January 28, 2009
I have a big giant crush on everything Marc Jacobs touches. This video of his Louis Vuitton collection with Madge made me swoon. It’s tres chic.
My husband was out of town for three days this weekend. That fact alone made me want to pull my eyelids over my head and become an eyelid ball. It was sucky. I was bored. If instead, he went out of town during the week, I would have busied myself with play dates and lunches with fabulous mommies and friends, but NOOOO, he had to go durning the weekend, when all my fabulous mommies and friends had plans with their families and loved ones. So, I needed a project to do, I woke up Saturday morning and decided I’d rearrange our room. I used to do it all the time when I was younger. And the idea of doing it all myself, and to be acknowledged as having super human strength was compelling.
So I moved all the furniture, and wouldn’t you know? It was totally disgusting. OH, the hair! There were rouge hairs and dust-bunnies everywhere. I think the strands of hair and dust mites fell in love and had unprotected sex, because there was this strange hybrid of hairy dust under the bed and in the little cracks between the carpet and the floorboards. I still shudder a little bit thinking of it. And last night I had a dream that a hairy hybrid dust bunny chased me, and it wanted my shoes and I’m almost positive it also wanted to have unprotected sex with me. That skank.
Here’s some photos of the completed room. I don’t have any before photos. But just imagine a messy room with baby and dog toys strewn about.
I think it’s a vast improvement:
There’s this fantastic clothing company called EVER. All their stuff is pretty much awesome, and they’re having a sale. You should check it out. You can get a hot leather jacket for 300 bucks, then you should hop on your moped, drive around the city streets, and sing a song about how great you are.
We had some kind of leak problem in our home. We noticed it the day that Pat carried the trash out to the garage, and since he was heading out, I loaded the bag with all the sticky condiments that have been living undisturbed in our fridge for the past 2 years. I piled soy sauce, marinade, and horseradish jars on top of bacon fat, a half eaten apple, and a del taco burrito that I didn’t finish. Then Pat turned towards the garage, and just as he did, the bag broke, and all the nasty shit spilled all over the floor. I gasped, because that’s what I do. The dog jumped for joy and started dry humping the chicken bones, and Pat put on gloves and a mask, and started cleaning it up. It was pretty fantastic the way it all worked out. I stayed out of the way, because I was already dry-heaving and clearly Pat had it covered.
But then I stepped on the corner of the rug, to get out of the way, and was all, “oh fuck, the dog peed on the rug again.” Only it wasn’t pee, it was the leak from our pipes that run under the tile. But we had already thrown out the rug and skinned the dog, but kept her ears because they’re so soft and lovely to rub.
So anyways. All day yesterday our house looked like a scene from E.T. You know, the part where E.T. has phenoma or something and he’s in the breathing tent, and Drew Berrymore gives him some Reese’s Peices, and he’s all WTF, Drew? I’m an alien, I eat space orbs and galactic vittles, not Reese’s Pieces. Seriously Drew, I thought you loved me, now get me a space burger, I’m frickin’ dying here.
But now there’s these galactic holes in our walls, and I’m scared a rat that resembles E.T. is going to scurry out and eat my face off. Because that could totally happen.
And don’t judge my cottage cheese ceiling. I like it. It’s retro, and you secretly wish you hadn’t scraped yours off, because mine looks so stellar.
I’ve noticed something peculiar with myself. OR maybe it’s that I’ve noticed something peculiar with other people, because most of the time it’s the other people that are strange, but whatever it is, it’s frickin weird:
When I’m in a school, or lecture, or sitting in a group of people to learn some stuff, nobody sits by me. What the eff people?? Do I have the stinkies? Do I look like a crazy bitch who will show you an origami crane I made with one hand, and then stab you in the shoulder with the other hand, and then, while you’re on the ground rolling around in pain, take your monogrammed Coach bag? Do I not look friendly, cute, or personable? Maybe it’s that I look overly eager to have a friend. Perhaps I look like I want to be your best friend and talk through the whole class, and tell you all about my yeast infection, and my botched highlights, and how my dog likes her belly rubbed. I think that’s what it is. I’m too friendly. Well, there’s nothing wrong with being too friendly, is there?
Well fine then. I’ll be a subtle bitch. I’ll sit down and as soon as you look like you’re going to sit next to me, I’ll whip out my phone and start to check my email. I think it’s actually a good thing that no one sits by me. That means I get to put my bag on the chair next to me, and I can fart freely, and I can look like one of those self assured, empowered girls that don’t need people to sit next to them to measure their self worth.
I’m fine with it, really I am.
