Thursday, October 28, 2010

Thanks A Latte (It never, ever gets old does it?)

So, I'm turning into my mother, but not in the normal ways. In the really weird ways. Like in the way every time I talk to her on the phone she gets lost. She's lived in Southern California her entire life, but for some reason when we get on the phone she gets sucked into a weird vortex and I can time my watch to twenty minutes into the conversation when she'll suddenly stop and say, "Dammit! I'm lost. Get some sort of map up on your computer." and then I help her find her way home. - The other day I got lost in Target while I was on the phone. TARGET. Not like lost where I was afraid I'd never find the exit, but lost in the way where I didn't know where the clothes section was, or how to find the housewares. In Target. That's like my hometown, I should be arrested for getting lost in there.

Or like how she has worn her eyeliner the same way since 1973. The other day someone suggested I try smudging, or smoking, or something weird with my eyeliner, and I had a total meltdown inside, and scream-whispered, "But that's not how I learned to do it in 6th grade?!"

Then yesterday I went out and bought an espresso machine.

Oh yeah. That's right. I'm my mother.

Now, this may not seem that crazy - lots of people have espresso makers you think. And they do. But do lots of people pack a suitcase specifically for bringing along their espresso maker on vacations? Let me repeat: A whole extra suitcase. For her latte machine. Because sometimes coffee shops run out of soy and she doesn't want to be left in a place where she can't have her soy latte because for the love of God, how's she supposed to control her menopause if she can't have her soy?!?!

So, here I am getting lost in Target, looking for the coffee maker section when a staff member kindly directs me over to them. Then stands and helps me decide which one I want (which is weird, because it's Target, not a car dealership, I don't usually get such attention, nor do I want it. Target is for throwing hundreds of dollars of things in my cart, then slowly as I make my way around the store, deciding I don't need this thing, or that, then dumping said item in the wrong spot of the store because I'm not about to go find out where it is really supposed to go, I still have ten thousand different kinds of loofahs to look at, and winding up at the register with a sweater and a spatula I hand to the checker and say, "I'll just have this gum, I don't want these things.")

Anyway, I'm standing there trying to decide which machine to get and the teenage guy is like, "Well, what do you need it for?"

I'm opening my own coffee shop, and this way if I buy one here I can make about two lattes an hour. What do you mean what do I need it for?

"Uh. . . for making lattes?"

"For just you?"

What is he, some sort of latte expert?

"Well, probably just me. But someday I might make them for someone else if you know what I mean *wink*" Why I feel the need to talk to teenage boys like I'm some pervy mom out of an after-school special, I have no idea.

"I do." He's totally un-phased. And because he's so calm I proceed to get less calm, and more talk-y.

"I drink coffee too."

"So you don't really need this?"

"No, I do."


"I need it for the soy milk. Well, and I like lattes, and how fun because I can make like pumpkin ones in fall and stuff, but soy pumpkin."

"That sounds-"

"-Not because I'm like allergic to milk or anti-animal products or anything, I love meat. And cheese. Well, I love cheese more than meat, but you know what I mean. I'm not against them. I'll eat bacon like a motherf*&er."


"It's just the soy is the key, because it's good for you. For women. For me, mainly. See, you probably don't want to know this. . . " But of course I don't stop myself from telling him. "But I haven't had my period in a long time. I went off the pill because I don't want to be all dependent on chemicals, but my period has decided to go on a permanent vacation, and so I'm starting to get a little freaked out, because it's been like 9 months, and I'm clearly not delivering a child right now, so it didn't stop because I was pregnant, it just stopped, I don't know, to fuck with me? Anyway, I've been reading that soy is good at balancing your estrogen levels and whatever, so I've been getting soy lattes every morning, but that shit is expensive, so I figure I'd just make my own, and help my hormones check themselves before they wreck themselves, and so I need this machine really for my womb. This machine is for my womb."

**stunned silence**

**equally stunned silence from myself** Sometimes a time machine would help me out in life soooooo much.

"Well," the kid said reaching for a box. "This one might be womb-worthy."

Awwwwww! I LOVE HIM.

So I bought it, and told him I'd make him one anytime. But of course he was already running into the back room where I'm not allowed to go, before I could get the whole offer out.

