Sep
12
September 12, 2006
Today I took a piece of well-chewed gum out of my mouth and crumpled it into a kleenex, then a few moments later, having jettisoned a particularly relevant piece of data (TISSUE CONTAINS GOOEY CORE OF GUM) from my brain, I started to use it to blow my nose. I caught the smell of mint and remembered, oh shit, and pulled the kleenex away only to observe a filament of Eclipse “Polar Ice” connecting the wad of tissue to my nose. There I sat, in my office where I am theoretically a professional in charge of software marketing strategies, with gum stuck to my nose, and maybe 15 inches of gum-thread trailing through the air to the tissue in my hand.
Also, there is currently a grayish smear of sticky residue on the inside of our clothes dryer, since I apparently left a wad of tissue-wrapped gum in a pocket at some point, and cleverly ran it through the laundry instead of, oh, I don’t know, removing it and throwing it in the fucking garbage where it belonged.
It’s a sad day when you realize you are officially too stupid to chew gum without negative repercussions. I may need to switch to those flavored Listerine cellophane things that burn the crap out of your tongue.
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A couple of tasty links:
• Turn up your speakers and sing along to this one:
All we want to do is eat your brains
We’re not unreasonable, I mean, no one’s gonna eat your eyes…
• McSweeney’s: …if the suburban neighborhood pool were in Deadwood. (Thanks, Amber!)
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Boring website housekeeping note:
If you’re interested in receiving email notifications when I update this website, I installed a plugin that purports to do just that. I’ve tested it on three of my own addresses, and it seems to work fine; it includes a short text-only blurb of the entry, and a link. I’m going to transition away from Notifylist.com in favor of this method, because while Notifylist is in fact free and there’s a school of thought that says you get what you pay for, it’s awfully damn inconsistent. Messages tend to get delayed for hours on end, or just disappear into the ether. The new system should be better, although you may have to whitelist my address so your spam filter doesn’t decide that I’m trying to sell you some fine Gev@lia coffee or transferring my Nairobi millions to your bank account or increasing both the length and width of your P-Unit.
You can sign up here.
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And now for a small rant:
The office where I work is located in a congested area; it’s positioned on a quasi-residential street that also contains coffee shops and miscellaneous retail stores. In order to back out of the parking lot and head in the direction of home, I stare bug-eyed out the back window, take a deep breath and hit the gas, then pray for survival as I flail to get my car shifted into drive and revved up to 47 MPH, since the people whipping around the nearby corner always make me wonder if this time they won’t bother slowing down before driving halfway up my large intestine.
A block away, I have to turn left through a busy intersection, yielding to oncoming traffic that’s either going straight, or turning right but refusing to stay in the righthand lane and instantly drifting into the left, which is the lane I’m trying to turn into. There is also an extremely active crosswalk to contend with, bristling with iPodded UW students, people wearing designer fleece vests pushing jogging strollers, and a smattering of elderly people just to make it even harder. It’s like some stressful reverse Frogger game, where I am trying to look in twelve directions at once in order to miss colliding with pedestrians, various assholes driving like they’ve got their laboring wife in the passenger seat and the head is starting to crown, and worst of all, the bicyclists.
I’m all for saving the environment and lowering air pollution and being a commendable citizen, but I swear to god the bicyclists in Seattle – at least the ones I contend with every work day – need to be force-fed a plate of veal then have their Croc-clog-wearing, soybean-eating, pubic-beard-sporting asses flattened by a giant Hummer.
I don’t know if they think they’re surrounded by an impenetrable Forcefield of Righteousness or what, but I see people flying through red lights, zipping across crosswalks blaring DON’T WALK (OR RIDE A BIKE, DIPSHIT), blasting past walkers while simultaneously yelling “ON YOUR LEFT” (which does exactly no good whatsoever, as it only startles the pedestrian and gives them no chance to get out of the way) and ringing their obnoxious little bells.
And maybe I’m just woefully uninformed, but aren’t bicyclists supposed to follow the rules of the road? Like a car? “Oh, right now I’m a car, but that light just turned red so I’m a pedestrian! Actually I’m above the law, as I have sausaged myself into a skin-tight jersey emblazoned with the names of companies who, hello, are not sponsoring me, as I AM NOT A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE. On your left!”
I hate having a close call with a bicyclist because 1) it scares the shit out of me, and 2) if anything, godforbid, happened, who do you think would be at fault? Even if Nick Numbnuts ran a light and was going the wrong way and actually rode directly into the front of my car while I was stopped, I’m pretty sure I’d be getting sued.
So, bikers of Seattle’s Montlake/Blakeley area, if you see a bug-eyed woman driving a white Corolla, give her a break, please. And for god’s sake, roll down that one dorky pantleg when you’re done riding.
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Baby photos? IF YOU INSIST:
My god, won’t someone allow this child into the backyard where he can devour all the dog turds he wants?
Do not be fooled by The Cute. He is plotting to blow bananas in your hair.
Gosh, isn’t it heartwarming, the tail-gumming love between a boy and his stuffed stingray?
