HOLY SHIT. I am in the throes of being deeply discombobulated. This is a real time report (or would have been, had I not given up and abandoned it until another day, this day, which is today, right now. Which makes this part “real time”, I guess. Or not. Oh, fuck it.) My daughter, who is twelve, is having her birthday party tonight. I was JUST twelve. Not temporally speaking, of course. But it seems like I was just twelve. And they are doing all the shite I DID as a twelve year old, but they are doing it up Twenty-First Century style. Youtube changes everything. And I am baking brownies for them, because I am The Mom. HOLY SHIT.
Now they are making a video and writing some sort of rap. They are rapping, about God Knows What. Here is an overheard bit of conversation that occurred between two young party guests and Qwanty, Jr., courtesy of the Brain Scientist:
Young party guest: What rhymes with hair?
Other young party guest: Mare!
Qwanty, Jr.: Sare!
The BS reported this to me, confused: How are they possibly going to work that into a song?
How indeed. And seriously, junior. Sare? SARE? Jesus, child. That’s not even a word. It is at best an acronym. And frankly, I don’t think you know that.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
add it up
Although I am pursuing an advanced degree in something I shall refer to today as the “quantitative arts”, I will admit that I have a difficult time wrapping me head around numbers that are intended to quantify things. Hey. I accidentally typed me instead of my. It also seems that the me of the typed word has a difficult time refraining from sounding like a pirate. Arrrr. But wait. I was saying something about numbers – specifically those that are intended to quantify things – being problem for me. That’s no good. I mean, really, aren’t all numbers generally expected to act in a quantifying capacity?
Anyway. Take, for example, the distance from the earth to the sun. I can’t recall the exact number, but I can assure you that is a very large number of miles away. Wait. The Brain Scientist just happened by and informed me that it’s 93,000,000 miles. That’s NINETY THREE MILLION. Thank you, Brain Scientist. I DON’T REMEMBER ASKING YOU A GODDAMN THING. But thank you. That’s a lot of miles.
Another example:
The number 5.
Five. That is the number of Peeps that constitutes an entire serving of Peeps. I read this on the side of the Peeps packaging last Spring, when I was at my absolute most pregnant and desiring sugar coated marshmallows in vast quantities. Even in this rotund, marshmallowy-ravenous state, I was only able to choke down two-thirds of a bunny-shaped Peep. When I bit off its ears I was in heaven, and was concerned that a single package was not going to be enough to satisfy my Peep needs. Despite my initial exuberance, however, by the time I had consumed its midsection, down to the area where its marshmallowy bunny genitals might reside, I thought I might throw up on myself. Yet the good people at Peeps informed me via the nutritional information that I could have FIVE ENTIRE PEEPS and still feel like I was well within the normal range of Peep consumption. That’s a whole four and one-thirds Peeps more than I was able to consume at the pinnacle of my Peeps jones. That’s a lot of Peeps.
Also mind-boggling:
The number 4.
Four. That’s the number of quadruple vodkas John Bonham drank the morning of the day he died. I will walk you through this. That’s four times four shots of vodka, at breakfast. That’s SIXTEEN shots of vodka. SIXTEEN. With ham. Or maybe eggs. And then he went and played the drums. After having sixteen shots of vodka. And HAM. Or perhaps EGGS. And then he drank some more. Now, I have, in my day, consumed some vodka. I have also had some ham, as well as some eggs. And outside of the morning-after hair of the dog bloody mary, rarely have I had them all at the same time in a fashion that was designed to satisfy both my need for an omelet and my need to get drunk. And on those rare occasions that I have indulged in such a fashion? Never have I done anything beyond spending the better part of my day – or perhaps the next day – in a puddle of regret. I certainly haven’t done anything like play the drums. It’s no wonder things ended badly for John. Four quadruple shots. That’s a lot of vodka.
So close:
The number 3.
Three. That’s the number of brothers Gibb that comprise the Bee Gees. I understand that this is also the number of brothers that make up the Jonas Brothers. I have two sons! I just need a third, and I will have the makings of a boy band. As both of the above mentioned bands have demonstrated, it is only necessary that ONE of the band members be vaguely good-looking. I can probably do that! I just need to gestate one more son, and when they reach adolescence I can drape them with medallions or promise rings (promise rings! They just scream Abstinence! And also Unprotected Anal Sex! Hey. Read the research!) and other trappings of boy bandiness and then I will no longer need to worry about my success in the quantitative arts. Hooray!
Perplexing:
The number 2.
Two. That is the number of items that have gone missing from my refrigerator in the last 24 hours. First on the AWOL list is a container of cream cheese, used this morning during the preparation of a sandwich. Second on the list is a bunch of spinach. A box, actually, half of which was used in last night’s salad. WHERE HAVE THEY GONE? Dr. BS denied having any information about their whereabouts. I suggested that he had perhaps absconded with them and used them to create a make-shift vagina for times when he’s lonely (although I didn’t actually call it “a make-shift vagina”. I won’t say what I did actually call it, because, you know, search engines and irrational paranoia and all.) He laughed at this suggestion. Yes, laughed – a little too hard, if you ask me.
