be good to me" plays on the radio on the ride home. It doesn't.

1 p.m.: Walk to library and make copies of recipes from the awesome book Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone. Pick up The Canon: A Whirligig Tour of the Beautiful Basics of Science by the wonderful Natalie Angier; Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife on CD; and some other stuff. Feel that invigorating library high.

2 p.m.: Pore over my recipes for dishes to make for a vegan party. And a dinner party.

3 p.m.: Stupidly turn on computer. Much procrastination ensues. I spurn my to-do list in favor of Craig's List rentals, Zappos.com, gawker.com, et al.

5 p.m.: I spurn the Internet and recipes for just sitting there, acting as a free heater for my cats.

5: 45 p.m.: Castigate myself for being so fucking lazy.

6 p.m.: I spurn just sitting there for napping.

7 p.m.: Spurt of energy inspired by guilt. I move things from one room to another, clean out fridge, take out recyclables.

8 p.m.: Eat dinner, read more Martha Stewart. I hate squash.

9 p.m.: Wish I had someone to make out with. Visit Go Fug Yourself instead. Not as fun as sticking my tongue in someone's mouth. Generally.

10 p.m.: Actually do some work I had to do. In between internet surfing.

1 a.m.: To bed. Yawn.

for your eco blogging needs

2007-09-04T13:21:00.000-07:00

Terra, a reader of my former blog found her way here, and she's recently started up a eco-minded blog: Terra, not terror.

She has lots of posts on how to live more simply and/or with less environmental impact. Reading eco blogs can be overwhelming sometimes, but Terra nicely distills issues, bringing them to a level on which we can do something.

Go, Terra!

questions i have

2007-08-31T04:26:00.000-07:00

• When do you become too old to wear a Strawberry Shortcake tee shirt—even just to bed?

• Why am I awake at 7:30 a.m. on my day off?

• Why won't Dr. Pepper release me from its seductive thrall?

• What should I answer for the 10-year HS reunion survey question: "Married, children, etc?"
A. Swingin' single.
B. Cats, I have cats.
C. Single: please knock me up and marry me.
D. Having more fun than you.
E. Etc.

• How do I get the Pointer Sisters' song "Automatic" out of my head?

• How did said song get there in the first place?

trumped

2007-08-21T17:42:00.001-07:00

For some years now, my friends, family and i have made a farce out of my cat ownership. I was destined to be a cat lady was the joke. Stroopel and I even formed "the future spinsters of america," mock pledging allegiance to cats and sloe gin fizz.

It's true: I adore my cats. I let them sleep with me and their photo is my cellphone background. Whenever I get a boyfriend again, they may be demoted; it depends how cute he is.

The reality is that my interest in cats is nowhere near crazy cat lady proportions. This became starkly clear today when a co-worker tugged the waist of her pants down slightly to reveal the tattoo of her recently deceased cat. As another co-worker remarked, "today I saw dead pussy."

This woman's desk accoutrements also betray her cat fancy. Not the least, her computer, instead of dinging or beeping, meows.

There you have it, my friends. Try to mock me now.

new job concerns, addressed

2007-08-14T18:34:00.000-07:00

• I mostly have my own office. It's a really big room and sometimes there's someone at the other end. But this workplace is rather un-closed doors. It's like the family that doesn't close the door when they pee.

• Cat photo going in tomorrow.

• I checked my personal email on the first day. And about 6 times today. The internet is my would-be smoke break.

• Water=good.

• I can totally see lying on the floor there. In time. Belching will be first.

• No effing caller ID.

9-5

2007-08-12T18:31:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I start a new job, something I have not done in 5 years, 4 months. Concerns I have:

• I don't know yet if I have my own office or have to share. I have not shared an office in 5 years, 4 months. I would have to cut bananas out of my diet for, ahem, olfactory reasons.

• I'm going to be a 9-5 PC user. Blech.

• When will it be okay for me to put up photos of my cats?

• When will it be okay for me to check my email every other minute?

• What will the water taste like?!

• Will I be able to lie on the floor like I sometimes did at my previous job?

