Friday, April 30, 2010

Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Jesus Christ Superstar

Last night I went to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat with my sister, boss, and boss's husband, and was shocked to discover that although I had adamantly - and I mean adamantly, like with wild hand gestures and singing - declared that the song Jesus Christ Superstar was in this play, it was, in fact, not in the play at all, but rather is in it's own play, conveniently titled: Jesus Christ Superstar.

Apparently one is about Joseph and one is about Jesus. One has a technicolor coat that a dude wears and he has dreams, and the other has hippies and flogging.

At one point when the go-go dancers came out Becky and I looked at each other like WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?! And why can I see up six different people's skirts right now?!?!

And then the Caribbean music started about palm trees and we forgot all about our disco troubles and decided to don't worry, be happy.

I mean, apparently Joseph was sold into slavery but it turned out ok for him, so what were we complaining about?

*sigh* I love plays. I love plays where it's ok for a biblical guy to have his bare chest stroked by a harem of girls, and a flamboyant butler lick a little sweat from a Egyptian Elvis's brow.

They should have shown this to me when I was a kid. If that wouldn't have kept me in Sunday School I don't know what would.

Gay Elvis licking! C'mon! And boobs EVERYWHERE! Maybe that was just this particular theater's interpretation, but let me tell you - everyone stayed for the encore. Twice.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Power Outage

The last two days the power has been out in our office building, which was funny the first day, especially because one of the other offices in the building is a dentist office and the lady dentist ran out yelling, "Does anyone have a generator?!?! My patient is spread open like this **she demonstrates** and I'm afraid her Novocaine is going to wear off!"

"Novocaine doesn't take electricity does it?"

"No, but my drill does."

And then she ran up and down the halls asking if anyone had a generator. A generator? Really? This is an office building not a working power plant. Like one of those with a yellow sign out front with a symbol that can only mean something in soviet because really - what the heck does a dot and thick lines emanating from it really mean . . . .

Oh wait. I think this is one of those times I answered my question with my question.

Although it also totally looks like: Simon Says played here.

And it's gonna get smokey.

Anyway, the power being out lost it's appeal very quickly and all the other offices let their workers go for the day since there was nothing they can really do without their computers. But not us. We didn't even bring up the fact that we should go home and wait til tomorrow. And you know why?

Because our boss is blind.

She works twelve hours a day in the dark and manages to get a shit ton done, and oddly enough she's the one who figured out what the best way was for us to see and get our own shit done. Almost immediately she went about ordering people to open all the curtains for sunlight, use their cell phones for calculators, and pick up a pencil and write something for once in our lives.

And let me tell you . . . I got a lot of comics drawn.

But also, we still managed to get a lot of work done. Without the internet, without our computers, without printers, or copiers, or scanners, or our fax machine, or the little floor heater that keeps mah toes toasty during the day.

Every once in a while we had a buddy walk us to the bathroom to shine their cell phone over the stall in the pitch black so that we had some wiping light, but other than that things ran pretty smoothly. And it was really nice to be power free for a day. It reminded me how easy we have it, and how much I really miss looking things up in an actual book instead of googling it. Not that tax law is so thrilling, but it made me feel like I was studying for a final. A final I have to take by candlelight while sipping on cold coffee from the day before because, lo and behold, the coffee maker doesn't work without electricity either! How did people survive?! What'd they do? Heat actual coffee beans in a metal pan over an open flame and then . . .

Oh wait. I did it again!

See! Throw a girl into the woods and suddenly shit gets figured out. (Where 'woods' means, no electricity for a few hours. Save for the magic of the not-needed-to-be-plugged-in-cell-phone) (I don't have a fancy internets cell phone, so no, I did not cheat).

Anyway, clearly the power is back on again, otherwise I could not be typing this at my desk right now, and there's the thing - if the power was out I wouldn't be wasting valuable work time writing my blog. I'd be computing and adding and accounting for things. But then again, if the power was out I wouldn't be wasting valuable work time writing my blog. And you know what that means? You'd all have to hear from me by phone about what was happening in my life, and that just sounds exhausting. Do you know how much more of a tangent I can go on when I'm just talking??? Ask my mom about the day I started asking her about the first time homebuyer's credit and wound up sobbing on her desk about how horrible it must be to be struck with napalm and as a sidenote, how I'm too old to be on 16 and Pregnant.

Anyway, the blackout was sort of nice. It built a slight camaraderie between all of us, because our office stayed. We stuck it out. We prepared tax returns by the glow of a controlled wastebasket fire, and we peed with the help of the incredibly bright iPhone.

I sort of hope we make it a weekly thing.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Not In High School So I Don't Give In To This (So Easily)

I love Glee so much. But I'm sooooooooooooo glad it wasn't on when I was in High School because it would have totally warped the already distorted view I have of love, and just life in general (singing and synchronized dancing), and I would have grown up dumping everyone I ever dated because they had to talk me into sex instead of singing me into it. It's not real love if there's no PIANO SOLO DAMN IT.

