Jun
13
June 13, 2006
Updates here will be few and far between this week as my home computer is currently wrapped in a towel and sitting in the garage, but please visit that other blog where I’m, uh, sort of contractually obligated to post each weekday and maybe also pretend like I know who the hell Andrew Shue is.
(Melrose what? I never saw it, back then I was too busy being despondent and heaving great dissatisfied sighs and weeping gently for having been born both without fangs and with a skintone that darkened when exposed to sunlight rather than curling into unholy flames. O, the injustice of being a fervent teen gothic with a tan.)
Random:
• I hate living in a hotel, but I am so glad our floors are being done. The workers pulled up the carpet today and there was a thick whitish built-up residue in several places. JB asked what is was, and they said “Oh, you know. Dirt. Mold.” SHUDDER.
• I rented this and we watched it last Saturday night and about halfway through I turned to JB and said, “Um, I didn’t know it was going to be quite so…if you want to turn it off, just say.” And he said, “No, it’s fine. I’m just NEVER GOING TO BE THE SAME.” Watch it, if you dare. I guarantee you will never eat wontons again.
• We also watched the premiere of Deadwood on Sunday before moving the entertainment system into the kitchen (and wrapping it in towels!) and now I don’t need to contribute to the cussin’ jar because Deadwood done filled it up. Cocksucker!
• I sort of love this Infiniti FX SUV-thing. Like a lot. Sorry, Mini Cooper, I have a new car-crush.
• I fed Riley tiny bits of chicken recently and he ate it so eagerly and with this look of dawning wonder on his face and I was ridiculously thrilled and proud. Non-smushy food, first time. (Although sometimes when he opens his mouth with such impatient expectation I think not of adorable cheeping birds but of Alex in A Clockwork Orange, smacking his mouth open in the hospital bed while he’s being spoon-fed, which is to say, damn, kid, I am not your Minister of the Interior!)
• Three hardware products JB has been project managing were all announced today; I know firsthand that it’s pretty exciting to have something you’ve worked on start getting mentioned in the press (although there are some differences, like my company is usually reported on by Mac news sites while his company is, you know, on the front page of the Wall Street Journal) so I am quite proud of him. Even if he did make a big stink about taking Riley to daycare this morning instead of picking him up tonight because, and I quote, “This is deviating from the plan. You know I don’t like deviating from the plan.” JB, you are the most awesome stubborn hardass I know.
• The other day I gave myself a home pedicure, painted on a loud-ass red polish, stuck a little rhinestone sparkle “fashion nail accessory” on each of my big toes, and my feet now officially look better than the rest of me. I feel stupidly happy about this. Sure, I’ve got on a wrinkled shirt and my hair’s a mess, but I’m walking pretty, by god.
• Oh! I almost forgot, I overheard this at work today: “It’s like MySpace…but with dragons.” Heh. Geeeeeeks.
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Now is the time for the crazy links:
• Young FrankenSteve
• Walken Cowbell
• Animator/Animation cage match
• Diet Coke and Mentos
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Happy Tuesday. Have a good week! May your floors be mold-free and your toes a source of pleasure. (WHAT? Go away, fetish googlers.)
Jun
10
June 10, 2006
Hi. I have porn in my trunk.
Oh, was that kind of…abrupt? I’m sorry, let’s ease into this together. How are you, anyway? Everything good? What’s the weather like, finally turning warm? That sounds great; Seattle’s been sort of muggy and –
No, seriously. I have porn in my trunk.
Remember how I told you we were going to have our floors done this week, so we have to get everything out of the house? For the last couple days, that’s all we’ve been doing – picking up every single item that’s currently touching the floor, and moving it out to the garage. It’s about as fun as you would think, assuming what you would think is: man, that doesn’t sound like any fun at all.
Take a look around where you live and notice, if you will, the number of things resting on the floor. Furniture, yeah, but also your closets, plants, random end tables crammed with things on top of them, super heavy things that you only assembled with the use of a pallet jack rented from Home Depot…I keep wishing we could just employ a giant net of some kind to suspend everything from the ceiling. But no. It all must be moved, and it is all dusty, and the baby is no help whatsoever.
This is what our garage currently looks like:
And we still have several large items to go. Thank god JB is the master of Tetris-ing, because if I were in charge of making it all fit we would have a giant shitload of furniture strewn across the lawn.
On Monday we move into a hotel, and Thursday we can start moving it all back in, hopefully without succumbing to toxic floor-refinishing fumes. The painters came last week and vastly improved the appearance of three rooms in the house, so at least we don’t have that chore to look forward to (first rule of home remodeling: quit thinking you’ll save money by doing things yourself and just hire a fucking expert already), and –
Right, the porn.
So, we were going through all of our crap and JB said to me, “What should I do with the porn?”
“The porn,” I said.
“Yeah. I mean, there are a bunch of old magazines and videos and stuff.” He showed me a brown bag which contained a sizable pile of Adult Entertainment.
“Well, not to imply anything here, but when’s the last time anyone…you know, looked at this stuff? And what’s this magazine, anyway…it’s dated 1997. I mean, the pubic hair styles have clearly moved on.”
“What are you saying,” he said slowly.
“I don’t know, maybe you could…get rid of it?”
JB looked at me with shocked, moist eyes, and took me by the shoulders. “You can’t throw away porn. You just can’t.”
“Okay, fine.”
“A guy can’t throw away his porn.”
“I SAID FINE. Jesus.”
We then had a discussion about where the porn should go. Every shelf in our closets is now packed full, so I told him it would have to go in the garage with everything else. “But my parents are helping us move back in,” he said, greatly disturbed. “It’s going to have to go in your car.”
My car. Why not his car? Because it’s a truck and there’s nowhere to hide it. Why not just stick it in a box? Well, what if his parents open the box. Maybe you could label the box Do Not Open, then. No, he really thinks it should go in my car.
You’d think we were trying to figure out whose ass in which to cram a brick of heroin before smuggling across the border. I tried informing him that he is 32 years old and maybe it’s high time his parents knew he was having S-E-X, but then I imagined the exact moment of his mother, trying to be helpful, opening a bag and being faced with Jenna Jameson’s reproductive organs and I said FINE, it can go in my car.
Thus, I have porn in my trunk. Which I forgot all about yesterday afternoon. Until I opened up the back of my car, in a crowded QFC parking lot, and started to put a bag of groceries inside.
Anyway. That’s been my weekend. How about you?
(What? In the absence of furniture, we’ve got to share.)
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