Alarming:
The number 1:
One. This is the number of warnings that have been issued to me with regard to the safe deployment of pepper. DO NOT GRIND OVER STEAMING POTS. It is printed on the side of my pepper grinder. I would also like it printed on a tee shirt. Note to all: Do not grind qwanty over steaming pots.
Anyway. Take, for example, the distance from the earth to the sun. I can’t recall the exact number, but I can assure you that is a very large number of miles away. Wait. The Brain Scientist just happened by and informed me that it’s 93,000,000 miles. That’s NINETY THREE MILLION. Thank you, Brain Scientist. I DON’T REMEMBER ASKING YOU A GODDAMN THING. But thank you. That’s a lot of miles.
Another example:
The number 5.
Five. That is the number of Peeps that constitutes an entire serving of Peeps. I read this on the side of the Peeps packaging last Spring, when I was at my absolute most pregnant and desiring sugar coated marshmallows in vast quantities. Even in this rotund, marshmallowy-ravenous state, I was only able to choke down two-thirds of a bunny-shaped Peep. When I bit off its ears I was in heaven, and was concerned that a single package was not going to be enough to satisfy my Peep needs. Despite my initial exuberance, however, by the time I had consumed its midsection, down to the area where its marshmallowy bunny genitals might reside, I thought I might throw up on myself. Yet the good people at Peeps informed me via the nutritional information that I could have FIVE ENTIRE PEEPS and still feel like I was well within the normal range of Peep consumption. That’s a whole four and one-thirds Peeps more than I was able to consume at the pinnacle of my Peeps jones. That’s a lot of Peeps.
Also mind-boggling:
The number 4.
Four. That’s the number of quadruple vodkas John Bonham drank the morning of the day he died. I will walk you through this. That’s four times four shots of vodka, at breakfast. That’s SIXTEEN shots of vodka. SIXTEEN. With ham. Or maybe eggs. And then he went and played the drums. After having sixteen shots of vodka. And HAM. Or perhaps EGGS. And then he drank some more. Now, I have, in my day, consumed some vodka. I have also had some ham, as well as some eggs. And outside of the morning-after hair of the dog bloody mary, rarely have I had them all at the same time in a fashion that was designed to satisfy both my need for an omelet and my need to get drunk. And on those rare occasions that I have indulged in such a fashion? Never have I done anything beyond spending the better part of my day – or perhaps the next day – in a puddle of regret. I certainly haven’t done anything like play the drums. It’s no wonder things ended badly for John. Four quadruple shots. That’s a lot of vodka.
So close:
The number 3.
Three. That’s the number of brothers Gibb that comprise the Bee Gees. I understand that this is also the number of brothers that make up the Jonas Brothers. I have two sons! I just need a third, and I will have the makings of a boy band. As both of the above mentioned bands have demonstrated, it is only necessary that ONE of the band members be vaguely good-looking. I can probably do that! I just need to gestate one more son, and when they reach adolescence I can drape them with medallions or promise rings (promise rings! They just scream Abstinence! And also Unprotected Anal Sex! Hey. Read the research!) and other trappings of boy bandiness and then I will no longer need to worry about my success in the quantitative arts. Hooray!
Perplexing:
The number 2.
Two. That is the number of items that have gone missing from my refrigerator in the last 24 hours. First on the AWOL list is a container of cream cheese, used this morning during the preparation of a sandwich. Second on the list is a bunch of spinach. A box, actually, half of which was used in last night’s salad. WHERE HAVE THEY GONE? Dr. BS denied having any information about their whereabouts. I suggested that he had perhaps absconded with them and used them to create a make-shift vagina for times when he’s lonely (although I didn’t actually call it “a make-shift vagina”. I won’t say what I did actually call it, because, you know, search engines and irrational paranoia and all.) He laughed at this suggestion. Yes, laughed – a little too hard, if you ask me.
Alarming:
The number 1:
One. This is the number of warnings that have been issued to me with regard to the safe deployment of pepper. DO NOT GRIND OVER STEAMING POTS. It is printed on the side of my pepper grinder. I would also like it printed on a tee shirt. Note to all: Do not grind qwanty over steaming pots.
wik-ed
originally posted July 16, 2008
I have a mental list of things to look up on Wikipedia. It's a very short list though, since my mental area is not a very good place to store things. Here are the two most recent items:
1) Dinah Shore
I'm not really sure what the deal with Burt Reynolds and Dinah Shore was. Every time I see a documentary on Burt Reynolds there is a mention of their relationship. Wait. Every time? That doesn't seem right. I don't watch much television, and it certainly can't be the case that a significant portion of my viewing time is devoted to Burt Reynolds related material. How often can this have possibly happened? Also: documentary? That doesn't seem right either. Who is making Burt Reynolds documentaries? It can't be the case that I am watching Burt Reynolds documentaries. Anyway: Dinah Shore. She and Burt Reynolds had some sort of special relationship. This warms my cockles. It should be noted that my cockles have a very low threshold for what constitutes warming.