Plus I was already skewed toward thinking life was tv-y because my freshman year we got all 21 Jump Street-ed because there was a huge undercover drug-sting-thing, complete with cops posing as students and befriending and then arresting, and I was sure I was always seconds away from being in a shoot out, protected by the dreamy Richard Grecco - thus I held off dating anyone I didn't think could secretly be sheltering a weapon in their pants.

(Richard Cannefax, your pants were so baggy they TOTALLY could have been holding a sword for all I know.)

(And no, I never saw Richard's sword sickos. We only dated for two months. He went on to date Gige shortly after I told her to tell him I wanted him back. She said she would, and then somehow wound up being his date to Winter Fantasy and I'm pretty sure I went with a girl. We wore matching dresses her mom made for us.) (For the record we went just as friends. Friends in matching dresses. My self-esteem was amazingly high for the amount of lame shit I did.)

(And no, it wasn't weird that Gige dated my ex-boyfriend right after we broke up. It had been like two weeks. In high school that's equivalent to seventeen years.)

Anyway, I was watching Glee yesterday half loving it and half praising God it wasn't on in the 90s because I would have had to join choir. And then ears would bleed. Because yes - I can't carry a tune. But no - that wouldn't have stopped me. What I lack in talent, I make up for in enthusiasm. Ask anyone I've ever had sex with.

Ba-da ching!

(Totally doesn't work the same when you're making fun of yourself. Oh well, carrying on. . . )

And then after Glee I was watching Adam Lambert videos - not entirely sure why, except I suddenly love him. Him and Justin Beiber. Clearly I'm having some sort of crisis of faith. But he's all eye-linered and tight-clothes wearing, and I'm all: he's a dude, but he could be a lady, but like a really gay fancy lady where you're like, "Oh that guy has a nice faux hawk," and then your friend says, "That's not a guy." and you're all, "Really?" and you start to feel weird because you were attracted to the faux hawk person, but now that it's a girl you don't think you're attracted, but you don't want to seem prejudice or racist or anything, and the faux hawk really does look good on her, but Adam Lambert is clearly a guy and he's telling me to do things and I'm not sure if I should but I want to and ohmygodI'msoconfusedbutIcan'tlookaway!!!

Becky: Did you just scream at your computer?

A: No. Yes. Maybe.

B: Is that Justin Beiber again?

A: I needed to click away from Lambert. He's making Crystal feel all funny inside.

B: As Crystal's mom I can assure you, she doesn't like Adam Lambert.

A: Oh yes she does.

B: No. Maybe she likes Justin Beiber, but I don't think she's into Adam. She's more hip-hop.

A: Well, she was totally intent on watching him strut around a few minutes ago.

B: Why do you make her watch that stuff?

A: She was tired of being sad. Justin makes her sad. Adam makes her confused.

B: Why can't you just play fetch with her like a normal person?

A: Crystal also wants to know where all the make-up wearing, androgynous, sulky, make-up wearing boys were when she was in High School. Because she so would have been all over that.

B: You said make-up twice.

A: Yeah, I want to emphasize what's important here.

B: I'm leaving now.

A: She says she doesn't even care that he's gay! She still wants to share makeup with him right before they make out!

B: Stop talking about my dog like that!

A: . . .

B: I'm so glad this wasn't popular when you were in high school.

A: That's what I'm saying!

Monday, April 26, 2010

Babysitting - It's Just Like When You Had To Keep Your Friend In High School From Throwing Up On Her Own Shoes

I just want to preface this post by saying that shortly after I did this, Gige said, in all sincerity, "Auntie Amy is going to be such a good mommy!" and then I spent seventeen minutes talking about anal in front of the baby and undid all the good she thought I was capable of, BUT AT LEAST I HAD IT FOR A WHILE.

So, Gabi and I went up to visit Gige and her baby this weekend in the lovely land of Fresyes (tm M.H.) and that baby could not get cuter or happier. She couldn't. Not even if you pumped her full of pills made of the stuff that makes little kittens, and rainbows, and those little mini pigs in a blanket people serve at parties (so cute!).

But because Gabi and I got so spoiled with her being constantly joyful, if there was even a second where it looked like she was about to cry I'd immediately go into Stop-it-somehow-make-her-lip-stop-quivering-because-its-going-to-make-me-cry(!) mode. And so before breakfast Sunday morning Gige left Hailey's line of vision to do something selfish like go to the bathroom or something, and of course Hailey's lip began to tremble and I couldn't stand it because she's too cute to be sad, so I did the first thing that came naturally to me. . .

I took my shirt off and fed her.

Oh gosh stop freaking out, I'm Just Kidding!

No, I did something her father apparently would later think was way worse than that - I reached into my purse, pulled out my prescription medicine, dumped it into my bag, stuck a penny in the bottle for something to make noise when she shook it, and stuck the makeshift toy into her mouth, all the while saying, "Back in my day we had to make our toys with things we found in the streets."

And Gabi and I held our breath while Hail examined the toy - lip poised into pre-quiver mode just in case the toy sucked - and she eyed it for a second. She tasted it to make sure it wasn't gross. And then she shook it. And oh my god that penny in there made a clanking sound! The joy! She giggled and looked at us like, "Hey Aunties, this shit rules! Have you heard how this clanks?"

