Saturday, March 11, 2006
A Proud Sistah, I Am
Congratulations to my brilliant little brother for landing a superb position in a local law firm yesterday. He moved back home from NYC only a couple of months ago, broke and discouraged by shady dealings and unethical practices he’d witnessed in certain firms there (one reason why I admire him so much -- he stands up for justice, which is what an attorney should do), but this firm is da bomb! Gave him a clothing allowance and everything. Now he’ll have the means to take the bar and become the Clarence Darrow of Rochester. And, uh, maybe someday buy his big sister something pretty? Like, sparkly and very expensive kind of pretty? ‘Cause, you know, lawyers are rolling in it. ;-)
Friday, March 10, 2006
I’ve Got a Crush on You
Taylor Hicks, perhaps the best American Idol contestant to ever grace its cheesy stage, has captured my heart with his brilliant Ray Charles/Joe Cocker-like stylings, not to mention his glorious head of prematurely gray hair, sexy Southern drawl, and adorable tics. The man TICS, people, just gets all crazy and jerks and weaves about like Stevie Wonder on methamphetamines. ***shriek!***
I love him.
Here’s a clip of Taylor singing “Taking it to the Streets.” Not my favorite vocal performance of his, as the song doesn’t allow him to showcase his incredible voice to its GAWD-dang fullest, but it does feature him in his finest ticcing glory. ***squeal!***
Don’t hate, Robin. RESPECT the Idol!
Wednesday, March 8, 2006
My Soul in a Locket
Dan told me the other day that he saw you, recognized you, even though he was a good ten yards away, his vision obscured by dirty city bus window. He told me that your walk is burned into his brain, the subtle limp, the hulking stride, the way your shoulders round off and heave forward with each insulting step. Funny how insignificant things like someone’s walk can stay with a person, even after twenty-five years. He was, what? - nine, ten the last time he ever laid eyes on you?
There was no doubt in his mind that that was you, and before the bus gasped and lurched away from the stop, you turned in its direction, in Dan’s direction, and he saw your face, plain as day, bloated with alcohol. Your unmistakable seventies era, I-Look-Like-Burt-Reynolds-Don’t-I? mustache still rusty-red, still ridiculous.
But he remembers that walk of yours, not only the visual peculiarities, but the sound. He laughed as he said to me “Remember how he used to clomp up the stairs when he was pissed, and Rob and I would hide in our bedroom closet?” He laughed, but the humor was forced, just as it always was forced. Our laughter helped us tolerate the intolerable. We used to call you Big Red behind your back, even our dad. So how’s that asshole Big Red? he’d ask And we all would laugh.
You won’t like what I’m about to tell you, but Dad once declared that if he weren’t so goddamned weak with cancer, he’d blow a hole in your red face with his hunting rifle. I enjoyed hearing that. You, the coward of all cowards, couldn't wait for him to die, could you? You restrained that one last devil dog within, the most evil one, until it was safe to let him loose. I think I actually heard the snap of the leash on the day my father passed.
Sometimes my brothers and I called you Big Red Thud, too. Or just Thud. You always wore your shoes in the house, would leave tracks across Mom’s clean linoleum. I don’t allow shoes in my home, like the Japanese. It is disrespectful to bring the filth of the streets into someone’s home. But you wouldn’t know about that, just as you wouldn’t know about the nightmares I still have, the nauseating waves of shame that overcome me at odd times, the exasperation of my husband when I get in a mood, how I hide not only from you, but from the world as well
And you wouldn’t know the insecurity, terror, suspicion I carried for years, still carry. The sheer obesity of it all prevents me from mastering certain tasks, indulging in ordinary privileges most take for granted, as I am weighted down with you, just pounds and pounds of you. I am seen by many as eccentric, dependant, strange, but they don't know how strong I really am. Despite the unnatural disasters I've been through, I've accomplished much, I take pride in those accomplishments, and I've earned the right to shout a big fuck you at those who look upon my lifestyle or my choices with scorn.
I have survived the avalanche of you, and I am glad to be alive, but the dust, Jesus...Some days I can hardly breathe. Some nights it settles into my sleep, and I dream of being tapped on the shoulder, I dream of innocence tumbling down, of your limping gait; I dream of lost childhood things, like tiny violet-scented dolls encased in lockets or passionate notes scribbled in raggedy notebooks, and I miss them with an intensity afforded only to living things, real things.
I wake and wonder where they might have gone. Are they lying beneath tons upon tons of others’ childhood things in some Riga landfill? Are my dolls still whole, would they smell as sweet despite decades beneath the rot? They were, after all, protected by sturdy gem-cut glass. They are a symbol of preservation, though their whereabouts are a mystery, but they are out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered, cleansed, worn on a chain around some darling little girl's neck.