• I can now bring ham to the office...if I wanted to, but I don't. So I guess that's not really a concern.

• I hope to hell I have caller ID at this job.

• Which "This American Life" episode should I listen to during the long commute?

• I feel like I should really take up drinking coffee for said long commute. I don't like coffee.

• Will there be cute boys who aren't gay? (if you know where I was working, you'll understand.)

• I hope there's' a gel wrist pad.

house cleaning

2007-08-10T19:39:00.000-07:00

In a letter from my Japanese pen pal Maki:

"I want to come to America because I like River Phoenix. He's so cute!"

please don't call

2007-08-09T19:02:00.001-07:00

The Wonder Years is on. Winnie just "met someone" else.

garden-variety genitalia

2007-07-30T18:30:00.001-07:00

Imagine this. You return home after a wine-fueled shopping trip to Gabriel Brother's and are reveling in the purchase of a pink cowlneck shirt. You check the mail. Along with your much-anticipated subversive cross stitch pattern, you receive a jury summons. Surprisingly, you finagle the "fffuuu" that issues from your mouth into a neighbor-friendly "ffffuuuddge."

Then you inspect the flowerbeds and find these:

Thoughts that follow, in chronological order:

• Are these my tulip bulbs?

• Wait...who did this? Is someone mocking my feminist sensibilities by planting penis-like sculptures in my garden?

• Oh, mushrooms.....heh heh.

• I've got to call my parents and tell them I have penises growing in my yard!

• Wait, get a photo before it gets too dark.

sitting

2007-07-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

The dogs I am petsitting kinda freak out when I say "merci" with the best inflection four years of French can muster. Of course I keep saying it.

The one dog communicates her need to go outside by plopping her 40-pound self directly on top of me.

i'm not watching the cable as much as I should. But I'm thoroughly enjoying the stash of US Weekly.

your grandparents' pantry

2007-07-17T19:14:00.000-07:00

"I am also wondering when enough of the oldest generation will die out for the candy company to stop manufacturing those butterscotch and blue mint hard candies. I mean, no one over 80 ate those 20 years ago! Pepsodent and Tussy Cream Deodorant better start putting out ads with cartoon characters and super rad looking kids."

c/o tina ballerina

*People use Pepsodent b/c it's supercheap. I used it until like two years ago when I realized it tasted like shit and I could afford the extra dollar and a half for Tom's of Maine (if bought on sale, mind you.)

**I don't know what the hell Tussy Cream Deodorant is, but I oppose putting anything, ahem, creamy in my armpits.

decisions

2007-07-11T16:46:00.000-07:00

There's been a lot of decisions made today.

1. Should I accept this job offer and quit my job?
Yes, yes

2. Where should we go to eat lunch?
Rockne's, meh.

3. What to watch on TV tonight: "So you think you can dance" or "Synchronized Swimming: The Pursuit of Excellence"?
To be determined

SALE!

2007-07-07T19:51:00.000-07:00

My distinctive pedigree includes a well articulated garage sale-ing gene.

Before I was a "twinkle"—as my father liked to refer to the time when my parents had not yet planned to conceive me in the back of a van—my parents would skip high school and hit the sales. Garage sales.

My grandmother often does Christmas shopping at garage sales. She maintains a list of items family members are looking for so that she can scour the garages of Berea. Frankly, I would not be surprised to hear that someone rear ended her Rav 4 because she hastily applied the brakes upon spotting a sale.

Early memory: I am riding in the baby seat on the back of my mom's bike, trying to hold this gigantic pink sewing box she bought at a garage sale.

Little bit later memory: It's summer and I can't sleep. It's not because I have a big day at drama camp the next day or something. No, we're having a garage sale. It's too exciting. I will totally earn enough money from selling My Little Ponies to buy a Heart Family doll!

Today: My garage sale gene has become overpowered in the last few years by, um, logic. Is it really worth my time to sit outside all day so someone can pay me 50¢ for a book I spent $10 on?