She loved that shaky-penny-thyroid-medicine toy so much I'm thinking of marketing them in little boutique toy stores under the name Danger Toys. Others will include knife handles, and tiny little lighters-turned bottles.

Here she is right after I handed her a bottle that used to hold (and hopefully was totally rid of) a medicine you can only get refilled after you get a blood test every few months. (Child protective services has already been called on my unborn children.)

"This tastes like diaper a little."

"Hey Auntie Amy, what the heck is this. Levothy. . . is this like mashed peas or what?"


"You want to try it? You'll love it. I promise. Everybody's doing it."

"Sike!!!!!! Like I'm giving this up?! Whhhhhhooooooooo I love shaky-penny-thyroid-medicine toy!!! Aaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahaha!"

Babies. . . the new drug reps. See if you can say no. I dare you.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

I Don't Care That You're About To Judge Me. . .

. . . but Jack Johnson makes me happy. There I said it. Bubbly toes and all that bullshit. He has GHB in his lyrics. Ever see a party where Jack Johnson comes on and everyone (wait. . . GHB? that's the date rape drug I think. I mean THC. Unless that's the thing that's in turkey that makes you sleepy, then I don't mean that. Or maybe I do a little - sleepy and relaxed, it doesn't really matter where you get your buzz from. Eat too much turkey every afternoon? Fine by me.) Anyway, ever see a party where JJ comes on and everyone doesn't just relax into a lawn chair, unbutton their Hawaiian shirts to the navel (because suddenly everyone is wearing Hawaiian shirts) and get instantly tan, while drinking their 8th ice cold beer, and settling into that happy afternoon buzz that you get on a Tuesday when you're a senior in college and you can take advantage of the fact that it's 80 degrees out, because you're a senior in college and there's a pool on the roof of your apartment building and there isn't anything in the world you'd rather be doing, or any place you'd rather be. Except maybe in the pool. With that guy who lives down the hall. And possibly his roommate.

Wait, what?

Better When We're Together is stuck in my head. And the sap is making me stick to my seat, but I don't care - because when Becky builds me a house, with these step-bookcases I won't ever have to listen to music again, where I might be enchanted into the Jack Johnson trap (he's like a siren!), because I'll be too busy climbing my stairs looking for a book, and then letting the top half of my body arrive on the next step half a minute after the bottom half of my body - like a slinky - until I'm so bruised I look like I spent the evening in a tumble dryer. (dumbest kid moment ever #14)

This will go right next to my sunken den like the one in HELP.

I will only leave my house for Cold Stone.

Until I can afford to have one built right next to my giant room filled with gum balls.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010


I'm not gonna lie. . . my friends tried pot in High School. I didn't, but they did. Especially Gabi. Oh my gosh can that girl smoke.

Ok, just kidding. Gabi is actually my one friend who has no idea what being anything other than mildly tipsy off some lite beer feels like. (WHICH IS A GOOD THING KIDS. Stay in school.)

But I never did, Mom.

Not once.


But, hypothetically - if I haaaaad tried it, I maaaaay have done it in a really safe place, where I was sure to not go anywhere or do anything stupid.

Except that one time I went to school stoned. Hypothetically. And it was college so, pretty much I was just leveling out with everyone else. Ok, fine. And High School, but it was just Sr. Welch's class, and he couldn't tell - I was usually inappropriately talkative in that class. Maybe we could have done without my rendition of Power of Love by Celine Dion, but still. It wasn't that noticeable. Hypothetically.

(Oh my gosh I used to love that Celine Dion song. Mostly when I was 15, and mostly I would call up my best friend Michellen (Michelle and Ellen smashed together. Her parents had water beds. That may not seem like a good explanation, but it was enough for me.) and when her answering machine would pick up I'd blast the radio and sing along as loud as I could, and with as much heartache and emotion a 15-year-old, six-foot-one, a hundred-and-two pound, head-gear-wearing girl can muster, until my voice started to crack and inevitably I would break into a flood of Dion-smeared tears, and the message would end with me sobbing, and shakily saying, "Ok. . . call me back when you get home from dinner.") (For the record, she'd do the same to me. We weren't in love, we were just showing each other how we felt about our boyfriends, through the brilliance of a woman who married her pseudo-dad. Naturally.)

And hypothetically once, if I had tried smoking pot, I may have buried some of it behind the drama building because I knew myself well enough to know I can handle like one hit, before I lose my shit, and as I told my friend, "This will grow. We will come back in ten years and these seeds we've planted will be big, and beautiful and like ivy climbing all over this building. And maybe even a little by the biology building. And no one will ever know what it is. But we can take it, and weave things from it."

Hypothetically, I was not a very good stoned person.

And I'm talking like if I had done it, I did it all the time. I didn't. I can count on my two hands the amount of time I might have done it. Because I liked doing well in school. And, because I was pretty sure I was moments away from being arrested if I even looked at the stuff. (I sang Celine Dion to my best friend - what? You expect me to be more badass than that?? Please. I can't even back out of my driveway without my seat belt on.)