Metaphor, I know, is above your ignorant head, but I want you to know something, you rotten bastard, I want you to finally know something, so I'll state it simply, loudly: I may still be covered in your dust, the rubble of injustice, fears that taint the quality of my life, but you will not suffocate me. I may not be capable -- yet -- of living my life easy, but I will never go out the hard way. I may choke, weep, cough, bend, but I will always find a bubble of fresh air to get me through. And I may never recapture those damn dolls, but I will continue to search, even if it takes the remainder of my life. So keep walking, free man, keep on limping toward your invariably lonely death, and take my burden with you, please. I don’t want to carry you anymore.
There was no doubt in his mind that that was you, and before the bus gasped and lurched away from the stop, you turned in its direction, in Dan’s direction, and he saw your face, plain as day, bloated with alcohol. Your unmistakable seventies era, I-Look-Like-Burt-Reynolds-Don’t-I? mustache still rusty-red, still ridiculous.
But he remembers that walk of yours, not only the visual peculiarities, but the sound. He laughed as he said to me “Remember how he used to clomp up the stairs when he was pissed, and Rob and I would hide in our bedroom closet?” He laughed, but the humor was forced, just as it always was forced. Our laughter helped us tolerate the intolerable. We used to call you Big Red behind your back, even our dad. So how’s that asshole Big Red? he’d ask And we all would laugh.
You won’t like what I’m about to tell you, but Dad once declared that if he weren’t so goddamned weak with cancer, he’d blow a hole in your red face with his hunting rifle. I enjoyed hearing that. You, the coward of all cowards, couldn't wait for him to die, could you? You restrained that one last devil dog within, the most evil one, until it was safe to let him loose. I think I actually heard the snap of the leash on the day my father passed.
Sometimes my brothers and I called you Big Red Thud, too. Or just Thud. You always wore your shoes in the house, would leave tracks across Mom’s clean linoleum. I don’t allow shoes in my home, like the Japanese. It is disrespectful to bring the filth of the streets into someone’s home. But you wouldn’t know about that, just as you wouldn’t know about the nightmares I still have, the nauseating waves of shame that overcome me at odd times, the exasperation of my husband when I get in a mood, how I hide not only from you, but from the world as well
And you wouldn’t know the insecurity, terror, suspicion I carried for years, still carry. The sheer obesity of it all prevents me from mastering certain tasks, indulging in ordinary privileges most take for granted, as I am weighted down with you, just pounds and pounds of you. I am seen by many as eccentric, dependant, strange, but they don't know how strong I really am. Despite the unnatural disasters I've been through, I've accomplished much, I take pride in those accomplishments, and I've earned the right to shout a big fuck you at those who look upon my lifestyle or my choices with scorn.
I have survived the avalanche of you, and I am glad to be alive, but the dust, Jesus...Some days I can hardly breathe. Some nights it settles into my sleep, and I dream of being tapped on the shoulder, I dream of innocence tumbling down, of your limping gait; I dream of lost childhood things, like tiny violet-scented dolls encased in lockets or passionate notes scribbled in raggedy notebooks, and I miss them with an intensity afforded only to living things, real things.
I wake and wonder where they might have gone. Are they lying beneath tons upon tons of others’ childhood things in some Riga landfill? Are my dolls still whole, would they smell as sweet despite decades beneath the rot? They were, after all, protected by sturdy gem-cut glass. They are a symbol of preservation, though their whereabouts are a mystery, but they are out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered, cleansed, worn on a chain around some darling little girl's neck.
Metaphor, I know, is above your ignorant head, but I want you to know something, you rotten bastard, I want you to finally know something, so I'll state it simply, loudly: I may still be covered in your dust, the rubble of injustice, fears that taint the quality of my life, but you will not suffocate me. I may not be capable -- yet -- of living my life easy, but I will never go out the hard way. I may choke, weep, cough, bend, but I will always find a bubble of fresh air to get me through. And I may never recapture those damn dolls, but I will continue to search, even if it takes the remainder of my life. So keep walking, free man, keep on limping toward your invariably lonely death, and take my burden with you, please. I don’t want to carry you anymore.
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
Serena Williams is Stupid
During E!’s post-Oscar party coverage, tennis amazon, Serena Williams, referred to Best Actor winner Philip Seymour Hoffman as Phillip Seamen Hoffmore.