So, here I am. Latte machine in hand. Slowly, but surely morphing into my mother.

There are worse things to be. That's for sure. I just wish I could have gotten her less crazy traits, but oh well. Maybe those will come when I get more of this soy into my system.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

My Mom Is A Tween

My mom came up to me at work yesterday and asked me if she could borrow my car keys, which is weird because she has her own car - and she didn't ask if she could borrow my car, just the keys, like she was gonna go shank someone and didn't want to get blood on her set.

"You want the keys?"

"I got a ride into work today so I don't have a car."

"What are you going to do in the car?"

"Uh. . . "

**searching my brain for reasons my mom needs to just be in a car that don't include hot-boxing, or changing her clothes**

"Do you need to change your clothes?" I went with the most possible, though not any less weird.


"Why do you need my car?"

"To drive it." Well you didn't mention that before weirdo.

"Drive it where?"

"Uh. . . drive it to . . . the uh. . . " and then she looked searchingly up to the left so I knew she was trying to think of some sort of lie to tell me, like a teenager asking to borrow the car so they can go hot-box with their boyfriend behind the cemetery. Or change clothes in the car with their boyfriend behind the cemetery. Or something weird she was going to lie about. And maybe she looked up to the right, I can't remember which way is supposed to mean you're lying, all I know is she looked very about-to-lie-to-me-y, and I know that look well. I don't need a right brain/left brain signal to show me that, I memorized that face after the time she sat me down and told me waiting for marriage was fun. Mostly because she started laughing about two seconds before the whole sentence was even out of her mouth.

"Honey, waiting for marriage is good."

"Why are you laughing?"

"I'm not. But I know if you're related to me this talk is going in one ear and out the other so I'm just gonna stop now before I dig this hole even bigger."


"Don't get pregnant."

"I'm twelve."

"So we have a deal then?"

So, anyway, as I was trying to figure out what to do with my mom leaving to be sneaky with my car my sister interrupted by sending me a picture of something so weird looking my mind could only comprehend it to look like exploded golf balls all over the kitchen.

"What happened?"

"I exploded eggs all over the kitchen."

"That makes more sense."

"I tried to hard boil some eggs and then I forgot about them and they all exploded. I didn't even know eggs could do that. What should I do?"

"Clean it up?"

"But I want hard boiled eggs."

Then I imagined her trying to scrape egg off the ceiling to eat it in a sandwich, but that got interrupted with thoughts of my mom doing a drug deal in my car (that's another thing you can do in a car I just remembered!) (and no 'just doing errands' does not enter into my thoughts because she wouldn't have been being sneaky about errands), and then that got interrupted with a text message from my mom that said: Be back in a few hours.

Be back in a few hours? What the heck!

Then my sister said something about how, oh by the way the Math Teacher fell down some stairs and could I go to Watts to get her car, and something about collecting stray egg bits from the dog food and my insides melted down a little bit.

It's the Busiest Time In The World at my work right now! I don't have time to handle my newly teenaged Mom, and my culinarily weird sister, and her leaving-car-in-the-middle-of-The-Hood girlfriend! I'm afraid of PEANUT BUTTER for God's sake!


I've started drinking wine again.

I think we all know why.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Not Drunk Enough For Most Things Apparently

When Gige got married I was not nearly drunk enough. Not drunk enough to give a speech, I mean. I was more than drunk enough to (accidentally) flash the bike riders in Santa Barbara while we were bored waiting for pictures to be over, as I tried to show the others that my dress was about a foot and a half too short for me by lifting it up over my head, to demonstrate the fact that my dress was so short it didn't even cover my chin. I'm sure I could have gotten the point across with less - look-I'm-not-only-wearing-a-dress-that's-awkwardly-short-I'm-also-wearing-my-Mom's-underwear, and more - look-my-knees-are-showing, but alas, that's the only time I was drunk.

I wasn't drunk because too sick to keep drinking, but after an entire box of Sudafed and some Tylenol PM (bad move right before a wedding p.s.) I was just sick enough, and just hopped up enough on over that counter drugs that I got dizzy standing up, so that sort of replicated being drunk.