I only bring this all up because it's 4/20, and the radio is all about Cypress Hill and Cheech and Chong, and Dazed and Confused, and it reminded me of High School - where I realized someone with braces and sparkly glasses couldn't pull off dreads, and a hemp tank top.

Though it would be years before I gave up my dream for just-under-the-boob length dreads.


Monday, April 19, 2010

From Last Week

The other day I texted my Mom for some candy (yes I texted her even though I can see her from where I sit, because we have candy stealers galore here. If they knew we keep a pound of dark chocolate truffles in her desk drawer for the two of us it would be gone in like five minutes flat - as opposed to the twenty it lasts with us) (Did I say a pound? That's crazy, who would have that much of one type of chocolate in their work drawer? We don't do that.) (Yes we do.) (Aunt M, you know what I'm talking about!)

(I don't know what it is, but there are two things that are super important to the women in my family. Number 2 is their chocolate. I've seen my boss buy another carry-on suitcase so she could fit the local candy store's entire supply of honeycomb in it because it doesn't taste the same where my aunt lives. And the other day the Math Teacher picked up my Snickers Ice Cream bar and I almost clawed her to death. Not really (yes really) but Becky saw the look of horror in my eyes and softly told the Math Teacher to slowly, and carefully, put the Snickers down and back away without making eye contact.)

(Just kidding Math Teacher!)

(No, I'm mother f*&%
ing not.)

Aaannnnnnyway - I texted my mom for a chocolate, and I look up to see her with a look on her face I haven't seen since. . . well, I've never seen the look on her face. She looked like a little eight year old boy who just pulled out his first loose tooth and was gonna go freak his little sister out with it. A look of pure, totally-gonna-get-in-trouble-and-it's-gonna-rock joy. A look that my mom does not use. Because she's. . . she's Lori. She doesn't get in trouble for fun. She doesn't break rules or play practical jokes or sneak into movie theaters because she's so tall and commanding people don't question her when she walks by with her head held high. . . .

Wait a minute. . .

She has totally done all of that. But she does it in such a way that you don't remember, like Men in Black, she does something like saran wrap your toilet so she can balance an alligator head on it and scare the holy loving shit out of you when you try to pee in the middle of the night, only you don't remember those things. You only remember she's Lori. She gets shit done. She doesn't f around. And she certainly doesn't get in trouble. She's like Mother Theresa, but in heels, and sipping a Mike's Hard Lemonade.

This candy story is turning out
waaaaaaaay longer than it needed to be.

So, she's got this mischievous look on her face and I go to stand up when I hear her shout:

"Hey AMY!"

And I look just as she's winding up her arm, (her gold-
bangled, Chanel-wearing arm) to hurl a twenty dollar box of candy at me from across the office, and over three other co-workers heads, where it will undoubtedly come apart in the air, spraying the land with tiny, golden chocolates, like some sort of Skittles-Willy-Wonky-Rain that will pelt, and then send the entire office into a vague, mass-hysteria that something out of the ordinary has happened!

And instead of letting that happen, instead of letting the twenty sixty-something women that work here dog-pile and freak out over my candy, I raise my hand in the universal stop signal and then in slow motion whisper (because I can't yell, we're at work): "NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Then my mom, still poised for the throw, cocks her head and smiles, before setting the box down, taking out a chocolate and dropping it in a coffee cup for me (which is how we pass the goods so no one can see what we've got) (If accounting doesn't work out, we can always turn to a life of drug dealing).

"If this were a different office," my mom sighed.

"You'd condone throwing things at me?"

"Oh honey, I always want to throw things at you."

". . . what?"

Hmmm, I don't think that came out the way I meant it."

"Oh good, because-"

"No, I was wrong, it did."

Ok, just give me the chocolate, lady."

Next time I'm keeping the box, because clearly having all that power is making her giddy, and sort of throw-y. (This is also the reason we had to have separate wine boxes when we lived together.) (Trust me, it wasn't pretty.) (Also the reason we switched to bottles.)

Friday, April 16, 2010


I slept in til 8am this morning. EIGHT AM. Do you have any idea how much of a princess that makes me feel like? And I don't even like that word - princess - it makes me cringe in weird places, and throw up in my mouth a little. It's like some weird allergy I contracted when I was little, and any time I get near anything pale pink, or tiara-like I freak out into hives and want nothing more than to get dirty and smoke Marlboro Reds in front of newborns.

(Ok, that's not true. I do not want to harm babies with second-hand smoke. And I have friends who are princess-y and they are lovely, and I mean no harm to them, I just mean. . . well, I'm too tall to be so dainty. There. I said it. I'm girly, but tiny and girly - no. I mean, if I had to be in a Disney movie I definitely wouldn't be Princess Jasmine, or Ariel, I'd probably be a side character who's eyeballs are normal size, and not 3/4's of their head like the main characters are so that they look cute; I'd be like, the talking parakeet, or the chubby friend who's always falling down wells.) (No, I'm not chubby, but I fall a lot.)


This is one of those blogs I should delete and start over.

But I got too much sleep last night to do things that make sense.