On a lighter note, my son ate a chocolate bar in the "formal" living room (off-limits to rugrats who may be harboring dangerous confections), and when I discovered brown, slimy handprints all over my ottoman, I turned to the boy and said, "Shall I beat you now or later?"
He looked up at me, face smeared with Hershey bar, and said "Later, after I finish my chocolate?"
God, he's adorable.
ADDENDUM: Okay, okay, I know my boy's brilliant quips are probably of no interest to anyone but myself, but lord, he really is brilliant. Here's his latest, said to me as I was folding laundry today...
Brandon: Daddy's not right in the head.
Me: Why do you say that, honey?
Brandon: Because he won't buy me a puppy. Something's really wrong with Daddy's head. Right, Mommy?
Me: That's right, sweetheart. But we love Daddy, anyway.
On a lighter note, my son ate a chocolate bar in the "formal" living room (off-limits to rugrats who may be harboring dangerous confections), and when I discovered brown, slimy handprints all over my ottoman, I turned to the boy and said, "Shall I beat you now or later?"
He looked up at me, face smeared with Hershey bar, and said "Later, after I finish my chocolate?"
God, he's adorable.
ADDENDUM: Okay, okay, I know my boy's brilliant quips are probably of no interest to anyone but myself, but lord, he really is brilliant. Here's his latest, said to me as I was folding laundry today...
Brandon: Daddy's not right in the head.
Me: Why do you say that, honey?
Brandon: Because he won't buy me a puppy. Something's really wrong with Daddy's head. Right, Mommy?
Me: That's right, sweetheart. But we love Daddy, anyway.
Monday, March 6, 2006
How I Spent Oscar Day
7:30 a.m.: Up and at 'em
8:00: Coffee is made, boy’s diaper removed, butt washed, Nemo underwear on
8:30: Breakfast served, one argument broken up (dispute over who gets to feed their Neopets first).
9:00: Trudge up to office, have coffee, cigarette, read and reply to E-mail.
9:15: Trudge down from office, break up another argument (dispute over who stole Sarah’s pack of Trident Splash).
9:20: Trudge back up to office, light two cigarettes, stick one up each nostril, consume a half gallon of coffee, continue answering E-mail, visit Zoetrope Studios, decide to post on discussion board later that day, after third or forth beer.
11:00: Drink large glass of water, have a 45 minute workout on the elliptical.
12:00 p.m.: Take hot bath, pop open first beer.
12:45: Make lunch for kids, clean up blobs of jelly with wet paper towel.
1:15: Talk to Mom on the phone, discuss the virtues of Philip Seymour Hoffman, listen while rolling eyes as Mom once again regales me with the story of when she almost met him when he visited the hospital where she works. Remind Mom, again, that Phil doesn’t travel everywhere with “bodyguards,” and that the men he was with that day were probably buds of his, all of them visiting a sick friend. Roll eyes while listening, again, to Mom’s description of the back of his head, his long coat flying around the corner as she and her co-workers stalked Phil and his posse down the corridor. Pop open second beer.
1:30: Break up argument over who hit whom first, restrain boy as he repeatedly smashes cupboard door in a fit of anger, put boy in his room for time out, smash own head into wall, pop open third beer.
2:00: Post asinine messages on Zoetrope, consider deleting them, decide not to, pop open forth beer.
2:30: Clean twenty-sixth mess of the day with wet paper towels, become annoyed that crumbled Pringles do not clean up well with wet paper towels, break out the vacuum.
2:45: Fifth beer meets my lips.
3:00: Lar and I watch lame Discovery Channel program with the boy, which strangely becomes very interesting as I sip my sixth beer. Who’d a thunk that an entire oak tree could be transplanted so easily? And look at that huge trash-smashing machine! Ooooh, Lar, I want one of those monster backhoes from hell! Fascinating, all of them.
4:00: Rejoice when all the kids leave to play at neighbors’ houses, celebrate with seventh beer.
5:00 - 7:00: A bit hazy, but I believe I may have fixed dinner in between there, mugged Lar for his wallet, stuffed forty bucks into bra, laughed hysterically when Lar made an ugly face and did a frightening Zulu dance.
8:00 - 11:00: Oscar time! Again, hazy, especially since I was so very logy from eating three chicken cordon bleu sandwiches with a side of steak fries and gravy. Fight to stay awake for Phil’s shining moment. Beam while Phil accepts the statue for Best Actor, imagine that my mom is probably weeping with joy over his sweet acceptance speech. Become disturbed by that image. Drift off for a bit, awaken to Lar’s inhuman snoring, catch most of the performance for Hustle & Flow’s nominated song, “It’s Hard Out Here For a Pimp,” rub eyes, itch ears in disbelief. Lar wakes, presumably because he hears the word “pimp” in his subconscious. He rubs eyes, itches ears, snorts. We both enjoy the prancing prostitutes and swaggering pimpage. After Three 6 Mafia wins the Oscar for that catchy little tune, beating out the gorgeous, intelligent, haunting “In the Deep” by Bird York for Crash, Lar snorts a few more times, falls back to sleep, and I, too, head off to the land of nod, visions of a perplexed Jack Nicholson dancing in my head.