Sep
11
September 11, 2006
Today was one of my days at home with Riley, and although I should have taken him to a park or something to enjoy this gorgeous weather before it all turns to crap and I’m stuck inside for months and months on end with a lively toddler, man is that ever going to blow, I packed him up and drove to the Retail Mothership, the Bellevue Square Mall.
I took Riley there a couple times back when he was a dozing, helpless little blob – no more troublesome than a purse, albeit a purse that emits the occasional loud, grunting bowel movement – but lately I’ve been kind of intimidated by the thought of bringing him into any environment that doesn’t have an emergency exit within several yards at all times. The further you venture into a mall, the longer it’s going to take to get out. Unlike space, in the mall everyone can hear your baby scream.
I had to quit being a wuss and head in that direction, though, because I have been out of Body Shop Coconut Body Butter for, like, months, and my skin is no longer supple and smelling of stripper. Also, I wanted some Stinky Candles from the Stinky Candle Store. And so to the mall we went, me sniffing the air every two seconds and inquiring worriedly towards the back seat: “Did you poop? You didn’t poop, did you? Oh please don’t poop.” (I know there are actual changing stations in the restrooms, but I feel like most of his diaper changes could be filmed and broadcast on the Discovery Channel alongside footage of lions engaged in fierce wrestling matches with gazelles and snakes wriggling violently away from mongooses, on a show called “Escaping Predators: Wily Mammal Strategies!”. I’m just saying, I’d rather not have an audience if I can help it.)
I have a stroller that is specifically touted for its ability to fold up nicely, and pop back open like a clever piece of origami, but for whatever reason I’m unable to deal with it with any sense of grace if I’m in public. At home I can whip that thing around like I’m Jackie Chan, kicking it into position and snapping on the seat in one fluid movement, but get me in a mall parking lot and I’ve got seventeen thumbs and a total lack of spatial relations. I spent probably five minutes struggling to unlock the goddamned frame on the stroller, wrinkling my shirt and breaking out in the sort of sweat you would never, ever describe as “dewy”. As I was practically gnawing it apart with my teeth, the boy sat peering at me from the carseat and occasionally chortling. Until of course a couple of people walked nearby, and then he started crying pathetically and turning all red and tear-stained, so that it appeared I had left him to rot inside the car for the last several hours while I leisurely tried on shoes at Nine West.
So he was kind of sniffly and pitiful when I brought him in the mall, but he did pretty well. He did his newly-learned scrunch-nose smile at the Stinky Candle Lady who asked if he was in the “loves strangers, or hates strangers” stage. I eyeballed him and said he was usually pretty happy about meeting people, then I offered up a silent prayer to the Stinky Candle Gods he wouldn’t start gasping and shrieking when she trilled her fingers in his direction. He didn’t, though; he just scrunched his nose at her. Or maybe he was just reacting to the overwhelming stench of a thousand clashing scented candles. Either way.
The only thing that was marginally embarrassing was when he started chewing one of his socks, while it was still attached to his foot. While I admired his flexibility, I thought he might start gagging on it (his favorite party trick lately is to thrust something–a finger, a measuring cup handle, whatever–deep within his throat and then gag mightily on it, which, DUH, right? But then he does it about fifteen more times in a row), so I gently removed it, resulting in a Howl of Righteous Indignation that trembled the nearby glass walls of a Tully’s. Luckily, it was a brief skirmish, as he was soon distracted by my wallet, which was the first acceptable thing I managed to unearth in my purse (runners-up items: Afrin inhaler, “Gentle Glide” tampon, leaky ballpoint pen).
After that mostly successful outing, I was feeling brave and so I bundled him into his backpack (no small feat by myself without a couch to balance it on, mind you) and motored into a Bed Bath & Beyond, which I regretted almost instantly.
I have not actually experienced what it’s like to ferry a live squid through a household goods store, its limbs thrashing wildly and seeking purchase on any object within a fifteen-foot radius, but I’m pretty sure I have a good idea now. While the stroller allows me to monitor Riley’s grabby little paws, the backpack gives him total access to anything at head level. He can lean way out and snag something I had no idea was even nearby, such as a wicker trash basket, which he can then smack me over the head with and entangle in my hair. Plus, while the backpack works great for hiking or walking in our neighborhood, it’s extremely awkward when maneuvering through small aisles. It’s like you’re some massive, goony turtle, whose shell keeps whapping things onto the floor. Oh and also you have a squid strapped to you. You’re a turtle with a squid who has to do a wide-legged, preparing-to-poop-type squat to pick something up off the floor. There is no dignity. None.
Anyway, that was my day. I also dragged Riley through the grocery store, god help me, so by the time JB got home I was limp with exhaustion. “What did you do all day,” he asked.
“Oh, not much,” I replied.
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A BRIEF GLIMPSE INTO AMERICA’S CLASSIEST HOUSEHOLD:
Scene: Riley’s bedroom, earlier this evening. JB is reading to him from the “Baby Animals” picture book.
JB: “And that’s a dog. The dog says, ‘aroooo’. That’s a duck. The duck says, ‘quack quack’. And that’s a goose! The goose says…”
Mysterious sound erupting from JB’s rear, slightly muffled by the chair cushion: “Prooooooooooooot.”
JB: “Ah, yes. That was the goose.”
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