Anyway, 8am. And I feel overslept and more tired than yesterday, and James could not understand why I was still in bed so late and so he climbed onto my chest to YELL directly into my face, until I opened my eyes, which I only did because he managed to find the exact spot of boob-standing that would inflict total and utter agony. (I don't know because I've never had them, but sometimes I have the feeling boob-hurt is fairly similar to getting hit in the balls. Especially because you never see it coming. One minute you're going to hug your grandma and the next an elbow gets involved, and suddenly you're fairly certain you'll never be able to breastfeed from your left one.)

When I pushed him off me and rolled over onto my stomach to try and sleep more (while protected) James got up on my back and started kneading my butt and then circled it (like a puppy) but kinda kept slipping off, and then would have to climb back up and start the circling again, until he managed to plant himself directly on top of it where he purred as if to say "Fine, you're sleeping all day? Well I'm sleeping on your butt. It's cushier than the bed and you know it."

It was so cute it sorta made me want to sleep in every day! Except I can't because apparently when I do I ramble about Disney characters and balls.

Maybe this isn't the best time to write to some old professors for letters of recommendation.

Or maybe it's EXACTLY the time.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Crystal and James For Ever

A: Oh my god! Becky! BECKY!!!

B: What?! I'm right here.

(I turn into Becky's room where she is in bed, under the covers, reading Lost spoilers. Which is where it is SO OBVIOUS she was adopted! Lost spoilers!?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I didn't even want to hear what happened in the last episode of Friends when it ended, because what if something crazy-good happened like Ross and Monica made out and I didn't get the full element of surprise! and there's no way I'll ever watch The Crying Game, because I know the ending and if I have to go into it knowing what's going to happen that fun little game I play called, Shouting Out What You Think Is Going To Happen Every Five Minutes, gets totally ruined.)



A: Oh my God you just missed the cutest thing!

B: Ok, talk quick. I want to find out why Sayid is acting like Ben Stein.

A: Ok, so I was just in my room. . . are you still in your work clothes?

B: I'm too tired to change.

A: So, I'm in my room and I leave to let Crystal out into the backyard, and she must have sensed James was awake because she goes right up to the screen door, and James goes right up to the screen door, and they're standing there - on opposite sides of the screen - sniffing each other, and gazing at each other.

B: . . .

A: They were like nose-to-nose, except for the tiniest bit of chain metal separating their love!

B: Are you sure Crystal didn't just want to eat James?

A: Crystal doesn't want to eat cats (**not gonna do it. i'm thirty now.**) she wants to love, and sniff, and be pet, and kiss, and possibly get one of those little harnesses, or saddles they put on elephants on safaris so she can have James ride around on her back while she lumbers around the backyard, showing him the sights, letting him enjoy his high-up adventure, while she sings Baby, baby, baby - oooooooh - I thought you'd always be mine.

B:. . .

A: For you I woulda done whatever. I just can't believe ain't not together. . . And I wanna play it cool. But I 'm losing you. I buy you anything. I buy you any ring.

B: Is that Justin Bieber?

A: He sings from Crystal's heart.

B: No he doesn't.

A: Yeah. He does. Crystal wants James to shake me til you wake me from this bad dream because she's going down, down, down, and she just can't believe her first love won't be around.

B: Oh lord.

A: My point is-

B: I love that Justin Bieber.

A: I know you do.

B: Remember when you thought he was black?

A: How is he white?! I don't get it!

B: I'm guessing his parents had something to do with it.

A: And why does his hair look like he just got off a roller coaster?

B: Amy! Your point? I have spoilers to read.

A: My point is Crystal and James. They're like prisoners in love. But like prisoners in different prisons. Or like a prisoner and a guard.

B:. . . .

A: Like Romeo and Juliet.

B: Which one is Romeo?

A: Crystal.

B: Ok. . . continue.

A: She wants to have the literal and metaphorical barrier between them broken down!!!

B: (**stares for a long time**)

A: (**stares back a little jumpily with excitement at their love**)

B: You need to get out of your room more.

A: Yeah. I know.

Now presenting - The love song I make Crystal sing to James when no one is looking:

(p.s. What the H is going on at about 26 seconds?!)
(p.p.s. I could go on and on about how ridiculously awesome this video is. But I have taxes to do.)

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Glee and Taxes

It's April 14th. . . which means I'm constantly about 9 seconds away from ripping all my hair out and/or drinking vodka like someone on Intervention who just broke into the padlocked liquor cabinet their parents had installed after they realized their seventy-year-old scotch was used in place of milk on a bowl of Captain Crunch, and the vodka went missing in the amount of time it took for them to go grab some cigarettes from the other room. (Those vodka-alcoholics Do Not mess around. They chug that shit like it's water and they just finished a marathon, including high-fiving the camera guy for their accomplishment, and then passing out in the living room.)

So, instead of turning to heavy drug use, or self-inflicted hair loss, I took a two minute break to watch this - because it's on my Tivo, patiently waiting for me to get home and that's what's going to get me to power through - the fact that I can spend all day trying to decide who I would rather have a long walk on the beach with (read: make out with), Mr. Schue (heavily make out with) or Cory Monteith (and possibly some third base action). Mmmmmm, 17 year old Cory. (Sometimes you need to skip right past second base - because a lot of the time that just involves some awkward, "Oh you have . . . but you looked so . . . wait where am I?" and then boys around the nation are cursing Victoria and her stupid, eye-hand-tricking padded bras.)