8:00: Coffee is made, boy’s diaper removed, butt washed, Nemo underwear on
8:30: Breakfast served, one argument broken up (dispute over who gets to feed their Neopets first).
9:00: Trudge up to office, have coffee, cigarette, read and reply to E-mail.
9:15: Trudge down from office, break up another argument (dispute over who stole Sarah’s pack of Trident Splash).
9:20: Trudge back up to office, light two cigarettes, stick one up each nostril, consume a half gallon of coffee, continue answering E-mail, visit Zoetrope Studios, decide to post on discussion board later that day, after third or forth beer.
11:00: Drink large glass of water, have a 45 minute workout on the elliptical.
12:00 p.m.: Take hot bath, pop open first beer.
12:45: Make lunch for kids, clean up blobs of jelly with wet paper towel.
1:15: Talk to Mom on the phone, discuss the virtues of Philip Seymour Hoffman, listen while rolling eyes as Mom once again regales me with the story of when she almost met him when he visited the hospital where she works. Remind Mom, again, that Phil doesn’t travel everywhere with “bodyguards,” and that the men he was with that day were probably buds of his, all of them visiting a sick friend. Roll eyes while listening, again, to Mom’s description of the back of his head, his long coat flying around the corner as she and her co-workers stalked Phil and his posse down the corridor. Pop open second beer.
1:30: Break up argument over who hit whom first, restrain boy as he repeatedly smashes cupboard door in a fit of anger, put boy in his room for time out, smash own head into wall, pop open third beer.
2:00: Post asinine messages on Zoetrope, consider deleting them, decide not to, pop open forth beer.
2:30: Clean twenty-sixth mess of the day with wet paper towels, become annoyed that crumbled Pringles do not clean up well with wet paper towels, break out the vacuum.
2:45: Fifth beer meets my lips.
3:00: Lar and I watch lame Discovery Channel program with the boy, which strangely becomes very interesting as I sip my sixth beer. Who’d a thunk that an entire oak tree could be transplanted so easily? And look at that huge trash-smashing machine! Ooooh, Lar, I want one of those monster backhoes from hell! Fascinating, all of them.
4:00: Rejoice when all the kids leave to play at neighbors’ houses, celebrate with seventh beer.
5:00 - 7:00: A bit hazy, but I believe I may have fixed dinner in between there, mugged Lar for his wallet, stuffed forty bucks into bra, laughed hysterically when Lar made an ugly face and did a frightening Zulu dance.
8:00 - 11:00: Oscar time! Again, hazy, especially since I was so very logy from eating three chicken cordon bleu sandwiches with a side of steak fries and gravy. Fight to stay awake for Phil’s shining moment. Beam while Phil accepts the statue for Best Actor, imagine that my mom is probably weeping with joy over his sweet acceptance speech. Become disturbed by that image. Drift off for a bit, awaken to Lar’s inhuman snoring, catch most of the performance for Hustle & Flow’s nominated song, “It’s Hard Out Here For a Pimp,” rub eyes, itch ears in disbelief. Lar wakes, presumably because he hears the word “pimp” in his subconscious. He rubs eyes, itches ears, snorts. We both enjoy the prancing prostitutes and swaggering pimpage. After Three 6 Mafia wins the Oscar for that catchy little tune, beating out the gorgeous, intelligent, haunting “In the Deep” by Bird York for Crash, Lar snorts a few more times, falls back to sleep, and I, too, head off to the land of nod, visions of a perplexed Jack Nicholson dancing in my head.
Friday, March 3, 2006
Cock Shopping?
Don’t mind if I do!
Last night I had a dream in which Lar and I went shopping for a new penis -- his, to be exact.
Yes, it was a wonderful time, just me and Lar, finally able to spend time alone, away from the screaming masses (our kids), and the variety on display at the penis store was truly breathtaking. Why, they had every size, shape and color imaginable, some bent, others ramrod straight, and some with adorable little knit caps. After what seemed a long, long time of browsing the manly merchandise, I suggested to my equally enthralled husband that he might like to try on the Jimbo, a lovely toffee-colored specimen of enormous proportion, and just as he was getting ready to emerge from the dressing room, me all aflutter in anticipation, I woke up.
