Our new-to-us apartment comes with an actually-new oven. This thrilled me, because I have a little thing about really old ovens (which this apartment had, when we first checked it out). In truth, it's not really a little thing, so much as it is a crippling fear that an older oven will --due to its aged state -- silently leak deathly gas, suffer from blown-out pilot lights, and/or create an epic fireball in which we all shall perish.
This is likely a direct consequence of what actually repeatedly happened with the oven in our old apartment (minus epic fireball). It was a scary, unpredictable time, a time when I was so overjoyed to get a new oven that I wrote an entire song about bidding the old one adieu (to the tune of James Blunt's "Goodbye, My Lover,") as early readers of this blog may recall. (Excerpt: "How you disappoint me, you let me down/Your pilot light went out, and my cake didn’t brown/Goodbye my oven, You’re not my friend/Pilot light blew out… Nearly were the death of me.")
Naturally, I sat down to read the manual, so as to avoid any potential oven-related conflagration, and while most of it was helpful, the Q & A page was ...something. What follows are actual, direct questions from the list. I've responded with my own answers in place of theirs, because really, do you want to hear about flex-line gas hookup? No, you do not. No one does.
Why does the food slide to one side of the cookware?
The obvious answer is a leveling issue and/or gravity, but that's just what the true culprit -- a poltergeist -- wants you to think. It's all about keeping one step ahead of those wily bastards. Or so I've been led to believe from the 4-7 seconds of the Paranormal Activity trailer I could stand to watch before shrieking and frantically turning to Nick Jr. to soothe my frazzled nerves. Basically, I think you need to do something with a demonologist, and maybe a video camera? And also not taunting It? I'm sure it'll work out.
When I used my oven for the first time there was an odor and some smoking?
First of all, that's not an actual question, but neither here nor there, what you're describing doesn't sound like an oven, so much as a bunch of teenage boys. Are there teenage boys in your kitchen? Yes? Lecture them about lung cancer, proper use of deodorant andeschewing Axe body spray. Then get them some Sunny D. Not the purple stuff, but Sunny D. Allegedly, this will cause them to think you're the coolest. Also those pizza roll things. Cook them in your demon lair/oven.
My range makes noises when I use the oven. Is this normal, or is something wrong?
Okay, don't panic, but it seriously, seriously sounds like Zuul is up in there. Hightail it out of there, and do NOT under any circumstances identify yourself as The Keymaster.
My oven smokes excessively while broiling?
Cooking is stressful, and stress manifests itself differently. Drinking, drugs...perhaps a smoking habit, as we see here. We can only assume no one was around to put it on the proper path in its youth with a stern talking-to and some Sunny D, you know?
My oven temperature doesn't seem right?
Again, I'm not entirely convinced that you understand the concept of a question. I really --waaaait a second; OMFG. Is this a side effect of demonic possession? Loss of basic grammar skills? I DO NOT POSSESS A CROSS BUT SO HELP ME, DEMON, I WILL MAKE ONE OUT OF POPSICLE STICKS. JUST DON'T COME AT ME UNTIL I EAT THE POPSICLES.
If you'll excuse me, I'm off to read my camera manual to see if any similar such ridiculous questions reside therein.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
To Do: Rock the Mic Like a Vandal
Occasionally, there are moments in life where you're faced with something so insanely far outside your comfort zone, but also so amazing that you kinda just have to go along with it, and say, "Sure! What's the worst that could happen?"
Well, in this case, the worst that can happen is that I will simultaneously shame and soil myself in public, but I'm trying really hard not think about that.
I was selected as one of BlogHer's Voices of the Year -- in the Humor category -- which means that I (along with my two fellow finalists, these intimidatingly hilarious ladies) will be reading my nominated post (thanks, Ali!) at the conference's Community Keynote next week. I am thrilled, but also VERY NERVOUS. For reasons that should be obvious (I only got a B+ in Public Speaking in college! B+!), but also because I'm afraid that my being labeled as a humor finalist may create certain expectations.
For instance, I fear that people might come over to me and be all, "Humor finalist, eh? MAKE ME LAUGH! NOW!" because that is totally an actual thing that people do in real life. For some reason, I imagine that everyone who will do this will look like Harold Zidler from Moulin Rouge. Yes, even the ladies. I don't know. And somehow they'll have whips, or whatever, and then I will feel compelled to do SOMEthing, but then uncontrollably projectile vomit on them, because I get nervous under pressure, particularly when I'm already preoccupied with thoughts of impending public speaking.
At this point, I'm considering investing in a squirting lapel flower or spinning bowtie, so I can at least have a humor gimmick, you know? "Well, she did nervously stare at me for 12 seconds, and then throw up on my carefully-selected Anthropologie skirt, but she DID have that spinning bowtie. Well played, humor finalist Metalia. Well played," they'll all say.