Thursday, April 08, 2010

The Boys, Part I

The other day when I was trying to clean out the hall closet (which somehow always ends up more cluttered with stuff than when I started), I found this box of pictures. Cut to six hours later, and I'm still in the hall, sitting on the ground surrounded by a mountain of what can only be called "stuff" - because it has no place in an everyday house, so it ends up in the closet for me to look at and reminisce once every six months when I decide to clean house - and Becky walks in, sees me sitting there in my sweats, my hair all akimbo, crying because I found a drawing she made me once when we were sisters who didn't roll their eyes at each other, and then she rolls her eyes at me.

"You weren't supposed to get distracted!"

"But look at this!"


"Look it's so cute! Why do you hate childhood?"

"I don't hate childhood, but I need to get to my room at some point tonight and you're blocking me."

"Remember Meg?"

"What are you talking about? We just talked about her yesterday."

"I know. Remember that?"

"Ok. . . I'm putting a stop to this. Now you're remembering, remembering things."

And then she dragged me kicking and screaming into the shower, where, still fully clothed, she turned the cold water on, wrestled me to stop wrestling her while I yelled, "No!! I still have more pictures to look at!!! What if I missed something! LET ME OUT GAHHHHH!" and she held me down saying, "Snap out of it! Snap out of it! Do you see what you're doing to yourself!?!" and then I choked, smeared my mascara all over my face, and came back to reality.

But before we shut the closet up for another six months I managed to save this one picture.

This picture explains so much about who I am today, and makes me so happy I can't even tell you. (But of course I'm gonna. Cause that's what I do. Tell you things you don't want to know, in seven paragraphs more than it should probably take to tell such a thing.)

This will just be a pre-blog, to a much more descriptive blog of what the heck is going on here, but let me just point out some key facts:

1. This was taken on Catalina Island the summer our Dads didn't come, but instead just our Moms (the boy's mom, and Becky and I's mom - not 'our Moms' like they were a couple) ('Becky and I's'?)

2. Becky is topless.

3. The two boys are the kids who lived across the street from us and pretty much filled in as our brothers our whole lives - we did everything together. everything. and even though we haven't all been in the same place together in like 10 years, or talked more than 10 times in 10 years, I'm still 99% sure if Becky and I were getting hassled they'd hear it from the thousands of miles away they live now, like some sort of inner bat-signal, and come screeching in to kick some a for us.

4. Not shown: the boys both had tails. Not, like animal tails on their backsides, but tails like sort of a mullet, but not all-the-way-around-long, just . . . tail-long. Like this, but blond:

5. Becky is topless.

6. I look slightly matronly, and disappointed with my lot in life, because I'm fairly certain I had been trying to get everyone to pose like a traditional, fancy picture but no one would oblige. For such a bossy kid it was rare anyone ever paid any attention to what I wanted us all to do.

7. I think I am now wearing the watch Chip is wearing in this picture. Only mine can call the Pentagon.

8. Ethan is thrilled with his shark-head-chomper thing.

9. Becky is thrilled she's topless.

10. All four of us hit six feet tall in 1989 and rode in a VW bug for like seven years longer than our limbs should have allowed.

11. We bathed in an outside sink this entire trip.

12. We were too old to be bathing outside.

13. Apparently we all hated smiling with teeth.

14. Becky's got something stuck in hers.

15. We're sitting on a tomb. A cool, huge, stone and marble tomb.

Clearly, there's a whole lot more about this, but oh my gosh I love this picture so much. And I love that the entire time we were growing up and Becky was walking around topless because the boys are allowed so she should be too (I love kid equal-rights logic), the boy's mom was always saying, "Lori! Don't take a picture of her, what if this gets out when she's older?" as if she knew, she had some sense that one day the internet would be created, and I would post such a thing.

What? I put a censor bar over it! It's not like I'm showing anything!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to clean out my desk drawer and that's going to take at least the next three hours.

Wednesday, April 07, 2010

LOST (disclaimer: if you don't watch LOST you'll hate this post. Also, Gabi, I'm not spoiling anything)

Yeah, ok - if you can keep it up with the next five episodes, and rock my world like you did last night, then I will be so in love with you J.J. Abrams that I will completely forget season 3 altogether (stupid Others) (stupid "We have to go back Kate!").

DESMOND! I almost forgot about you. Oh my gosh I missed you. I missed you so much.

The magic of LOST is not that it sucks because it never answers anything (that's just how it sucks) it's that there are so many main characters you sorta feel like you're keeping track of your own social network* and keep confusing who is sleeping with whom, who is good and who is evil, and which year you're time traveling to and when. And WHY!?!

Oh wait, no. . . the 'why' is how it sucks.


I know this sucks for people who don't watch, and I'm impressed if you're still reading this, because it can't make any sense, but let me just put you at ease a little - it doesn't make any sense to anyone. There's only five episodes left and still, WE DON'T KNOW ANYTHING REALLY!!! (Except stuff I can't say because Gabi would kill me) (Charlie dies). Every week I try to convince Becky it's Biblical, but only because she doesn't believe me. This week I told her Desmond is Jesus and the meaning of life (er, where life = the island) is love.