2) Vomitorium
I was wondering about the whole vomitorium thing the other day in the car: What were they like? When did they go out of vogue? Why did they go out of vogue? It seems like the process of gorging oneself followed by orally evacuating oneself is a decent idea. I realize that this pretty much sums up bulimia, but I must confess that I see some appeal in that as well, and am a bit surprised that I haven't gone that way at some point in my existence. Shut up. I never claimed to be of the best mental health, okay? Just shut up.
Anyway. I was wondering about vomitoriums, and since I figured I would forget that the subject held a place on my List of Things to Ask Wikipedia, I decided to ask Dr. Brain Scientist:
Vomitoriums, I said. What do you know about them?
Well, he replied. You know I wrote a play called 'The Vomitorium', don't you? So actually I know quite a bit about them.
Actually I did not know that. Or perhaps I did, but I chose to forget.
He went on from there to tell me all about vomitoriums, and also about The Vomitorium. The latter of these was based on his days as a bouncer at a certain local establishment that sold certain types of books and videos, and was also a place that one could come if one hoped to meet a like-minded individual interested in fucking in a video booth at said establishment. Yes! And for a very brief period his days as a bouncer included cleaning, and by this I mean "cleaning", the video booth. It turns out that "cleaning" involves wearing a special suit and carrying a special spray bottle of solvent but not actually entering the video booth for the process of cleaning. Rather, one stands a respectable distance from the doorway of the booth and sprays the solvent in the general direction of the room because one is only a bouncer for Christ's sake and this was not part of the job description. Yes. I agree. Eeew on all counts. How could I, as a person who is ooked out by others' uninvited bodily goo, have possibly gotten involved with a man who was paid to purportedly clean up such things?
Jesus, I need a drink. I mean another drink.
***
Other things I'd like to know, but can't ask Wikipedia:
1) Was there a time in my life when I could go out for sushi and not find myself commanding four times for a dining companion to TAKE THE CHOPSTICKS out of their nose? I feel like there was, but it was oh so long ago.
2) When is Shaggy going to stop singing that Hot Cross Buns song on the junior Brain Scientist's Scooby Doo video game? No, I do not want to buy your sweet buns, Shaggy, no matter how many times you ask me, and frankly, you are making my hot buns pretty goddamn cross. Shut up already.
3) Who drank my beer? Who is going to get me another one?
***
P.S. – The Brain Scientist just read the part of this in which I described his time as spunk swabber, and he wants me to mention that he worked there for several years and that this only happened for a short period of time and that he left the establishment soon after spunk swabber was added to his list of job responsibilities. Do not look down your nose at him and call him Spoo Boy! It is Doctor Spoo Boy.
I have a mental list of things to look up on Wikipedia. It's a very short list though, since my mental area is not a very good place to store things. Here are the two most recent items:
1) Dinah Shore
I'm not really sure what the deal with Burt Reynolds and Dinah Shore was. Every time I see a documentary on Burt Reynolds there is a mention of their relationship. Wait. Every time? That doesn't seem right. I don't watch much television, and it certainly can't be the case that a significant portion of my viewing time is devoted to Burt Reynolds related material. How often can this have possibly happened? Also: documentary? That doesn't seem right either. Who is making Burt Reynolds documentaries? It can't be the case that I am watching Burt Reynolds documentaries. Anyway: Dinah Shore. She and Burt Reynolds had some sort of special relationship. This warms my cockles. It should be noted that my cockles have a very low threshold for what constitutes warming.
2) Vomitorium
I was wondering about the whole vomitorium thing the other day in the car: What were they like? When did they go out of vogue? Why did they go out of vogue? It seems like the process of gorging oneself followed by orally evacuating oneself is a decent idea. I realize that this pretty much sums up bulimia, but I must confess that I see some appeal in that as well, and am a bit surprised that I haven't gone that way at some point in my existence. Shut up. I never claimed to be of the best mental health, okay? Just shut up.
Anyway. I was wondering about vomitoriums, and since I figured I would forget that the subject held a place on my List of Things to Ask Wikipedia, I decided to ask Dr. Brain Scientist:
Vomitoriums, I said. What do you know about them?
Well, he replied. You know I wrote a play called 'The Vomitorium', don't you? So actually I know quite a bit about them.
Actually I did not know that. Or perhaps I did, but I chose to forget.
He went on from there to tell me all about vomitoriums, and also about The Vomitorium. The latter of these was based on his days as a bouncer at a certain local establishment that sold certain types of books and videos, and was also a place that one could come if one hoped to meet a like-minded individual interested in fucking in a video booth at said establishment. Yes! And for a very brief period his days as a bouncer included cleaning, and by this I mean "cleaning", the video booth. It turns out that "cleaning" involves wearing a special suit and carrying a special spray bottle of solvent but not actually entering the video booth for the process of cleaning. Rather, one stands a respectable distance from the doorway of the booth and sprays the solvent in the general direction of the room because one is only a bouncer for Christ's sake and this was not part of the job description. Yes. I agree. Eeew on all counts. How could I, as a person who is ooked out by others' uninvited bodily goo, have possibly gotten involved with a man who was paid to purportedly clean up such things?
Jesus, I need a drink. I mean another drink.