Make no mistake, I'm petrified, excited, and honored, and am practicing my post daily, annoying every living thing around me (and possibly my mirrors) with my repeat performances. If you're coming to BlogHer, I hope you'll come to the Keynote. The speaker lineup is amazing, and I promise to do my very best not to hurl onstage. If I do, though, I will totally cover the cost of dry cleaning for the front row. Swearsies.
Well, in this case, the worst that can happen is that I will simultaneously shame and soil myself in public, but I'm trying really hard not think about that.
I was selected as one of BlogHer's Voices of the Year -- in the Humor category -- which means that I (along with my two fellow finalists, these intimidatingly hilarious ladies) will be reading my nominated post (thanks, Ali!) at the conference's Community Keynote next week. I am thrilled, but also VERY NERVOUS. For reasons that should be obvious (I only got a B+ in Public Speaking in college! B+!), but also because I'm afraid that my being labeled as a humor finalist may create certain expectations.
For instance, I fear that people might come over to me and be all, "Humor finalist, eh? MAKE ME LAUGH! NOW!" because that is totally an actual thing that people do in real life. For some reason, I imagine that everyone who will do this will look like Harold Zidler from Moulin Rouge. Yes, even the ladies. I don't know. And somehow they'll have whips, or whatever, and then I will feel compelled to do SOMEthing, but then uncontrollably projectile vomit on them, because I get nervous under pressure, particularly when I'm already preoccupied with thoughts of impending public speaking.
At this point, I'm considering investing in a squirting lapel flower or spinning bowtie, so I can at least have a humor gimmick, you know? "Well, she did nervously stare at me for 12 seconds, and then throw up on my carefully-selected Anthropologie skirt, but she DID have that spinning bowtie. Well played, humor finalist Metalia. Well played," they'll all say.
Make no mistake, I'm petrified, excited, and honored, and am practicing my post daily, annoying every living thing around me (and possibly my mirrors) with my repeat performances. If you're coming to BlogHer, I hope you'll come to the Keynote. The speaker lineup is amazing, and I promise to do my very best not to hurl onstage. If I do, though, I will totally cover the cost of dry cleaning for the front row. Swearsies.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Ain't No Potty Like A--Oh, Forget It.
We move on Thursday. And before you go frantically clicking the "back" button, all, ENOUGH WITH THE MOVING, LADY, MY GOD, I mention this only to give you some context. Specifically, some context into the fact that my two-year-old decided that now -- NOWNOWNOW -- would be the optimal time for her to toilet train herself.
In hindsight, I should have picked up on the fact that Lo would pull something like this, given that her behavior of late is akin to Lindsay Lohan's, circa 2007. (Or always.) She recently figured out how to stealthily remove her diaper, and then not-so-stealthily streak down the hallway, pantsless, shrieking "look at MEEEEEEEE" before careening into any number of large (plastic toy) cars. On the bright side, she is not ornery or -- to my knowledge -- drunk.
This carries over into the night, as well, in that she's been taking off her diaper once she's already in her crib, allegedly settling in for the evening. If we're lucky, she'll crow "I did it!" which tends to tip us off that it's time to go retrieve said diaper. From the hallway floor, since she tosses it outside the room, if she can. If we're not, we'll find ourselves tripping over a diaper when we go in to check on the kids before we go to sleep. I fully believe she is taunting us.
With this background, it should come as no surprise that she decided to toilet train herself earlier this week. Because: of course. I had NOTHING to do with this, I swear. It's not like I made her sit there on some naturally-sourced, hand-hewn olivewood potty, while I sat strumming my (as-yet-nonexistent) guitar, and practicing her Latin flashcards. This was all her, and while the timing could not be worse...
...I think it's pretty cool that she had the drive to try to do it on her own. And a good thing, too, because Google has not been entirely helpful to me, here:
Did I mention that the new place has just been almost fully carpeted? Pray for us, you guys. And our security deposit.
In hindsight, I should have picked up on the fact that Lo would pull something like this, given that her behavior of late is akin to Lindsay Lohan's, circa 2007. (Or always.) She recently figured out how to stealthily remove her diaper, and then not-so-stealthily streak down the hallway, pantsless, shrieking "look at MEEEEEEEE" before careening into any number of large (plastic toy) cars. On the bright side, she is not ornery or -- to my knowledge -- drunk.
This carries over into the night, as well, in that she's been taking off her diaper once she's already in her crib, allegedly settling in for the evening. If we're lucky, she'll crow "I did it!" which tends to tip us off that it's time to go retrieve said diaper. From the hallway floor, since she tosses it outside the room, if she can. If we're not, we'll find ourselves tripping over a diaper when we go in to check on the kids before we go to sleep. I fully believe she is taunting us.