It’s Inauguration day. That’s a tricky word to spell: In-aug-u-ration. Remember in school when you’d clap each syllable? That was fun. It made talking extra exciting.
So, anyways, I don’t have any plans… because a certain someone whose name rhymes with ‘pajama’ forgot to send my invitation. ugh. I’m not bitter, but it’s just that I got my gown dry cleaned and dammit, I’m planning on wearing it. So I need something fabulous to do today.
First I’m going to watch this:
and pledge to only flush after a deuce, never a single.
and then I’m going to tattoo Barack’s face on my back.
And then I’m going to make a hat out of solar panels, so that I can harvest enough of the sun’s energy to sew a purse out of hemp and dandelion leaves, to go with my kicky red, white, and blue jumper.
And I’m doing all while in my fancy ball gown.
While I was in the kitchen last night, cooking up a fresh batch of bacon for dinner, I heard the faint sound of carousel music. And then I started thinking, did the association put a carousel in? That’s nice. We need a little sprucing up in our neighbrohood. A heard of fiberglass horses is just the thing! But, I feel like that’s something that I would have noticed them putting it in. Perhaps it was the time I laid in bed all day because I had nothing clean to wear, and I read Pottery Barn catalogues while Berlyn read something about a hippopotamus by Sandra Boynton.
Then, I heard the noise again, but it sounded closer. HOT DOG! IT”S A MOBILE CAROUSEL! How cool is that? You can suck it surrounding neighborhoods! We have a mobile carousel! And NO, we will NOT let you ride it. No reason really, I’m just feeling stingy and oddly possessive over the fact that we have a mobile carousel.
With enthusiasm in my step, I grabbed for the door, and flung it open to check out our new attraction. It was dark outside, so I had to squint a bit, but I did not see a mobile carousel, I saw an ice cream truck. LAME. Now I feel gypped. What am I going to hold over the other neighborhood’s head so ours feels vastly superior? An ice cream truck? Boo!
Okay, wait a minute. What is an ice cream truck doing at 6:30? It’s dark out, and mommies are cooking fresh stacks of bacon for their families. I can hardly imagine parents handing their precious Billy a wad of cash and permission to buy a cool, delicious treat. “Here you go Billy. Here’s 5 bucks. Mommy wants a blue foot with a pink gumball in the middle, I want a Big Stick, and you get whatever you want. And when you’re finished with your ice cream, we’re going to have cotton candy for dinner. And afterwards ride the mobile carousel. I heard that the next neighborhood over has one!”
As of late, Berlyn has been acquiring obsessions. She goes crazy for a specific collection of objects around the house. If she doesn’t have her things my world gets very dark and ugly and not worth living until we find them. Right now, here are her obsessions:
her bunny blanket
her movie (she’s since moved on from Cinderella)
her red sparkle shoes
and the color purple, not the movie Oprah was in, but the actual color purple.
I can empathize with the girl, I NEED to watch the latest installment of The Bachelor, eat marshmallow cookies, and my a.m. cup of coffee. But am I making it worse for her by always giving into her whims? Should I put boundaries on her obsessions? I personally don’t always get to do what I want. I would love to sit around all day and watch a certain brainless television show where women humiliate themselves in hopes of tragically falling in love with a built-up idea of a man, who can never live up to the expectation she has created, but I can’t, partly because it’s only on Monday nights, but whatever. I know that I can’t always have what I want. It’s a life long lesson, but as a toddler, should I expect her to know that? What would I be accomplishing by setting limits on her movie watching or carrying around her bunny blanket? Would I just be pissing her off? The last thing I want is a pissed off Berlyn.
So, for now, I’ll grant her her sparkle shoes, even if they don’t match her outfit, because she has a long road ahead of her, filled with crap that sucks, and if sparkly shoes and a bunny blanket help her cope, then that’s just fine by me.
A friend told me that it was important to join a gym, only for the great blogging material I would find there. She was right. Here’s what happened:
I bought these sexy new yoga pants today. The jaunty pants made my butt feel high and mighty, so I instantly decided I’d break them in by wearing them to the gym this afternoon. I did squats, lunges, pelvic tilts, crunches on the big ball, and I straddled the bench to do the rowing machine. Basically my crotch was all over the place, but what I didn’t know until I came home 15 minutes ago, was that there was a brand new hole in my brand new pants… yes, that’s right–in the crotch! HELLOOOO everyone!
Gym patrons, these are my undies. Undies, these are some Gym patrons. Now that we’re all acquainted, my crotch and I are going to curl up in a tiny ball now, and try to forget this ever happened.