***
Other things I'd like to know, but can't ask Wikipedia:
1) Was there a time in my life when I could go out for sushi and not find myself commanding four times for a dining companion to TAKE THE CHOPSTICKS out of their nose? I feel like there was, but it was oh so long ago.
2) When is Shaggy going to stop singing that Hot Cross Buns song on the junior Brain Scientist's Scooby Doo video game? No, I do not want to buy your sweet buns, Shaggy, no matter how many times you ask me, and frankly, you are making my hot buns pretty goddamn cross. Shut up already.
3) Who drank my beer? Who is going to get me another one?
***
P.S. – The Brain Scientist just read the part of this in which I described his time as spunk swabber, and he wants me to mention that he worked there for several years and that this only happened for a short period of time and that he left the establishment soon after spunk swabber was added to his list of job responsibilities. Do not look down your nose at him and call him Spoo Boy! It is Doctor Spoo Boy.
title: some sort of other title
originally posted June 25, 2008
The purpose of this is to share with you something that I think everyone should know about. And since somewhere between everyone and no one reads this, I thought I would share it here. This gets around the whole "directly interacting with other adults" thing that gets me so bugabooed. You are probably already aware of this thing I hope to share, as I sense you are hipper than I am, and so if this is the case, please just return to your usual activities and feel free to shake your head in disdain over what a rube I am.
First though, some self-indulgent tripe:
Greeting. Introduction of thing. Me. Me. Me. Complaint. Brain Scientist. Swear word. Complaint. Embarrassing yet ultimately pointless revelation. Me. More me. You? Now back to me. Misspelt werd. Vague attempt at humor. Did I mention me?
List of some sort:
1) Wank.
2) Waaaaank.
3) Squishy sound.
And then me. Ha ha. Child. Child. Vomit. Child. Vagina.
Unnecessary snippet of conversation:
Me: Huh?
Whoever: What?
Me: Yes!
Whoever: Indeed!
Me. You again. Me. Tangent. Reference to something in the nineteen eighties. Return to primary subject thing. More me. Sense that I am going nowhere with this. Increasing loss of interest in thing and stuff and spellink. Whatever.
Lackluster conclusion.
Swear word.
Fin.
***
Okey dokey! Now that we have that out of the way, please take a moment to view all the episodes of Yacht Rock:
http://www.channel101.com/shows/show.php?show_id=152
A very cool person who wears bus guy glasses shared this with me about a year ago at a gathering at my house. It took me some time to figure out what he was talking about because I was drinking tequila while trying to frost a cake:
Him: I said Yacht Rock.
Qwanty: What?
H: Yacht Rock!
Q: Huh?
H: Yacht Rock!
Q: Yurt…?
H: YACHT Rock!
Q: What kind of rock?
H: YACHT ROCK!
Q: Yot?
H: YAAAACHT! Like the BOAT!
Q: Ohhhhhhhh. Yacht Rock. ("Q" appears confused. "Q" eats frosting.)
***
So there you go. Yacht Rock. Gordon Bennett, have at it.
The purpose of this is to share with you something that I think everyone should know about. And since somewhere between everyone and no one reads this, I thought I would share it here. This gets around the whole "directly interacting with other adults" thing that gets me so bugabooed. You are probably already aware of this thing I hope to share, as I sense you are hipper than I am, and so if this is the case, please just return to your usual activities and feel free to shake your head in disdain over what a rube I am.
First though, some self-indulgent tripe:
Greeting. Introduction of thing. Me. Me. Me. Complaint. Brain Scientist. Swear word. Complaint. Embarrassing yet ultimately pointless revelation. Me. More me. You? Now back to me. Misspelt werd. Vague attempt at humor. Did I mention me?
List of some sort:
1) Wank.
2) Waaaaank.
3) Squishy sound.
And then me. Ha ha. Child. Child. Vomit. Child. Vagina.
Unnecessary snippet of conversation:
Me: Huh?
Whoever: What?
Me: Yes!
Whoever: Indeed!
Me. You again. Me. Tangent. Reference to something in the nineteen eighties. Return to primary subject thing. More me. Sense that I am going nowhere with this. Increasing loss of interest in thing and stuff and spellink. Whatever.
Lackluster conclusion.
Swear word.
Fin.
***
Okey dokey! Now that we have that out of the way, please take a moment to view all the episodes of Yacht Rock:
http://www.channel101.com/shows/show.php?show_id=152
A very cool person who wears bus guy glasses shared this with me about a year ago at a gathering at my house. It took me some time to figure out what he was talking about because I was drinking tequila while trying to frost a cake:
Him: I said Yacht Rock.
Qwanty: What?
H: Yacht Rock!
Q: Huh?
H: Yacht Rock!
Q: Yurt…?
H: YACHT Rock!
Q: What kind of rock?
H: YACHT ROCK!
Q: Yot?
H: YAAAACHT! Like the BOAT!
Q: Ohhhhhhhh. Yacht Rock. ("Q" appears confused. "Q" eats frosting.)