With this background, it should come as no surprise that she decided to toilet train herself earlier this week. Because: of course. I had NOTHING to do with this, I swear. It's not like I made her sit there on some naturally-sourced, hand-hewn olivewood potty, while I sat strumming my (as-yet-nonexistent) guitar, and practicing her Latin flashcards. This was all her, and while the timing could not be worse...
Did I mention that the new place has just been almost fully carpeted? Pray for us, you guys. And our security deposit.
Monday, July 12, 2010
So I have a "relocation specialist" now. That is a thing, apparently.
A few months back, I mentioned that we were entrenched in the delightful and not-at-all-maddening process of selling our apartment. We had purchased our current place back in 2005, before we had kids, and I remember moving in, and thinking, "My god, this place is HUGE! We can use the living room as a squash court! WE CAN LIVE HERE FOREVER! AND ALSO LEARN TO PLAY SQUASH, WHILE WE ARE AT IT." Fast forward a whole mess of years and two kids later,and the formerly-palatial apartment is feeling more refrigerator box-sized by the day. It's time to move on; not far, but just to a place where I do not need to constantly come up with new and creative ways to store all my extra Costco toilet paper. Conveniently enough, we found a great, bigger place right around the corner. A true dining room! A porch! TWO closets in the kids' room! Huzzah!
We found buyers for our place -- which is what set this all in motion -- and the thing is, once things started moving, they Really Moved Quickly, such that everything was settled on Friday, and after discussions earlier today, it appears we're closing/moving next week. OMG. I shouldn't even be writing this; I should be, like, piling our books together, or extricating the toilet paper rolls from their many, many hiding places. But it happened so fast that I'm kind of just doing the slow, quiet freakout.
The one thing I have done (since this all came together EARLIER TODAY) was call movers to come in for an estimate. They told me they'd be sending a "relocation specialist" to our place later this week. A RELOCATION SPECIALIST. This made me feel like I was: (a) in the Witness Protection Program; (b) on a House Hunters-type show; (c) possibly joining a cult; and (d) on a House Hunters-type show about people in the Witness Protection Program wherein said witnesses are relocated to the perfect cult compound for them. It's probably called something like House Hunters WPP: Drinkin' the Kool Aid. You know, if it actually existed.
...
...
...
Obviously, I have been sitting here for the past 10 minutes trying to think of a suitable name for my fake show. Again, this is instead of packing. For our move taking place in about a week. WE ARE DOOMED.
Tell me: How do you pack with kids around? Is there a method to the madness? Should I clean out first, or just move everything, and then deal with it in the new place? Despite however organized I feel like we may be, there is just so much STUFF. Guide me, o wise ones!
We found buyers for our place -- which is what set this all in motion -- and the thing is, once things started moving, they Really Moved Quickly, such that everything was settled on Friday, and after discussions earlier today, it appears we're closing/moving next week. OMG. I shouldn't even be writing this; I should be, like, piling our books together, or extricating the toilet paper rolls from their many, many hiding places. But it happened so fast that I'm kind of just doing the slow, quiet freakout.
The one thing I have done (since this all came together EARLIER TODAY) was call movers to come in for an estimate. They told me they'd be sending a "relocation specialist" to our place later this week. A RELOCATION SPECIALIST. This made me feel like I was: (a) in the Witness Protection Program; (b) on a House Hunters-type show; (c) possibly joining a cult; and (d) on a House Hunters-type show about people in the Witness Protection Program wherein said witnesses are relocated to the perfect cult compound for them. It's probably called something like House Hunters WPP: Drinkin' the Kool Aid. You know, if it actually existed.
...
...
...
Obviously, I have been sitting here for the past 10 minutes trying to think of a suitable name for my fake show. Again, this is instead of packing. For our move taking place in about a week. WE ARE DOOMED.
Tell me: How do you pack with kids around? Is there a method to the madness? Should I clean out first, or just move everything, and then deal with it in the new place? Despite however organized I feel like we may be, there is just so much STUFF. Guide me, o wise ones!
Monday, July 5, 2010
An Open Letter to the Person Who Most Definitely Purposely Stole My Flip Flops (Updated)
This weekend was full of typical Independence Day stuff -- parades, family togetherness, and alarming consumption of barbecue. J and I saw Eclipse, and although I usually like to rap about Twilight, I worry that might be overkill, in light of last week's rap-centric post (about The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, but still). My feelings can be summed up like so:
Instead, I need to talk to you about something that happened today. We -- along with some friends -- took our kids to a (relatively) nearby kids' water park that I did NOT know existed until basically a day ago. (Hooray for having friends who are Planners and Doers and Arrangers of Fun Activities!) The park was great --clean, well-organized, rides for a huge age range of kids, and the lines were minimal. The kids had an amazing time, and we cannot wait to go back. THAT BEING SAID:
Dear Sir or Madam:
Let's not mince words here: you stole my flip-flops, on a HUNDRED-DEGREE DAY, from the lazy river ride at a children's water park. Adding insult to injury, you left your (same sized but CLEARLY DISSIMILAR) fugly plastic Walmart flip-flops in the precise spot where my black and silver Havaianas used to reside. Were you trying to be...nice? Because that just makes me hate you MORE, as it shows that you rationalized the switch by thinking, "it's okay that I'm taking her shoes, because she'll have my shoes." Don't try to protest; I read Silence of the Lambs, and repeatedly watched Primal Fear in high school, so I THINK I know a little something about the complex inner workings of the human mind, you know?
