Apr
5
April 5, 2007
I feel compelled to update you on the Mystery Smell. I’m sure it’s indicative of some kind of blogging-related dementia when you start thinking the internet really needs to know why your kitchen smelled like Elvis died in the fridge, but, well, I don’t exactly have content standards or anything. Frankly, based on the typos I spot whenever I browse my own archives, there is a distinct lack of quality control around here in general. Shameful.
So! On top of our kitchen sink next to the spray nozzle and the faucet, there is this Thing, a protruding whatsit which seems to have one purpose: to funnel out a stream of water when the dishwasher is running. It only happens for a few seconds, about halfway through the wash cycle, and the water just runs down into the sink. JB happened to lift the cap off the whatsit yesterday, and we discovered that it was very foul indeed—coated black by layers of icky dirty dish runoff. Gross, right? I gingerly swabbed at it with a scrubby brush then doused it with vinegar for good measure, and lo, the Mystery Smell is no more.
Okay, now back to telling me what you’re doing this weekend if you haven’t already. Also, if you have any suggestions for non-irritating teeth whiteners (Crest Whitestrips, which have worked wonders in the past, now make my gums feel like they are being doused with battery acid), won’t you help a sister out? My coffee habit is wearing on my not-so-pearly whites and to my unending sorrow the dodge tool only works in Photoshop, not real life.
Oh, and I would also like to know if the following things are worth their hype, because they are all tempting my wallet right now:
• Amy Winehouse
• Lululemon pants
• Superhero necklaces
Apr
4
Whiffs, haircuts, weekend activities
Filed Under Uncategorized | 69 Comments
April 4, 2007
There has been a Mysterious Odor wafting around in my kitchen the last couple days and it’s driving me crazy. I’ve scoured the dish disposal and sinks and peered around in the refrigerator shelves but no culprit has yet revealed itself. It’s like something vegetative and partially rotted crawled down the drain to die (cue Barney Gumble: “It didn’t die!”) and has been periodically releasing gaseous blasts from its bloated corpse ever since. I need a specially trained rescue dog to come in and find the offending broccoli particle or long-expired rodent or whatever in HELL it is. Also, I’d like JUST ONCE for a Mystery Kitchen Odor to be a good one, a sort of lingering warm delicious vanilla or something, and when we looked for the source we would find—hooray!—a giant basket of just-baked cookies, left by magical elves, and the cookies would have no calories and they would be chewy and crispy at the same time.
Also also, ALSO, I am thoroughly tired of my hair. Yesterday I was so frustrated with its general crappitude and the flat, dangling bangs I had stupidly trimmed myself a couple weeks go (leaving them just as bad as before except with less symmetry), I made a last-minute appointment at the same salon I swore I would never visit again after they bumped me for being a few minutes late. They’re just down the street from my office, so convenience won over morals, sort of like our home recycling efforts.
The lady who cut my hair tut-tutted the whole time over the last cut I got, which reminded me of how much that stylist had tut-tutted about the cut I had before her. Yesterday’s stylist also bashed my original stylist who used to work at the same salon (“Vanessa and her razor cuts. Whatever.”), besmirched my lovely Bumble & bumble Gentle Shampoo (“You need to drop that mess and get the Seaweed, girl”), and ultimately left my hair lopsided, the right edge of the bob hanging down below the left, which of course I only noticed after I got home.
So I’m sick of trying out stylists and I’m sick of fussing over my hair. If I had any fuzz on my peaches I’d shave my damn head and buy a festive selection of wigs, not the trashy Britney wigs but luxurious head-pelts made from chinchilla and the belly fur of Angora rabbits.
What? The pelts would be harvested humanely, jesus, what kind of rabbit-scalping monster do you think I am?
Speaking of agonizing deaths and all, I would like to heartily recommend against reading How We Die. I started reading it and thought it was interesting, then I got all wigged out by an account of a child’s murder, then I thought it was interesting again, and then I read the chapters on AIDS and cancer deaths, and now I’m wondering what the fuck my problem is that I would read a book like that. I am of course also obsessively scrutinizing my body for malignant tumors. Just a nonstop funfest, that book, as long as you consider reading about the inevitable end of life and all the horrors it may cause in its painful, dwindling process to be fun.
Instead, you should read Plainsong if you haven’t already, because it’s just lovely and wonderful and I re-read it recently and it was even better the second time around.
Well, what do you have planned for the upcoming weekend? I would normally ask you later in the week, but I’m bored NOW. Plus, we’ll be on the road tomorrow for another pilgrimage to Coos Bay for some grandparent-time, and that’s our weekend: hanging around JB’s parents’ house, maybe going to the beach if the weather doesn’t suck, and hurtling along I-5 singing “Old MacDonald Had a Brain Seizure Because He Had to Sing This Goddamn Song Again”. How about you?
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