And then I cried.

Just kidding.


I'm not even ashamed about watching this show like I am about watching the Twilights. Because I sort of feel like if I don't see it through to the end, then it will have been waaaaaay too much Grad School time wasted. And I didn't pay seventy thousand dollars to not find out what happens!

I have standards for my education! So, if I can't get my Nobel Peace Prize, at the very least I can find out what happens with the Island. That much I can do for you.

I can do it for all of you.

*because according to my sister, James doesn't count as "my social network" given that he is a "cat" and I should try to "make more friends" and not just try to "build a large hamster cage tunnel habitat for him in the backyard so he can be outside without really being outside so I don't have to worry about him running away again", because he's my cat, not a giant hamster, and I definitely should not just "watch lost on my laptop and pretend I know them" and I certainly should not say things like, "Do you think I could take Kate in a fight? I mean I know I couldn't take Ana Lucia, she crazy yo, but Kate's nickname is Freckles - how tough can she be?", or "Yeah, I'm gonna see if I can fight her", but instead I should hang out with my real-life friends more, and maybe wait to put my p.j.'s on until it's dark out.


A cat-hamster tunnel-habitat would be AWESOME.

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

In Case You Were Wondering. . .

No - lentil soup does not make a good replacement for beans on your nachos.

In other news, I apparently do dumb things when I have a fever and a slight case of the swine flu.

Aside from the soup nachos, I also stayed at work for nine hours even though the only way to get my skin to not hurt was to roll someone's Coke can up and down my arms (please don't drink that cranky secretary), and then I had a waaaay too long conversation with my neighbor about how my new nickname for James involves calling him by plurals, like, "Hey honeys! How are you babies? Hi Hons!" and so on and so forth.

I was so looking forward to those nachos last night, and then I went ahead and made something that was totally not nachos. Not in anyway.

But the soy sauce helped a little.

Monday, April 05, 2010

Easter Passover

I love my family for lots of reasons but this one might have just edged it's way into first place. . .

So, yesterday was Easter and it was a gorgeous day and Jesus rose from the dead or something (I'm just fuzzy on how. I must have snuck out of mass to get the good donuts the day they explained HOW and WHERE Jesus rose from the dead like some sort of zombie movie character - like, did he claw his way out of a grave, or was he still above ground, laying there, and then coughed a few times, until he choked out some sea water (because when people start breathing again in movies it's always because they've got sea water in their lungs) and was like, "Hey, what happened? Where am I?" And why didn't people freak the f$*k out when he was all "Oh hey I'm still here"?!?! Or maybe they did? I DON'T KNOW!) (SEE Mom and Dad! This is why it's weird to raise your kids half Catholic and half Jewish - I have no idea what happened in what religion! Not to mention the fact that I'm never sure which sort of guilt is creeping in when it creeps in, and then they just combine into like this Jew-Catholic super-guilt that can simultaneously make me feel guilty for not calling my Bauba more, and having impure thoughts about Christian Slater in Gleaming the Cube, even though Bauba has been dead for years, and I haven't seen Gleaming the Cube since I was thirteen.)

Anyway. . . it was Easter. And Passover. And if there's one thing the Jew-Catholic combo is good at, it's eating. Lots and lots of eating. And after everyone had seconds, and then thirds, we sat around the table talking and enjoying each others company while we all tried to hide the fact we were unbuttoning our pants under the table, so full that we vowed not to eat again for an entire week.

Or for about five minutes.

Because literally, five minutes after we all groaned at our plates, Becky looks around and says, "Where'd that box of donuts go?"

"Oooh, that sounds good."

"Yeah I could go for something sweet."

"What do you mean you could go for something sweet, you just ate a handful of jelly beans to wash down your cheesy eggs and bacon."

"That's different."

"Yeah, she's right. Donuts don't count."

"Someone find that box!"

So, the donuts came out. And that's not even the good part. The good part, is that once Becky picked her favorite donut, she tore into it only to find that it was *gasp* NOT cream filled, like it should have been. So what did she do? She didn't give up - because Sterns aren't quitters when it comes to donuts - no, she grabbed the whip cream, cream cheese mixture E had out for the fruit dip, and proceeded to glop that sucker into her chocolate long john.

And that. . . THAT is why I love my family.

And then Nels joined in, because I mean . . . c'mon. . . it's Easter! If you can't fill a donut with cream cheese and whip cream on Easter then WHEN CAN YOU?


I love donuts.

Anyway, my Mom is really lucky we were so distracted with acting like we were at some sort of Wisconsin County Fair where everything we ate needed to be cream filled or deep fried, because she grabbed the baby the instant they walked in the door and wouldn't share her for a single second.

But c'mon, look at this face - I wouldn't have shared either.

Friday, April 02, 2010

Sex Rehab - Next Up: People Who Breathe Air, And Like It (This Post is Rated R, Cousins - Stop Reading)

Dear Tiger Woods, Jesse James, and everyone from Dr. Drew's Sex Rehab,

I don't believe you.