Have you ever tried desperately to go back to sleep, resume a particularly awesome dream, but were unable, then became so frustrated you tore your pillow in half with your teeth? Yeah, me too.
On that note, I’ll leave you by saying that I hope my homeboy, Philip Seymour Hoffman, gets the golden nude this Sunday. Talk about dreamy! That man is not only sexy-fine-glorious, he’s funny, intelligent and one of the best actors of our generation. So, Phil (as I like to call him), if you’re reading this (which, of course, you aren’t, but I’m allowed to dream, aren’t I ? -- see above), I have a few things to say before you head for the red carpet: Have fun. Bring home that Oscar. And don’t forget where you came from. You’re still a RAWchestarian, boy, and don’t tell me your heart doesn’t still lie in Tanglefoot’s. Good luck!
Last night I had a dream in which Lar and I went shopping for a new penis -- his, to be exact.
Yes, it was a wonderful time, just me and Lar, finally able to spend time alone, away from the screaming masses (our kids), and the variety on display at the penis store was truly breathtaking. Why, they had every size, shape and color imaginable, some bent, others ramrod straight, and some with adorable little knit caps. After what seemed a long, long time of browsing the manly merchandise, I suggested to my equally enthralled husband that he might like to try on the Jimbo, a lovely toffee-colored specimen of enormous proportion, and just as he was getting ready to emerge from the dressing room, me all aflutter in anticipation, I woke up.
Have you ever tried desperately to go back to sleep, resume a particularly awesome dream, but were unable, then became so frustrated you tore your pillow in half with your teeth? Yeah, me too.
On that note, I’ll leave you by saying that I hope my homeboy, Philip Seymour Hoffman, gets the golden nude this Sunday. Talk about dreamy! That man is not only sexy-fine-glorious, he’s funny, intelligent and one of the best actors of our generation. So, Phil (as I like to call him), if you’re reading this (which, of course, you aren’t, but I’m allowed to dream, aren’t I ? -- see above), I have a few things to say before you head for the red carpet: Have fun. Bring home that Oscar. And don’t forget where you came from. You’re still a RAWchestarian, boy, and don’t tell me your heart doesn’t still lie in Tanglefoot’s. Good luck!
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
Just Because I’m in a Really Bad Mood...
And feeling uncharacteristically homely today, I thought I’d cheer myself up by surfing the ‘Net for terrible pictures of usually gorgeous women. Feel my pain, bitches.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Evangeline Lilly
Apparently, the Cindy Brady look is all the rage now. And I must say, I gloated just a little (fine, a lot) when I discovered that this otherwise exquisite woman looks terrifically bad in a swimsuit. There is a god after all.
Jessica Simpson
I almost felt sorry for her when I first saw this, what with the demonic possession and all, but then I remembered the pornographic Pizza Hut ad where Jessica, half-dressed and obviously suffering from collagen rejection, shoots big cheesy balls of sin into a quivering adolescent boy’s open mouth, and then my pity turned to immense glee.
Catherine Zeta-Jones
Well, ‘allo, Miz Jones! Wot’s that scone doin’ on yer face, then? Blimey…Yer old nose, you say? A thousand apologies, ma’am. A thousand apologies!
Cameron Diaz
Honestly, this woman looks so ugly here, my son, who walked into the room just now, said, “Mommy, I don’t like that man.”
Thank you, Brandon, for saving me the time of thinking up an appropriate caption.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce that I now feel a little less homely and sad.
Good day.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Evangeline Lilly
Apparently, the Cindy Brady look is all the rage now. And I must say, I gloated just a little (fine, a lot) when I discovered that this otherwise exquisite woman looks terrifically bad in a swimsuit. There is a god after all.
Jessica Simpson
I almost felt sorry for her when I first saw this, what with the demonic possession and all, but then I remembered the pornographic Pizza Hut ad where Jessica, half-dressed and obviously suffering from collagen rejection, shoots big cheesy balls of sin into a quivering adolescent boy’s open mouth, and then my pity turned to immense glee.
Catherine Zeta-Jones
Well, ‘allo, Miz Jones! Wot’s that scone doin’ on yer face, then? Blimey…Yer old nose, you say? A thousand apologies, ma’am. A thousand apologies!
Cameron Diaz
Honestly, this woman looks so ugly here, my son, who walked into the room just now, said, “Mommy, I don’t like that man.”
Thank you, Brandon, for saving me the time of thinking up an appropriate caption.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce that I now feel a little less homely and sad.
Good day.
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