Also, big fat thanks for making me and my husband nearly (well, not really, but NEITHER HERE NOR THERE) get divorced in the middle of the water park. He's SO NICE, you see, and kept insisting that the switch had to have been an accident. And I'm irritated by the whole situation, so I'm all, I AM BASICALLY WALKING ON HOT COALS RIGHT NOW, STOP IT WITH YOUR MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS CRAP, J. And then poor judgment compelled me to wonder aloud if I should go ask the lifeguard if she'd seen anyone absconding with silver/black flip-flops, and...things were said. Things like OH, LET'S PUT OUT AN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN and me, countering with DON'T YOU GET THAT THIS IS A TECHNICAL CRIME, and then I think Scotland Yard was invoked -- sarcastically -- and I don't even know, because my feet were aflame, and our children were essentially twin popsicle-propelled blurs.
So then I had to borrow my husband's big-ass flip-flops and literally flip-flop my way back through the park, to the parking lot, to fetch the extra pair I had in the car. (THANK GOD FOR THAT.) Because the walk was so long, I soon realized that the most efficient means of keeping the flip-flops on my feet was to perform a sort of...raised-knee...gait-type thing, that--okay, it was a MARCH, alright? I MARCHED BACK TO MY CAR, MUTTERING TO MYSELF, IN EXCEEDINGLY LARGE AND MASCULINE FLIP-FLOPS. I undoubtedly looked both sane and happy as I walked, let me just tell you. And as much as I wanted to complain to J about my trek upon my return, it's important to bear in mind that during my absence, he was chasing after the aforementioned hyper children, by himself, in a water park, without shoes. So. I had to feel bad about that (even though he continues to believe that the missing shoes were an innocent mistake, and no one could do it on purpose, and people are inherently nice and honest mistakes happen and WHY IS HE BEING MATTHEW McCONAUGHEY ABOUT THIS).
And I want you (AND HIM) to know that when I shared this tale with Ali, she promptly guessed the brand of stolen flip-flops, and told me that her sister -- who has a pair -- had been warned at the beach, because, and I quote, "people are stealing them like nuts." WHO IN THE HELL STEALS OTHER PEOPLE'S FLIP-FLOPS? And what's more, HOW HAS THIS BECOME AN EPIDEMIC? Is that shoe-stealing episode of Sex and the City to blame for this? The recession? The lunar cycle? Karl Rove? WHAT?
In closing, I'm well aware that there are bigger problems in the world, but right now, I am hatiest toward your thieving ass. I can only hope that the stubborn plantar wart that once befell my big toe visits itself upon your feet, tenfold.
xoxo,
Metalia
Tell me: Who do you think is right: me, or J? WE ARE DYING TO KNOW.
UPDATE: Something is up with Blogger's comments; they're coming through via email just fine, but are taking forever to actually show up here. I just wanted you to know I'm not deleting comments for no reason, or whatever. :)
Instead, I need to talk to you about something that happened today. We -- along with some friends -- took our kids to a (relatively) nearby kids' water park that I did NOT know existed until basically a day ago. (Hooray for having friends who are Planners and Doers and Arrangers of Fun Activities!) The park was great --clean, well-organized, rides for a huge age range of kids, and the lines were minimal. The kids had an amazing time, and we cannot wait to go back. THAT BEING SAID:
~An Open Letter to the Person Who Most Definitely Purposely Stole My Flip-Flops~
Dear Sir or Madam:
Let's not mince words here: you stole my flip-flops, on a HUNDRED-DEGREE DAY, from the lazy river ride at a children's water park. Adding insult to injury, you left your (same sized but CLEARLY DISSIMILAR) fugly plastic Walmart flip-flops in the precise spot where my black and silver Havaianas used to reside. Were you trying to be...nice? Because that just makes me hate you MORE, as it shows that you rationalized the switch by thinking, "it's okay that I'm taking her shoes, because she'll have my shoes." Don't try to protest; I read Silence of the Lambs, and repeatedly watched Primal Fear in high school, so I THINK I know a little something about the complex inner workings of the human mind, you know?
