May
8
May 8, 2007
JB gave me a copy of The Zombie Survival Guide and I cannot put it down. I highly recommend it, especially if you’re already semi-obsessed with zombies and you find yourself thinking about them at least as frequently as you think about, say, which boat crew on Deadliest Catch is going to get the most crab this season, which is to say, probably more often than is healthy.
The book includes, among other things, instructions for making your house as safe as possible during the inevitable zombie invasion. Basically, if you live in a one-story house without an attic—as we do—you’re fucked. You have to get on the roof. So now I think we should scrap this whole kitchen remodel business and build a second floor. With built-in zombie trapdoors. And multiple brain-smashing tools, such as crowbars, stashed in convenient locations.
What? It’s only paranoia if zombies don’t exist.
(STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.)
I went running (so as to better prepare myself for escaping zombies, of course) yesterday evening, as long as we collectively define “running” as “alternating between trotting and walking while consistently producing the sort of wheezing you’d hear from an elderly, asthmatic pug”. It was a gorgeous, warm day here in Seattle (also, I would have loved a little of this sudden summery weather over the weekend instead of the chilly gray skies we did have, I mean what’s with the 75-degree temperatures showing up when I’ve got to sit in an office all day? NOOO THEY BE STEALIN MY BUCKET) and by the time I got back home I felt quite virtuous, what with my sheen of sweat and all. I’ll tell you, there’s nothing in the world like the feeling you get from running . . . when you stop, that is.
I’m looking to create the Ultimate Playlist for Running, because the iPod really does make all the difference in terms of distraction and motivation to keep going (instead of giving in to my natural desire to curl up on the road and weep steadily into the pavement). So far I’ve got:
Run Rabbit Run, Eminem
When the Music Stops, Eminem
Whiskey in the Jar, Metallica
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger, Daft Punk
Blue Orchid, White Stripes
Buzzbomb, Dead Kennedys
Charlotte Mittnacht (The Fabulous Destiny Of…) , DeVotchKa (This one’s great for the end when you stagger up your driveway all triumphant-like.)
Perhaps you noticed this is a short list. Well, shut it. I can’t run very far yet. But on the theory that someday I will be able to pug-wheeze along far enough to need a longer playlist, or just to have some rotation, I want your recommendations. Share your favorite heart-pumping, zombie-escaping songs—anything that motivates you to move. Otherwise, I’m just going to add more Eminem, and then my language is just going to get worse. Won’t you think of the children?
May
7
May 7, 2007
Remember how I was crabbing that JB didn’t get me anything last Mother’s Day and this year he suggested a trip to the cabin instead of diamond-studded pancakes in bed and OMG, wah, etc? Well, this year for our wedding anniversary he got me a box of presents, a lovely card, and I got him . . . nothing.
We said no gifts! WE SAID NO GIFTS GODDAMNIT. Does using caps lock absolve my guilt? NO IT DOES NOT BUT IT FEELS GOOD.
So I’m a shithead, basically, and I think the time for shutting up about manufactured holidays is now.
Also, I think JB deserves some sort of Beyond the Call of Spousal Duty Recognition Award for accompanying me to Nordstrom’s on Saturday and semi-patiently cooling his heels nearby while I tried on literally 439175 pairs of “premium denim” jeans. I believe some of you male readers may know the exquisite hell of having your woman emerge from the dressing room, disheveled and sweaty from the cardio workout required to repeatedly climb in and out of a pile of pants with various fits from “it’s Hammertime” to “Code blue! Asphyxiation eminent!”, position herself in front of you and ask the world’s most clichéd and horrifying question:
“Do these jeans make my ass look fat?”
I also asked if these jeans looked like they were worth their astronomical pricetag, and JB could only shrug frantically, waving his hands in what may have been a fervent hope to flag down any passing emergency vehicles so he could be evacuated from the situation. “They look good, baby,” he said, clamping his lips against the rest of the sentence he so clearly wished to shriek at top volume (if I stay here one more minute I will burn this department store to the ground and crap on its rubble, so whatever they cost please for the love of god just buy them and let’s go).
“But did the Sevens look better?” I mused, frowning and twirling a lock of hair.
I managed to decide on a pair of Joe’s (sized for short people, apparently. But I’m 5’5″! And a half!) before JB’s head exploded, thanks to a very helpful salesgirl who not only brought me every style in the store, but also coached me through my fear of low rise (it’s true these jeans are totally different from Old Navy or Gap low rise—which is to say they are low, but they stay put) and instructed me to stick with the 29s that were a little snug because they would stretch to a perfect fit (and she was right!).
Here is a crappy photo taken in the Westin’s mirror of the jeans, which I may have already outgrown thanks to all the pigging out we did over the weekend.
Anyway, I am loving my new jeans and I think they go quite nicely with the $8.99 gas mask bag (perfectly sized for carrying a Nikon around!) from the army surplus store that I also bought this weekend. I am very fancy.
It was nice to relax all weekend, knowing that Riley was in good hands:
But we missed him. I mean, the Westin may have had room service and deliciously crisp bedsheets, but did it have this kind of quality entertainment?
No, it did not. Although I’m sure housecleaning is glad for that.
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