***
So there you go. Yacht Rock. Gordon Bennett, have at it.
warm fuzzies
originally posted June 23, 2008
I have some gruesome news not for the faint of heart: There are caterpillars in our bathroom. Dr. BS discovered three (!) the other day, all at once. Three! In the bathroom! ALL AT ONCE. One was floating around in the toilet, expired, one was found smushed under the bathroom rug, and one was CRAWLING AROUND RIGHT THERE OUT IN THE OPEN. And now this morning he found another one!
This is not good. I have an aversion to insects. Okay, not really an aversion, more of an irrational terror with regard to. I can tolerate ants in small numbers, and ladybugs are okay, but anything beyond that and I become a hot, sweaty mess. If my children are about I will try to appear calm and such, because one of my jobs as a mother is to prevent my assorted neuroses from becoming their assorted neuroses. However, if they are not around (as in, not directly in front of me), I will express open panic by way of frantic shrieks to the Brain Scientist or warbled, muted wails as I run, hand clasped over my mouth, to the place in the house that is furthest from the scene of the intrusion. Sometimes I will stand on my bed so that I can appraise the threat of an insect stampede. Sometimes I will do so while covering my ears with my hands, so as to protect them from potential entry by insects. EEEEEEEEEEEEE. I can barely type this.
Yesterday I was in a different bathroom, as I can no longer enter the Caterpillar Cave of Terror, for obvious reasons, and was startled by a cricket that leapt out at me from the shower curtain in a very menacing way. A cricket. I hate crickets. I try to imagine them wearing tiny spectacles and spats and carrying little canes and stuff but it JUST DOESN'T WORK. And because there was no three-year-old in the immediate vicinity to inspire me to police my behavior I called urgently (or perhaps screamed), Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist! And he came running in, totally disgusted when he discovered the source of my urgent call, not because he finds crickets offensive, but rather because he finds me and my irrational fear offensive. I thought you cut off your hand, he said. There's a cricket! I whispered in the horrified way of one who has just found a severed head. And then the Brain Scientists senior and junior went merrily about wrangling the cricket and escorting it outside, all the while enjoying a fun father-son moment as it tickled their hands and attempted to escape and crawled on my son's arm, covering him with CRICKET COOTIES. AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!
So anyway, there seems to be a caterpillar problem. I would say infestation, because four (!) seems like A LOT of caterpillars for one tiny room, but I'm afraid that some divine power will set my ass straight by teaching me about what truly constitutes an infestation. I fear I would not survive that.
Dr. BS has three theories as to how the caterpillars are getting into the bathroom, all of which stem from an overarching theory that the caterpillars are attempting to escape the ridiculous heat of Satan's Nethers:
1) They have come up through the drain, as we have not run the shower in this bathroom for some time.
2) They have come in on the cat, who hangs out in the bathroom. Early this morning I mis-remembered this theory, thinking that the BS had told me that they might have come in on him. This was a terrible thought to have as I lay next to him in bed – that the Brain Scientist was, unbeknownst to me, the Pied Piper of Caterpillars.
And finally, the most horrifying theory of all:
3) They fell from the bathroom fan over the toilet.
From the bathroom fan. Over the toilet.
CATERPILLARS falling from the bathroom fan over the toilet.
CATERPILLARS FALLING FROM THE SKY! ONTO ME! ONTO MY HEAD!! FALLING ONTO MY HEAD WHILE SITTING ON THE TOILET!!! MY HEAD, WHICH IS SUFFICIENTLY NERVOUS ENOUGH ALREADY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!! AS INDICATED BY THE FACT THAT MY INSECT ANXIETY ALREADY MOTIVATES ME TO DO A THOUROUGH CHECK OF THE BASE OF THE TOILET REGION PRIOR TO SITTING DOWN IN AN EFFORT TO AVOID BEING SURPRISED BY A POTATO BUG OR MAYBE EVEN GOD FORBID A COCKROACH!!!!! HOLY FUCK!!!!!!
Of course, this has resulted in a great deal of twitchiness on my part, as I am continually experiencing the sensation that something is crawling on me and that things are falling on my head.
Oooooooh, I need a valium.
Fucking caterpillars.
I have some gruesome news not for the faint of heart: There are caterpillars in our bathroom. Dr. BS discovered three (!) the other day, all at once. Three! In the bathroom! ALL AT ONCE. One was floating around in the toilet, expired, one was found smushed under the bathroom rug, and one was CRAWLING AROUND RIGHT THERE OUT IN THE OPEN. And now this morning he found another one!
This is not good. I have an aversion to insects. Okay, not really an aversion, more of an irrational terror with regard to. I can tolerate ants in small numbers, and ladybugs are okay, but anything beyond that and I become a hot, sweaty mess. If my children are about I will try to appear calm and such, because one of my jobs as a mother is to prevent my assorted neuroses from becoming their assorted neuroses. However, if they are not around (as in, not directly in front of me), I will express open panic by way of frantic shrieks to the Brain Scientist or warbled, muted wails as I run, hand clasped over my mouth, to the place in the house that is furthest from the scene of the intrusion. Sometimes I will stand on my bed so that I can appraise the threat of an insect stampede. Sometimes I will do so while covering my ears with my hands, so as to protect them from potential entry by insects. EEEEEEEEEEEEE. I can barely type this.