Also, big fat thanks for making me and my husband nearly (well, not really, but NEITHER HERE NOR THERE) get divorced in the middle of the water park. He's SO NICE, you see, and kept insisting that the switch had to have been an accident. And I'm irritated by the whole situation, so I'm all, I AM BASICALLY WALKING ON HOT COALS RIGHT NOW, STOP IT WITH YOUR MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS CRAP, J. And then poor judgment compelled me to wonder aloud if I should go ask the lifeguard if she'd seen anyone absconding with silver/black flip-flops, and...things were said. Things like OH, LET'S PUT OUT AN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN and me, countering with DON'T YOU GET THAT THIS IS A TECHNICAL CRIME, and then I think Scotland Yard was invoked -- sarcastically -- and I don't even know, because my feet were aflame, and our children were essentially twin popsicle-propelled blurs.
So then I had to borrow my husband's big-ass flip-flops and literally flip-flop my way back through the park, to the parking lot, to fetch the extra pair I had in the car. (THANK GOD FOR THAT.) Because the walk was so long, I soon realized that the most efficient means of keeping the flip-flops on my feet was to perform a sort of...raised-knee...gait-type thing, that--okay, it was a MARCH, alright? I MARCHED BACK TO MY CAR, MUTTERING TO MYSELF, IN EXCEEDINGLY LARGE AND MASCULINE FLIP-FLOPS. I undoubtedly looked both sane and happy as I walked, let me just tell you. And as much as I wanted to complain to J about my trek upon my return, it's important to bear in mind that during my absence, he was chasing after the aforementioned hyper children, by himself, in a water park, without shoes. So. I had to feel bad about that (even though he continues to believe that the missing shoes were an innocent mistake, and no one could do it on purpose, and people are inherently nice and honest mistakes happen and WHY IS HE BEING MATTHEW McCONAUGHEY ABOUT THIS).
And I want you (AND HIM) to know that when I shared this tale with Ali, she promptly guessed the brand of stolen flip-flops, and told me that her sister -- who has a pair -- had been warned at the beach, because, and I quote, "people are stealing them like nuts." WHO IN THE HELL STEALS OTHER PEOPLE'S FLIP-FLOPS? And what's more, HOW HAS THIS BECOME AN EPIDEMIC? Is that shoe-stealing episode of Sex and the City to blame for this? The recession? The lunar cycle? Karl Rove? WHAT?
In closing, I'm well aware that there are bigger problems in the world, but right now, I am hatiest toward your thieving ass. I can only hope that the stubborn plantar wart that once befell my big toe visits itself upon your feet, tenfold.
xoxo,
Metalia
Tell me: Who do you think is right: me, or J? WE ARE DYING TO KNOW.
UPDATE: Something is up with Blogger's comments; they're coming through via email just fine, but are taking forever to actually show up here. I just wanted you to know I'm not deleting comments for no reason, or whatever. :)
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo: A Rap. (Well, SOMEONE had to do it.)*
I recently finished the third book in the Millennium Trilogy, aka “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo books.” And you know what? WHATEVER, Stieg Larson. I am not convinced that these works are a testament to his (purported) feminism, nor am I convinced that they needed to be as EFFING LONG AS THEY WERE, MY GOD. Toward the end there, I was just soldiering on, determined to push through to the end. A literary Bataan, if you will. And now that I’m on the other side, and have reflected on the series as a whole, I say again: WhatEVER, Stieg Larson. Except he’s, uh, dead, and basically, my only recourse at this point is a rap. A rap covering only my issues with the first book, since I know a lot of people haven’t read the others yet. (Even though I’m not spoiling, so much as I am…whining. Via rhyme.) Here we go:
Lisbeth Salander, master computer hacker!
Loves snoopin’ in yo’ Gmail, and her lipstick can’t be blacker.
Pierced all over, with a big-ass dragon tattoo.
That’s how you know she’s “dangerous,” to me, you, and you.
Mikael Blomkvist, financial reporter, of sorts!
Nondescript and middle-aged, or so the book reports.
Doesn’t pour on charm or make any maneuvers.
TOTAL sense that homeboy’s a…walking panty remover?
(Eyeroll! Eyeroll! I’m rolling my eyeballs!
It’s silly and unreal, but I’m in for the long haul.
Now lemme get back to the topic right here,
Like how Mikael met Lisbeth and—hold on, I need a beer.)
Mikael’s sued for libel by some Swedish billionaire,
We drill down to minutiae about which no one cares.
He’s facing jail, he’s desperate, and he needs to find a way…
A dude named Henrik Vanger then swoops in and saves the day.
Asks Mike to help him with a family mystery, if he can;
In return he’ll help bring down that bad rich Swedish man.
Mikael agrees and Lisbeth gets her tattooed self involved,
Mystery, you’d best get set to get yo’ ass SOLVED.
The book then takes a turn for the…hyper-detailed.
Computer models! Names of highways! BOOK, YOU HAVE DERAILED.