Why come single people never have to go to Sex Rehab? Is it that the disease of wanting to have sex with more than one person isn't a disease if you're single? Like a gold band is the carrier for the enzymes that produce the sex-wanting virus, and so yeah - single people want sex, but it's only the married's who are having it that are suddenly struck with this debilitating disorder?

I don't believe it.

People having sex isn't something you need rehab for is it? I mean, how many people have sold their body or sucked dick to have sex?

I mean. . .

Wait, what?

Nobody O.D.s on sex and has to be rushed to the hospital so nurses can rub charcoal all over their private parts, and give them an IV to counterbalance endorphins. And people don't usually start shaking, and vomiting because it's been too long since the last time they boned down and so clinic workers are giving them a loving embrace and showing them a long talk can be a good substitute, or for women, chocolate, because somewhere, sometime, someone said there's something in chocolate that mimics the effects of a woman having an orgasm but like by 1 millionth of a percent, and ever since women have been eating pounds and pounds of See's candy just to see if it's true.

Now, I'm not saying sex isn't a ruiner of things and lives and makes people do crazy things. I know lots of people get shot for having sex (with the wrong person, not just like 'Aaah you're having sex!' *BANG*), and go all ape shit crazy trying to have sex, and it repopulates the world and blah, blah, blah. It's a powerful force of nature. It can control. I get it. But rehab? REALLY?

I mean. . . I would totally cut somebody to sleep with Richard Alpert, but that doesn't mean I need rehab! It means I need to find out where he lives and sneak into his house at night like a normal person.

Anyway, in order to put a good spin on it I've decided maybe sex rehab is a good excuse for my sister to make bastards all around the globe. So that's what I'm hoping - that she starts sleeping around (with no birth control) (oh and with men)(because the disease confuses her) so that I have tons and tons of different looking nieces and nephews to shower with pent-up love and attention. And then when she's done she can just tell everyone that she needs rehab, and we'll all stick by her, and visit her on family day, and sneak her cigarettes and hair brushes she can whittle down into a shank.

"I think you're confusing rehab with prison," says the person standing over my shoulder reading this who should get back to doing tax returns.

"Maybe. But maybe you need a shank in sex rehab."

"To defend against the people who need a fix?"


So there you go Becky. I'm gonna go see if I can get Jesse James to sneeze on a napkin for me so I can give it to you and see if you can catch some of whatever it is he has. Rehab, put on your chastity belt! Becky's coming!

Thursday, April 01, 2010

More Stretching At Home

So, I don't stretch enough. I run a lot, but once someone told me, or maybe hinted that, you didn't necessarily have to stretch before or after you run and so I took that and deemed it the word of the Lord and just stopped stretching all together. I know it feels good, and stuff, but it takes up time I could be . . . I mean instead of stretching I get a lot of . . . something done.

I don't know why I stopped but I did. (Also, once someone (someone Korean) told me only a dead man signs his name in red and so now if I'm at the grocery store and I see the woman hands me a red pen, I try to cut her to the quick and dig in my purse for a non-life threatening blue pen. If I'm not fast enough though, I don't want to explain my delicate life/pen situation to her so I will take the pen and sign someone else's name on the line, but only someone who is already dead. Never once has a checker asked me why my signature looks so much like Abraham Lincoln - that's not very good security ladies.)

But it hasn't gone unnoticed to my body. Not stretching after running, combined with seventeen hours a day sitting in a chair makes me all creaky, and sore, and frozen in place, but I usually don't realize it until I stand up and realize I'm hunched over more than Quasimodo.

So, today I was in the bathroom and before I could sit down (but after I'd undone my pants and pulled them down most of the way) I realized my hips felt all out of whack and I needed to do a lunge sort of a thing, and a little stretch for my legs, so I lunge out, pants down, because I'm in the handicap stall and there's all kinds of room and it feels sooooo good, and I do that old-man sort of a groan and go, "Gahlah, my back.", and it feels so good that I decide to do the other side and just as I've maneuvered into position again (because for some reason I have not pulled my pants up for this, I'm just working around it, which is making things complicated, but not impossible), and I'm getting a good stretch in, another woman walks into the bathroom - which would be fine if our bathroom was built with some sort of code or privacy in mind, but in this bathroom the space between the stall doors is wide enough to pass a plate of food through, and the woman inadvertently sees me all stretched out, pants down, yawning my face off and I freeze and stare at her, and she freezes and stares at me, and then I have no idea what to do, so I blurt out, "Just stretching over here! I sit!" I sit? "I mean, all day." She doesn't say anything so I sort of smile, and slowly (as if maybe if I move slow enough she won't see what I'm doing) I pull my legs together, until I'm sort of standing, but still totally crouching over because I'm so tall she would be able to see my head over the stall door, and then I tip toe over to the toilet and sit there until I'm 100% sure she's been gone for fifteen minutes so there's absolutely no way I will run into her in the hallway where I'll have to pretend to have a good laugh about telling her I sit, and doing a whore's version of yoga in a public restroom.

Needless to say, I'm going to start stretching more at home. Apparently it's not only good for you, it's also good for the health of the general public as well.