Jul
25
July 25, 2007
I have a couple questions for those of you who are good at envisioning things, a talent that sadly passed me by along with the ability to fold a shirt without making it look like a crumpled snotrag (see also: multiplying fractions, correctly identifying the location of any of our nation’s states, and remembering which things are and are not okay to microwave).
First: here are some colors we’re considering for the new living area. I’m planning on using the extremely dark brown (Benjamin Moore’s “Marsh Brown”) for one wall, with the rest the neutral color down in the bottom left (“Powell Buff”—the other color on the top right looks too pinkish to me). Is this going to achieve my goal of a dramatic background to the room (wall and window trim will be white), or is it going to look like eighty-five monkeys came in and threw their wet feces at the wall?
And speaking of wet feces, I’m sick to death of my hair and I have a haircut scheduled for tomorrow. Here’s a semi-crappy photo of what it currently looks like (taken with new iPhone camera, SQUEE!)—without going too drastically short, have you got any suggestions for what I can do with this boring mop? For all the nonstop craziness being dished out by Britney Spears in the last several months, I’m starting to think she was on to something with that head-shaving business.
Jul
24
July 24, 2007
I had a wildly inappropriate dream about Adrian Grenier the other night after watching Entourage. I woke up disgusted with myself, because really: Vince? Come on, how boring. Admittedly Entourage has slim pickings for lustful REM fantasy material, but I’d like to think that given the choice I’d at least go with Ari, whose asshole-ish qualities far surpass Vince’s giant Bambi eyes in terms of sex appeal.
The Vince-dream was a real anomaly, probably triggered by roiling pregnancy hormones (I can just picture JB reading this, going “Jesus, woman, I’ve got your hormone cure right here,” while—of course!—gesturing at his pants). I haven’t had a good movie star crush in ages. Sure, there’s Clive Owen, but while I can easily picture various scenarios in which I am a naughty schoolgirl and he is a strict—yet helplessly tempted—teacher (“Oh, Mr. Owen, isn’t there something I can do about this grade?”), he doesn’t quite trigger the starry-eyed obsession that I experienced after watching Lord of the Rings in 2003.
Which is probably a good thing, because when you’re 29 years old and spending half your day dreaming about a threesome with characters from a movie, one of which is a goddamned ELF, you probably need some mood stabilizers.
(We will not speak of my brief yet smoking-hot love affair with Captain Jack Sparrow, from the original movie only, and what it means that a flamboyantly gay pirate turned my crank so, and we will definitely not speak of the fact that I actually read some Pirates of the Caribbean erotic fanfic, OH MY GOD.)
As long as this entry is lying down here all naked in the gutter, I might as well tell you about the other day when I was drawing on Riley’s Magna-Doodle pad for him. He wanted me to first draw a “SOOCLE!” (circle), which I did, like so:
Then he asked for another circle, “TWO SOOCLE!”. “You want me to draw two circles?” I asked, and he said “OKAY!”, and so two clumsily drawn circles were produced:
JB moseyed by, peered at the screen, and asked if he could draw something (Riley: “OKAY!”). JB grabbed the pen and carefully added two dots on the circles:
At that point Riley took one look at the drawing, then pointed to it and gleefully cried, “MOMMY! MOMMY’S BEE BEES!”
I’m not sure if I should be 1) impressed, 2) dismayed, or 3) disturbed that my hooters apparently resemble the drawing you see here.
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