Someone else’s groceries! Then more direction stuff.
What’s next? A camera manual? MY GOD, LARSSON, ENOUGH.
I just don’t care how they all got from point A to point B.
Unless something blew up, Die Hard-style, or crashed into a tree.
TONS of wasted pages on trip routes: “South, then northwest…”
Come on now, yo, Stieg Larsson-- this ain’t no damned MapQuest!
Coffee! Coffee! Everyone drinks coffee!
They pace, run, and get shot at, and then crack the mystery.
You think the book is over, since the puzzle has been solved.
And then we’re back to…Swedish Baddie? It’s all too involved.
Another hundred pages; and at last the book is done.
But not before I get confused, like in Trig 101.
Implausible behaviors and absurd logic abounds.
Even the explanations do nothing but confound.
All that said, it’s riveting, the story keeps you hooked.
There’s just a lot of extra crap that's muddling the book.
I truly get why it’s been so prominently featured.
I liked it like Lisbeth loves her Billy’s Pan Pizza.
~Fin~
*No one had to do it.
Lisbeth Salander, master computer hacker!
Loves snoopin’ in yo’ Gmail, and her lipstick can’t be blacker.
Pierced all over, with a big-ass dragon tattoo.
That’s how you know she’s “dangerous,” to me, you, and you.
Mikael Blomkvist, financial reporter, of sorts!
Nondescript and middle-aged, or so the book reports.
Doesn’t pour on charm or make any maneuvers.
TOTAL sense that homeboy’s a…walking panty remover?
(Eyeroll! Eyeroll! I’m rolling my eyeballs!
It’s silly and unreal, but I’m in for the long haul.
Now lemme get back to the topic right here,
Like how Mikael met Lisbeth and—hold on, I need a beer.)
Mikael’s sued for libel by some Swedish billionaire,
We drill down to minutiae about which no one cares.
He’s facing jail, he’s desperate, and he needs to find a way…
A dude named Henrik Vanger then swoops in and saves the day.
Asks Mike to help him with a family mystery, if he can;
In return he’ll help bring down that bad rich Swedish man.
Mikael agrees and Lisbeth gets her tattooed self involved,
Mystery, you’d best get set to get yo’ ass SOLVED.
The book then takes a turn for the…hyper-detailed.
Computer models! Names of highways! BOOK, YOU HAVE DERAILED.
Someone else’s groceries! Then more direction stuff.
What’s next? A camera manual? MY GOD, LARSSON, ENOUGH.
I just don’t care how they all got from point A to point B.
Unless something blew up, Die Hard-style, or crashed into a tree.
TONS of wasted pages on trip routes: “South, then northwest…”
Come on now, yo, Stieg Larsson-- this ain’t no damned MapQuest!
Coffee! Coffee! Everyone drinks coffee!
They pace, run, and get shot at, and then crack the mystery.
You think the book is over, since the puzzle has been solved.
And then we’re back to…Swedish Baddie? It’s all too involved.
Another hundred pages; and at last the book is done.
But not before I get confused, like in Trig 101.
Implausible behaviors and absurd logic abounds.
Even the explanations do nothing but confound.
All that said, it’s riveting, the story keeps you hooked.
There’s just a lot of extra crap that's muddling the book.
I truly get why it’s been so prominently featured.
I liked it like Lisbeth loves her Billy’s Pan Pizza.
~Fin~
*No one had to do it.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Look, I Don't Want To Brag, But We Totally Saw One-Eyed Willie's Ship.
J and I just returned from our first "real" vacation together in over four years. By "real" I mean "actual vacation for the express purpose of doing nothing other than sitting on a beach, rather than me accompanying J to Chicago on business, which --while fun! -- is, I'm sorry, not the same thing."
We went to St. Lucia with good couple friends, and we all had a fantastic time together. I was (naturally!) stricken with weepy momguilt as I packed up and kissed the kids goodbye, but after an uneventful flight, a scenic drive to the hotel, and this view to greet us from our villa, I attempted to get over it:
We stayed here, and OMFG, you guys, nicest hotel ever. Gorgeous, pristine, quiet, AND our place was literally steps from the beach. Even J -- who generally hates the ocean because he "doesn't see the point," on account of "all the sand" -- loved the location. (ACTUAL STATEMENT THAT HE HAS REPEATEDLY MADE.)
We spent a lot of time hanging out there, which afforded us the opportunity to pretend that we are Professional Computer Wallpaper Photographers:
Also, to pretend that we are Goonies, because, I'm sorry, are you going to sit there and try to tell me that this is NOT One-Eyed Willie's Ship? Are you? Why would you do that? WHO ARE YOU, YOU TERRIBLE PERSON WHO IS LYING? Are you after the treasure? Is that it? ANSWER MEEEE. And then do the Truffle Shuffle.