Yesterday I was in a different bathroom, as I can no longer enter the Caterpillar Cave of Terror, for obvious reasons, and was startled by a cricket that leapt out at me from the shower curtain in a very menacing way. A cricket. I hate crickets. I try to imagine them wearing tiny spectacles and spats and carrying little canes and stuff but it JUST DOESN'T WORK. And because there was no three-year-old in the immediate vicinity to inspire me to police my behavior I called urgently (or perhaps screamed), Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist Brain Scientist! And he came running in, totally disgusted when he discovered the source of my urgent call, not because he finds crickets offensive, but rather because he finds me and my irrational fear offensive. I thought you cut off your hand, he said. There's a cricket! I whispered in the horrified way of one who has just found a severed head. And then the Brain Scientists senior and junior went merrily about wrangling the cricket and escorting it outside, all the while enjoying a fun father-son moment as it tickled their hands and attempted to escape and crawled on my son's arm, covering him with CRICKET COOTIES. AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!
So anyway, there seems to be a caterpillar problem. I would say infestation, because four (!) seems like A LOT of caterpillars for one tiny room, but I'm afraid that some divine power will set my ass straight by teaching me about what truly constitutes an infestation. I fear I would not survive that.
Dr. BS has three theories as to how the caterpillars are getting into the bathroom, all of which stem from an overarching theory that the caterpillars are attempting to escape the ridiculous heat of Satan's Nethers:
1) They have come up through the drain, as we have not run the shower in this bathroom for some time.
2) They have come in on the cat, who hangs out in the bathroom. Early this morning I mis-remembered this theory, thinking that the BS had told me that they might have come in on him. This was a terrible thought to have as I lay next to him in bed – that the Brain Scientist was, unbeknownst to me, the Pied Piper of Caterpillars.
And finally, the most horrifying theory of all:
3) They fell from the bathroom fan over the toilet.
From the bathroom fan. Over the toilet.
CATERPILLARS falling from the bathroom fan over the toilet.
CATERPILLARS FALLING FROM THE SKY! ONTO ME! ONTO MY HEAD!! FALLING ONTO MY HEAD WHILE SITTING ON THE TOILET!!! MY HEAD, WHICH IS SUFFICIENTLY NERVOUS ENOUGH ALREADY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!! AS INDICATED BY THE FACT THAT MY INSECT ANXIETY ALREADY MOTIVATES ME TO DO A THOUROUGH CHECK OF THE BASE OF THE TOILET REGION PRIOR TO SITTING DOWN IN AN EFFORT TO AVOID BEING SURPRISED BY A POTATO BUG OR MAYBE EVEN GOD FORBID A COCKROACH!!!!! HOLY FUCK!!!!!!
Of course, this has resulted in a great deal of twitchiness on my part, as I am continually experiencing the sensation that something is crawling on me and that things are falling on my head.
Oooooooh, I need a valium.
Fucking caterpillars.
Monday, September 15, 2008
waiting
originally posted June 21, 2008
Wednesday night I went to see Tom Waits. I couldn't NOT go, after hearing Dr. BS's enthusiastic telling of The Tale of the Sights, Sounds, and Smells of the Tuesday Evening Show He Attended. Really, it was the smells that got me. He returned from Tuesday night's show all starry eyed and dazed, and it was clear he'd had a concert experience that had not only made his top ten list of The Greatest Concert Experiences of All Time, but also secured the number one spot on his list of The Worst Smelling Group of People I Have Ever Smelt. It should be noted that the BS spent a good portion of his life as a stinky hippie, so he has attended many, many shows, and has been around many, many, many smelly people. Can you see the appeal?
The problem I faced was not having a ticket to Wednesday night's show, much as I had not had a ticket to the Tuesday evening stinkfest that had so enchanted the doctor. You see, Tom Waits has a pretty devoted fanbase – a devoted, fedora-wearing, and apparently stench-laden fanbase. And as Tom Waits was only playing a smattering of shows on the Odor and Doom – oops, I mean Glitter and Doom – tour, we were in competition for tickets with very serious fans from all sorts of states, and these tickets sold out approximately four minutes after they went on sale. This was a sad event in our house, this realization that we would not be seeing Tom Waits. Later the afternoon the tickets went on sale, hours after The Sadness had descended upon our household, I tried again to get a single ticket while I was at "work". Lo and behold, I got a lone ticket in the balcony, and was able to phone Dr. BS and surprise him with the news, even though he had been a bit of a lippy-know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass that day and all I really wanted to do was tell his marrow-loving-blowhard-self to go suck on a bone. However, I like the guy, so instead I just called and told him the good news that he was going to the show.
Tuesday evening of the concert rolled around, and because this was a paperless ticket event, entry to the concert required the credit card that was used to purchase the ticket and valid picture id – I mean ID, as in identification. We were not all required to bring artist renditions of the uncoordinated instinctual trends of our psychic apparatuses. Apparati? Perhaps if each of us had been required to bring a picture of our id, we would at this moment have a better sense of why everyone smelled so weird. Anyway, this paperless ticket business required that the two small boys and I troop downtown to the concert venue with the Brain Scientist and stand in line with him and walk him to the door and wave around my credit card and identification and bid him adieu and troop back to the parking garage and drive all the way home and drink a hearty scottish amber upon our return, because it was 108 degrees outside. Fortunately, Mr. Wright volunteered to pick the BS up after the show, thus enabling the wee-uns and I to lounge around on the couch and watch the Muppet Show and drink a second hearty scottish amber and await his return, rather than venturing out into the dark hotness of Satan's Nethers for a second fun car ride.