Sort of.

But I had to give a toast, so I got up and gave a speech that I think was short? That talked about love and stuff? I'm not really sure, but I do know that I cried during most of it, and that I warned Gige's husband about what he had just gotten into. And then I naturally quoted a play about AIDS.

Because that's what everyone wants at their wedding - a maid of honor who brings up AIDS.

They're so lucky!

The AIDS was just a bonus, the real key of the speech was the warning to her husband, Mr. Gige. I made some statement about how when he married her he got me too and that means everything. Everyone sort of laughed, like - oh, ha ha she's gonna be around a lot, isn't that funny, ha ha she's crying again, that's weird, she said something about him having two wives. . . did she just make a joke about a threesome at a wedding. . . who the hell invited her?? But the jokes on them because I wasn't joking. (I mean, I was about the threesome, but not the rest of it) (Maybe)

Luckily, Mr. Gige knew that marrying her included lots of things like me calling in the middle of their date night to ask Gige something like, "Who's that guy in that movie with my husband where he's shirtless?"

"Gary Oldman?"

"No, my other husband."

"Kevin Spacey?"


"Oh it's. . . hold on . . . American Beauty. That guy is Chris Cooper."

"Yes! Thanks!" *click*

But it also includes fun things like, me taking over his bathroom and office every time I come to visit; me allegedly saying things like "dirty vagina sweat" (at dinner with his parents), or "Auntie Gabi will teach you about oral" (to their new baby), or "Motherfucking Cold Stone" (different dinner, this time with both their parents) (because apparently I CANNOT keep my mouth shut and recognize when there's adults in the room, and then end up so mortified I'm fairly certain Mr. Gige's parents secretly refer to me as That Tall Girl With Turrets Whose Face Is So Red She's Either Constantly Blushing Or She's Sunburned). Or, like right after they got married it somehow became my job to call and leave fake dirty messages for him on their answering machine, where I would talk about what sort of lingerie I would be wearing for him, where we would meet, what I wanted to do that night. . . you know, normal stuff you say to your best friend's husband. (Don't you want me for your best friend??)

The best part about it is that at that time they had a roommate and said roommate did not know me, or of my existence really (not sure why they'd want to hide me, but whatever). And the Gige's still had one of those old-fashioned answering machines where you can hear the message someone is leaving as they're leaving it, blasting out into the living room like some sort of pornographic intercom system. So this roommate was hearing me leave messages asking Mr. Gige whether he wanted me to wear the leather or the nothing at all under my trench coat, and she was all, "Uh. . . I don't know what's going on here, but I feel like I should say something."

Way to have a brother's back Roommate! Narc.

And then along with the dirty messages (which I have stopped now that they have a kid) (I have some standards people) I also like to send Mr. Gige pictures of ailments I have and ask him to diagnose me and stop my freaking out. And, because he loves his wife, he always answers me. Like the time I had a rash On My Eye and was fairly certain I was going to die. And more recently, the time I sent him this picture of my knuckle and started crying while I was typing - because again, I was fairly certain my knuckle problem was going to cause death.

Let it be known that Mr. Gige has an actual job that does not include dealing with my mild-hypochondria, but does include dealing with holding people's lives in his hands all day long, and making sure they live through surgeries - so the fact that he takes time to text me back during a procedure is comforting. To me. To the patient it probably wouldn't be as comforting.

He joked that he thought it was probably something sex related (because he's mean and doesn't understand when I'm freaked out enough to send him a photo of my most-likely cancerous knuckle it's no time for joking! Joking is for weddings and children, not for illness!), and then asked me to try washing it off.

Washing it off? Are you kidding, this is a weird knuckle disorder! You can't wash it off Doctor.

So then I sent it to Gige and asked her the same thing (sleeping with someone medical makes you medical - that's a fact). She responded with: I can't see the picture it's too small/blurry. Did you burn yourself?

Did I burn myself? Are you kidding, this is a weird knuckle disorder that will lead to death of my lungs! You can't just chalk it up to a burn Doctor's Wife! I mean of all the. . .

Wait a minute.

Hold up.