Speaking of ships, we also had a Dramatic Rescue at Sea. (I, too, am shocked that I got into the water in the first place, but the ocean was so calm and clear and blue that I told myself I would see the man-eating sharks coming, and...kick them. A sound, logical approach if ever there was one.) All four of us boarded a catamaran at the hotel, and...well, I will summarize our plight in two pie graphs:
Naturally, there was a bit of a disconnect, and we got stranded out in the water, thus necessitating the Dramatic Rescue at Sea. Which, yes, was simply another catamaran, piloted (steered?) by an employee of the hotel with actual experience, who was maybe/definitely cursing our collective idiocy, but I stand by my description.
All in all, it was an amazing trip; no one got sunburned or shark-eaten, J and I had a great time with each other, and with our friends.
It honestly felt odd at first to be...well, selfish, and to spend time completely relaxed; not waking up at 5:45, thinking about my office, planning dinners, or performing my in-demand Backyardigans bedtime song. The biggest issues I faced on St. Lucia involved this tiny lizard, and keeping one step ahead of his wily ass, and what to drink with dinner.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Birthday Girls, Pedicure Strategies, and My Ugly Thumb (UPDATED)
1. J and I leave for a brief trip to St. Lucia on Thursday. Do you know what I've done in preparation for said trip? Gotten a pedicure. Because although my list -- my GLORIOUS list! -- of stuff to do before we go is a thing of beauty, truly, I haven't had time to pack, or properly organize myself. And I know, call the wahmbulance, but I am petrified about forgetting something, so instead of facing that problem head-on, I...got the pedicure. Rational!
2. The pedicure was this color.
I'm usually SUPER dull with my polish choices (buff pink, or dark red), but I was all "I NEED A VACATION COLOR," which is precisely the type of ridiculous thing I mutter to myself while actively avoiding packing. It's kind of coral-y, which makes it (in my mind, anyway) a vacation color, AND is my homage to the late Rue McClanahan. I'm pouring out a Geritol for you, my homie!
3. I was pretty sure my pedicure lady was talking about me to the adjacent pedicure lady, which, you know, par for the course, and all that. However! PRO TIP: I have determined that googling how to say "I understand you" in Korean ("ah deh suh yo"), and very quietly muttering it to yourself will aid you in ascertaining whether or not your pedicure lady is in fact talking about you. The giveaway is the stricken look. (Assuming, of course, that she is Korean.) (Note: she was.) (What the hell was she saying about me?) Thank you, Google!
4. I have a recipe for EASY, quick sesame noodles up at Aiming Low today. They are life-changing! Be advised however...
5...That to get to it, you'll have to endure photos of my "ugly ass thumb." (Thank you, commenter Bob Ross!)
6. It's Lo's birthday next Sunday; because of our trip, we held her party this weekend with our families. I WILL spare you yet another unending family post; however, I do need you to see this here cake...
...and the birthday girl in her crown:
Aw.
UPDATE: A bunch of people have asked about the nail polish shade; it's OPI On Collins Avenue!
2. The pedicure was this color.
3. I was pretty sure my pedicure lady was talking about me to the adjacent pedicure lady, which, you know, par for the course, and all that. However! PRO TIP: I have determined that googling how to say "I understand you" in Korean ("ah deh suh yo"), and very quietly muttering it to yourself will aid you in ascertaining whether or not your pedicure lady is in fact talking about you. The giveaway is the stricken look. (Assuming, of course, that she is Korean.) (Note: she was.) (What the hell was she saying about me?) Thank you, Google!
4. I have a recipe for EASY, quick sesame noodles up at Aiming Low today. They are life-changing! Be advised however...
5...That to get to it, you'll have to endure photos of my "ugly ass thumb." (Thank you, commenter Bob Ross!)
6. It's Lo's birthday next Sunday; because of our trip, we held her party this weekend with our families. I WILL spare you yet another unending family post; however, I do need you to see this here cake...
...and the birthday girl in her crown:
Aw.
UPDATE: A bunch of people have asked about the nail polish shade; it's OPI On Collins Avenue!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
My Karaoke Secret: EMOTIVE HANDS.
My brother (Goose) has instructed me to share this. I'm not entirely certain you want to watch it, but if you enjoy shaky/blurry Blair Witch Project-style camerawork, bad karaoke duets, emotive hand gestures, and the idea of laughing at people (namely me), then I say go for it:
TURN THE HELL AROUND ALREADY, BRIGHT EYES.
TURN THE HELL AROUND ALREADY, BRIGHT EYES.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Talk to Me, Goose. (Picture-Laden! RUN WHILE YOU CAAAAAN!)
Yesterday, I had the rare treat of going on a mini-road trip with my little brother.
He is little in only the technical sense. (See?)