But every year the street I live on has a street sale. The last two years I literally threw crap on my lawn and left a sign that said "please take." This year I bucked logic and set up shop. This time my sign read "Name your price. If I'm too lazy to mark prices, then it's probably cheap."

If you have done the garage sale circuit, then you probably know the nuances. For those of you who have never bought a half-used bottle of hand lotion or a dog-eared book, here's some highlights:

• The early birds: First of all, they're on my shit list b/c they are willingly up early. Second, I'm not keen on them rummaging through my stuff while I'm wiping the dried drool from my cheek and trying to get some semblance of order.

• The freaks: This is part of the reason you have garage sales: People watching. Sometimes this guy with a parrot on his shoulder hits our street sale.

• The earnest children: They are so freakin' thrilled to buy useless crap with their own money. Today, an eight-year old boy excitedly bought a typewriter for $3, "so I can type the story I'm writing!" I wanted to take a syringe to him and suck out all his innocence for myself.

• The hardcore: These people don't mess around. They leave the car runninng while they ask if you have a particular item—musical instruments, Longaberger baskets, jewelry, guns. They almost always wear fanny packs.

The end result: I netted about $60, some sun, some computer time and banter with neighbors and sale goers. Plus I left the remaining stuff on my lawn in the hopes that some thug will abscond with three rolls of waxed paper or the old issues of Lucky magazine.

no subject

2007-06-28T13:32:00.000-07:00

Isn't the internet just so handy? When I'm starting to type a subject line in an email, it helpfully suggests subject lines I've already used. Which is nice in case I ever need to use these gems again:

barium mcbarison

dildo, dildo, dildo...i made you out of clay

did you wear white?

don't feel my heat just yet

dirty knees, look at these

Harems R Us

i got somethin' to really make you fly

Meeting about un!@#$ing believable

the email in which everyone likes everyone else

wielding a cropper and an unwavering distrust of Jostens representatives

reasons i probably shouldn't be your friend

winnie cooper...meow!

victim

2007-06-21T09:45:00.000-07:00

I have become haplessly under the sway of a pop country song. By an American Idol winner, nonetheless.

Yes, Carrie Underwood's "Before he cheats" just might (just might) win a place on my iPod. I might have to kick off some of the copious amounts of lesbian folk rock to fit it on.

Even in its Top 40-ness, the song's allure is the pure country attitude. People on Top 40 Radio don't sing about slashing tires or "keying the side of his little souped up 4-wheel drive."

Unlike the narrator of the song, I'm not a wronged woman—thus not more inclined toward songs in the "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" genre. But I think we all have room in our hearts for some country song sentiment. And I think I'll sing along.

juggz

2007-06-17T14:32:00.001-07:00

I recently gave my friend The Masseuse* a boobie pillow. For some reason it became very important to me to gift her a knitted boob—or two. I don't know why. Perhaps because she is into body parts—as a massage therapist in training—or because she is a kicky feminist.

So when I saw this boobilicious pillow online, I hit paypal faster than a nipple goes hard in winter. It turned out to be larger than I thought but the pair was quite accomodating for resting your head between—as any good set of breasts should be.

* Masseusse is obviously an unfavored term for massage therapist. I use it here to preserve her aura of intrigue.

sexy

2007-06-13T08:09:00.000-07:00

A side effect of my job is having old people stop by my office. Spontaneously. Always spontaneously.

One cute lil bugger stopped by yesterday. His preferred adjective was "sexy." The photo scanner was sexy. Email was sexy. The computer was sexy.

Hearing the word "sexy" repeatedly issue from the lips of this man, mottled with age, creeped me out. He pulled the word out, breath flushing the syllables, like it was to be whispered in his ladyfriend's ear.

But he was talking about computers. Unless there's porn involved, there's very little engorgement around computers. (Correct me if I'm wrong, my nerdy comrades.)

It's not like he was telling me I was sexy. I'm not sure that would have been worse.

meow

2007-06-12T06:30:00.000-07:00

Today I was invited to be a "friend" of my cats. On Myspace.