Which brings us to the smells. It seems there were many of them. Rather than telling me too much about the actual show, as he was concerned that I might be overcome with melancholy having missed what had been a doozy of a concert, the doctor instead opted to focus on the very unique and offensive combination of smells the folks in attendance managed to generate. It seems that air conditioning was not functioning at optimum capacity, and so the balcony was filled with the smell of whiskey and cigarette sweat, with a touch of garlic. And then there was the dreadlocked guy that the BS stood behind in line at the bar as he waited to purchase a bit of whiskey in an effort to cultivate his own special smell. Dreads claimed to know Tom Waits' uncle. This is vaguely interesting because I knew a boy in my wayward youth named Will Waits who claimed that Tom Waits was his uncle. So I guess this means that Dreads knew Will Waits' great uncle. Small world. Anyhoo, it seems Dreads smelled pretty bad – indescribably bad. Of course, I was totally unimpressed when the BS offered this as an example of the stink. I mean, everyone expects a guy with dreadlocks to smell bad. We are disappointed with guys with dreadlocks who don't smell bad.
The BS then told me about a guy he encountered in the bathroom who was wearing plaid pants (Were they polyester? I asked. They had to be, he replied. The only doubt I have that they were polyester is the fact that this guy seemed like the sort who would wear wool pants when it was 108 degrees. No, they must have been polyester. They had a nice, crisp pleat), a beige suit vest, a grayish, well-worn shirt, and beige jazz shoes. Jazz shoes! Beige jazz shoes! He had a funny wispy beard, too, the sort that many adolescent males have no choice but to grow, and fully adult males, I don't know – cultivate? Finally – and you knew this was coming – he also carried upon his person a strange and horrible smell. I wanted to ask him, the BS reminisced, did you piss yourself after drinking gasoline? Did you throw up in your shoes? That's some smell! And some outfit! Dr. BS confirms this: It was like he caught a fungus from Funky Winkerbean. Alright! Now that's the sort of smell I can get behind, in a purely metaphorical sense!
Inspired by these anecdotes, and overcome with a desire to help the BS relive what was clearly a pretty awesome experience, I went online in an attempt to buy tickets to the following evening's show. It was just before midnight, and I guess some more tickets had been released, because moments later I was the proud owner of two third row orchestra seats. Seeing as there were just two rows ahead of us in the pit, this technically put us in the fifth row. Upon hearing this news, the BS did an excited little dance thing I have never, ever, ever seen him do. It was a side of him I'd not yet been acquainted with. Oh, the anticipation!
I'm sorry to report that Wednesday evening brought disappointment in the form of pleasantly breathable air and concert attendees who had all obviously bathed in the last fortnight. What the fuck? Dr. BS acknowledged that it was a very different crowd, both in terms of overall odor and general attractiveness. Yes, there was a decent fedora showing, but apparently not nearly as many as the night before. We saw Dreads again too, but didn't get close enough to smell him, because he was sitting two rows ahead of us, smack dab in the center, just as he had the night before. Maybe Tom Waits is his uncle. We also saw a guy, four rows back from us, who also had a sad, wispy beard despite that fact that he appeared to be a grown up, and he was playing a harmonica as we waited for the show to begin. Come on, dude, said the Brain Scientist, we don't need this level of detail about your persona. I am still laughing about this. Of course we were surrounded by people from other states who had flown in for the show. The couple next to us were from Alaska, and had spent the day shopping at thrift stores and eating at our very favorite Mexican restaurant. Stupid Alaskans! Stop buying our Tom Waits tickets and cool vintage dresses and eating our chimichangas! GO BACK TO YOUR IGLOOS!
Back to the fedoras. I counted 27, one of which was worn by a lady, and featured an elaborate plume of feathers.
As to the whiskey consumption. Did I have some? Hell yes, I did.
After the show we stood around outside, at least one of us counting fedoras and breathing deeply, hoping that someone would happen by who carried the legendary stink of the prior evening. No such luck. Later, as we started our journey to the car, we ran into the guy who owns one of the local bars that is a popular hangout with the drunken hipsters who inhabit the dry, dusty parts of Satan's Nethers. He was excited to see the Brain Scientist, who was for many, many years a regular patron of this bar. He slugged us both in the arm and offered to buy us a drink at a nearby bar. Of course we went, and over Sierra Nevada he explained to me that times are tough, necessitating that he jerk off the dog to feed the cat. Really?
And the concert? INCREDIBLE. Tom Waits puts on a very, very, very good show. I would get all smelly and run around in jazz shoes – beige jazz shoes – if he wanted me to. And that's saying a lot.