My husband is in Vegas for the week (THE. WEEK.) for work. I adore my brother, and we don't get to spend enough time together, likely because he is off doing Fun 21-Year-Old Boy Things, like jetting off to Vancouver for no reason, buying aggressively skinny pants, and hanging out with a large number of cool-looking people, while I am...perfecting my cold sesame noodle recipe. Oh! And organizing my bookshelves. I also truly miss my road trips of yore (YES I SAID YORE. I AM BRINGING IT BACK), and so since we had our cousin's wedding in Albany yesterday, we combined the good things -- Reese's peanut butter cup-style! -- and drove there together.
"My alias will b Goose!" he just texted me. Okay, you're Goose. Weirdo.
ANYway. You guys, Goose and I had so much fun. It warms my heart to realize that I genuinely enjoy my brother's company, even though he poses like this on a pretty consistent basis (Note: most pictures stolen from my uncle):
After all, Goose drove there and back, unquestioningly played a rousing game of Aging Hippie, or Actually Thinks He is a Wizard with me at the rest stop, and together, we snickered at the Super Inappropriate Incense. (And we continue to laugh about this now. A full day later.):
The wedding itself was beautiful, and obviously, I cried, because that is what I do at weddings. Other things I do at weddings include slipping on dance floors, and completely unintentionally almost matching my SIL's dress. Look, here I am doing both at the same time! (While beautiful, she is making an odd face here, so I lightly edited the shot for her. I don't even know if you can tell, for that is how good I am. Please inquire via email for my rates:)
We also got to hang out with a bunch of cousins that we adore...
(My other brother --who, I guess, we must now call Iceman? -- is on the right.)
...And, uh, I got to -- along with my cousin -- perform an ill-advised rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" during the (BRILLIANT) karaoke portion of the reception. (Can you see the flop sweat? For LO, IT WAS ABUNDANT.)
There is a short and horrifying video of this, by the way, but I fear this ode to family has run long.
So, to sum up:
I love my baby brother (ALSO YOU, ICEMAN, BUT I SEE YOU MORE OFTEN THAN GOOSE YOU ARE BOTH VERY SPECIAL MY GOD).
I can't sing.
I have a great extended family.
My brother probably thinks I am a terrible driver, as evidenced by his refusal to let me drive, in what I initially perceived as kindness, but I now suspect was fear.
And finally, there are Red Bull machines at rest stops (who knew?! I want one for my bedroom.):
And how was your weekend?
He is little in only the technical sense. (See?)
My husband is in Vegas for the week (THE. WEEK.) for work. I adore my brother, and we don't get to spend enough time together, likely because he is off doing Fun 21-Year-Old Boy Things, like jetting off to Vancouver for no reason, buying aggressively skinny pants, and hanging out with a large number of cool-looking people, while I am...perfecting my cold sesame noodle recipe. Oh! And organizing my bookshelves. I also truly miss my road trips of yore (YES I SAID YORE. I AM BRINGING IT BACK), and so since we had our cousin's wedding in Albany yesterday, we combined the good things -- Reese's peanut butter cup-style! -- and drove there together.
"My alias will b Goose!" he just texted me. Okay, you're Goose. Weirdo.
ANYway. You guys, Goose and I had so much fun. It warms my heart to realize that I genuinely enjoy my brother's company, even though he poses like this on a pretty consistent basis (Note: most pictures stolen from my uncle):
After all, Goose drove there and back, unquestioningly played a rousing game of Aging Hippie, or Actually Thinks He is a Wizard with me at the rest stop, and together, we snickered at the Super Inappropriate Incense. (And we continue to laugh about this now. A full day later.):
The wedding itself was beautiful, and obviously, I cried, because that is what I do at weddings. Other things I do at weddings include slipping on dance floors, and completely unintentionally almost matching my SIL's dress. Look, here I am doing both at the same time! (While beautiful, she is making an odd face here, so I lightly edited the shot for her. I don't even know if you can tell, for that is how good I am. Please inquire via email for my rates:)
(My other brother --who, I guess, we must now call Iceman? -- is on the right.)
...And, uh, I got to -- along with my cousin -- perform an ill-advised rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" during the (BRILLIANT) karaoke portion of the reception. (Can you see the flop sweat? For LO, IT WAS ABUNDANT.)
There is a short and horrifying video of this, by the way, but I fear this ode to family has run long.
So, to sum up:
I love my baby brother (ALSO YOU, ICEMAN, BUT I SEE YOU MORE OFTEN THAN GOOSE YOU ARE BOTH VERY SPECIAL MY GOD).
I can't sing.
I have a great extended family.
My brother probably thinks I am a terrible driver, as evidenced by his refusal to let me drive, in what I initially perceived as kindness, but I now suspect was fear.
And finally, there are Red Bull machines at rest stops (who knew?! I want one for my bedroom.):
And how was your weekend?
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