Apparently my brother had created a profile for them as a cover for some band or another of his. So my cats have 48 "friends," most of which are bands.

My cats are big in the indie rock world of Northeast Ohio.

what I wanted as a child that I do not want now

2007-06-07T13:26:00.000-07:00

An all-Debbie Gibson, all-the-time radio station.
(age 12)

To be an actress.
(age 10-13)

A plum and maroon painted room.
(age 6)

For my father to bathe me.
(age 3)

To get up at 6:30 a.m. on Saturdays (to watch Small Wonder).
(age 7)

A stonewashed jean jacket.
(age 9)

To be a Sleepover Friend.*
(age 9)

To be a member of PETA.
(age 14)

* I still want to be a sleepover friend, but of the less virtuous variety.

bringing a whole 'nother kindof ugly to Crocs

2007-06-05T10:31:00.001-07:00

Cloggens

tmi

2007-06-03T18:10:00.000-07:00

• The homogenity of only one choice of shampoo or conditioner in the shower pains me.

• I never thought I'd worry about my weight, but I now do.

• While I adore watching The Office, I am perpetually distracted by the mint green walls and black trim in Michael's office. They're very aesthetically pleasing.

• I usually walk extremely fast.

• I am the "unwanted food fairy" (or faerie, if you're goth). I bequeath items like half-used jars of olives and schnapps with a shot left—left from roommates who've moved out or friends who have moved away; cereal I don't like; and tea people give me to RDb and my brother.

• My mother once suggested that I should "get some practice" having sex.

• My first bicycle was picked out of the trash. So was my second. My dad and I once picked a three-wheeled bike out of the trash and gave it to our paperboy, who probably cringed.

• I don't believe in horoscopes or astrology, but I stringently maintain the superstition of knocking wood.

• I'm an English major who has no desire whatsoever to write the "Great American Novel."

• I have to tuck my pajama bottoms into my socks when I go to bed. Sometimes I have to wear leg warmers, too.

• I hope my one ovary can be of service to me in the near future.

entomologist's lovers pizza

2007-06-02T18:55:00.000-07:00

Tonight I went to a pizza party, where there were many creative varieties of pizzas. Including beetle and larvae pizza.

(reasonable facsimile of the pizza I saw)

Nancy Regan would be proud; I just said no.

clipped wings

2007-05-31T11:20:00.000-07:00

I often work with clip art, and I've developed a number of opinions about the genre (I know I should be reserving my opinions for more important matters—like fonts.)

Conventional clip art collections are lamentably sexist. This was reiterated to me when searching for girl/sport in an online clip art resource. Unfortunately, I was not looking for art of girls engaged in cheerleading or gymnastics; if I was, I'd have no problem. Well...I might, since the two selections below were among the choices.

I'm sure those images would be helpful if one was searching for "inebriated stripper with palms on fire." Even so, I would venture that I could draw a better drunk stripper using my left hand–while I was drunk.

Oh, but there were some images of girls participating in non-traditional gender-typed athletics. Here's one:

Unfortunately, she's apparently dead. So much for beating down the patriarchy; she probably went swimming during her period.

the what and why

2007-05-29T19:41:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon no great epiphanies in deciding to take my blogging underground. Nor did I labor over a name—unlike everything else I've ever had the privilege to name. (Blondie and Dagwood, my one-time snails, your names did not come easily.)

But now that it's here, alive and labeled thusly, I can't help but assign some earnest meaning to the name: Parenthetical.

Our minds are constantly generating series of parentheses, interrupting the subject at hand. Parentheses are fun, but organized fun. This blog will not be a hippie jam band of the blogosphere. That's why parentheses exist—to cleanly cordon off the tangents.

Sounds good.

* * *

Apart from having a vindictive stalker, my blog had been suffering. A symptom of my diminished creative energy, perhaps. And a victim of self-censorship. I could let my blogging life die, but, not only do I have trouble letting go, it serves a need for me—creative and, at times, solipsistic.

So reinvention, then. A new hair color, a new name and maybe a new blogging life. Cheers!