**totally about to be embarrassed**

As a matter of fact I may have burnt myself. But more importantly. . . why does my knuckle disease smell like peanut butter. WAIT. Why does my knuckle death TASTE like peanut butter.

I tasted it again to try and figure it out, literally licking my wounds, and sure enough it tasted like peanut butter. Mostly because it was peanut butter. Not an infectious rare form of hand syphilis, but just part of my breakfast. And I guess I wasn't 'literally' licking my wounds, I was just licking peanut butter off my knuckle, but it felt as if I had just cured myself with magic kisses. Kisses I'll try to sell from here on out - because my saliva heals! Or just eats foodstuffs! WHATEVER!

I guess you'll just have to judge for yourself.

Monday, October 04, 2010

Sofia Vergara, Britney Spears, and Damon Salvatore - It's Like A Trifecta Of Happiness All Balled Up Into A Tortilla And Dipped In The Salsa Of Good

Will Toward Men

I love fall so much. And here's a list of reasons why:

1. Pumpkin lattes.

2. Leaves turning.

3. Big sweaters.

4. Fall lineup.

Ok, and that list is really just to disguise the fact that the main reason I love fall is that all my shows are back! Thank God, 'cause I was getting a little sick of all the reading and filling-my-time-with-healthy-activities that was going on. How'm I supposed to learn how to knit socks when there's a new episode of Parenthood on?? Or Modern Family?! I mean, seriously, who can concentrate when whatshername's boobs are on the screen?

I just forgot what I was writing about.


I love Glee so much it hurts. Like physically hurts. It's how I imagine having sex with Stefan and Damon at the same time would feel like - painful, but sooooooo good. (Because they're vampires, and everyone knows vampires hurt you sexually when you're having sexual stuff, cause they're supernatural and they have to try not to kill you even though they're in love with you. . . it's all very scientific.)(And for some reason in this daydream there's no awkward boy on boy on girl stuff going on where you're like, 'Oh yeah I totally want to do it with both of them,' and then it starts turning south in a way you hadn't been prepared for, not that you're opposed to that sort of thing - to each his own - so to speak - but you had a little more of a - by sleep with both of them at the same time I just meant we'd be gazing at each other and they'd give each other she's-mine-back-off looks and I'd be all, "Oh boys, no need to fight." and then I'd lead them into the bedroom where . . . well I hadn't really though this through but there was lots of kissing going on. Lots of kissing. Not that I'm in junior high and all I can think of is kissing, I know how to do other stuff ok. I mean, I would be thinking of other stuff, but they're brothers, and that's not ok, no matter how hot they are. So maybe I have to separate this dream and make it individual vampire-hook-up times, so there's no awkwardness in my fantasies - because believe me, I already have that with my Adam Lambert daydream.)

So awkward.

Anyway. . . when I was watching the Britney episode of Glee I had to pause it for a second to run to the bathroom, and as I did I actually ran from the room like a crazy person screaming, "I LOVE IT SO MUCH! IT FILLS ME WITH A SORT OF TINGLING JOY I CAN'T EVEN EXPLAIN!"

And then I tripped over a pillow I had thrown in the midst of my overwhelming excitement, because I had too much good energy and if I didn't throw something I was going to have to tear something.

I'm not even sure why it makes me so happy, but it totally does. Like, my cheeks hurt when it's over from smiling so much, and my heart is all full of gooey sugary love. It's just a magic combo of teenage boys dancing and singing in full football gear, and girls crying while they're singing, and teenagers trying to getting stoned and hook up with their dentist. *sigh* It just makes me nostalgic.

This was the only episode Gabi agreed to watch, because she has a weird obsession with Britney, and I feel like someone who just talked someone else into going to Church for donut day. Like they don't really want to be there, but they want the donut so they'll sit through mass - that's what she's like. She'll watch but only because Britney is in it, and then she's never coming back and she'll go straight to hell where she belongs, but at least I tried.

Ok, maybe not that bad, but she'll be stared at in an uncomfortable way whenever she's over. Trust me, sometimes that's bad enough.

Teenage boys! Singing Britney! In full on football uniforms, doing weird hip pelvic-y movements, and being totally serious about it! In wheelchairs!

TV doesn't get better than that.