Wednesday night I went to see Tom Waits. I couldn't NOT go, after hearing Dr. BS's enthusiastic telling of The Tale of the Sights, Sounds, and Smells of the Tuesday Evening Show He Attended. Really, it was the smells that got me. He returned from Tuesday night's show all starry eyed and dazed, and it was clear he'd had a concert experience that had not only made his top ten list of The Greatest Concert Experiences of All Time, but also secured the number one spot on his list of The Worst Smelling Group of People I Have Ever Smelt. It should be noted that the BS spent a good portion of his life as a stinky hippie, so he has attended many, many shows, and has been around many, many, many smelly people. Can you see the appeal?
The problem I faced was not having a ticket to Wednesday night's show, much as I had not had a ticket to the Tuesday evening stinkfest that had so enchanted the doctor. You see, Tom Waits has a pretty devoted fanbase – a devoted, fedora-wearing, and apparently stench-laden fanbase. And as Tom Waits was only playing a smattering of shows on the Odor and Doom – oops, I mean Glitter and Doom – tour, we were in competition for tickets with very serious fans from all sorts of states, and these tickets sold out approximately four minutes after they went on sale. This was a sad event in our house, this realization that we would not be seeing Tom Waits. Later the afternoon the tickets went on sale, hours after The Sadness had descended upon our household, I tried again to get a single ticket while I was at "work". Lo and behold, I got a lone ticket in the balcony, and was able to phone Dr. BS and surprise him with the news, even though he had been a bit of a lippy-know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass that day and all I really wanted to do was tell his marrow-loving-blowhard-self to go suck on a bone. However, I like the guy, so instead I just called and told him the good news that he was going to the show.
Tuesday evening of the concert rolled around, and because this was a paperless ticket event, entry to the concert required the credit card that was used to purchase the ticket and valid picture id – I mean ID, as in identification. We were not all required to bring artist renditions of the uncoordinated instinctual trends of our psychic apparatuses. Apparati? Perhaps if each of us had been required to bring a picture of our id, we would at this moment have a better sense of why everyone smelled so weird. Anyway, this paperless ticket business required that the two small boys and I troop downtown to the concert venue with the Brain Scientist and stand in line with him and walk him to the door and wave around my credit card and identification and bid him adieu and troop back to the parking garage and drive all the way home and drink a hearty scottish amber upon our return, because it was 108 degrees outside. Fortunately, Mr. Wright volunteered to pick the BS up after the show, thus enabling the wee-uns and I to lounge around on the couch and watch the Muppet Show and drink a second hearty scottish amber and await his return, rather than venturing out into the dark hotness of Satan's Nethers for a second fun car ride.
Which brings us to the smells. It seems there were many of them. Rather than telling me too much about the actual show, as he was concerned that I might be overcome with melancholy having missed what had been a doozy of a concert, the doctor instead opted to focus on the very unique and offensive combination of smells the folks in attendance managed to generate. It seems that air conditioning was not functioning at optimum capacity, and so the balcony was filled with the smell of whiskey and cigarette sweat, with a touch of garlic. And then there was the dreadlocked guy that the BS stood behind in line at the bar as he waited to purchase a bit of whiskey in an effort to cultivate his own special smell. Dreads claimed to know Tom Waits' uncle. This is vaguely interesting because I knew a boy in my wayward youth named Will Waits who claimed that Tom Waits was his uncle. So I guess this means that Dreads knew Will Waits' great uncle. Small world. Anyhoo, it seems Dreads smelled pretty bad – indescribably bad. Of course, I was totally unimpressed when the BS offered this as an example of the stink. I mean, everyone expects a guy with dreadlocks to smell bad. We are disappointed with guys with dreadlocks who don't smell bad.
The BS then told me about a guy he encountered in the bathroom who was wearing plaid pants (Were they polyester? I asked. They had to be, he replied. The only doubt I have that they were polyester is the fact that this guy seemed like the sort who would wear wool pants when it was 108 degrees. No, they must have been polyester. They had a nice, crisp pleat), a beige suit vest, a grayish, well-worn shirt, and beige jazz shoes. Jazz shoes! Beige jazz shoes! He had a funny wispy beard, too, the sort that many adolescent males have no choice but to grow, and fully adult males, I don't know – cultivate? Finally – and you knew this was coming – he also carried upon his person a strange and horrible smell. I wanted to ask him, the BS reminisced, did you piss yourself after drinking gasoline? Did you throw up in your shoes? That's some smell! And some outfit! Dr. BS confirms this: It was like he caught a fungus from Funky Winkerbean. Alright! Now that's the sort of smell I can get behind, in a purely metaphorical sense!
Inspired by these anecdotes, and overcome with a desire to help the BS relive what was clearly a pretty awesome experience, I went online in an attempt to buy tickets to the following evening's show. It was just before midnight, and I guess some more tickets had been released, because moments later I was the proud owner of two third row orchestra seats. Seeing as there were just two rows ahead of us in the pit, this technically put us in the fifth row. Upon hearing this news, the BS did an excited little dance thing I have never, ever, ever seen him do. It was a side of him I'd not yet been acquainted with. Oh, the anticipation!
I'm sorry to report that Wednesday evening brought disappointment in the form of pleasantly breathable air and concert attendees who had all obviously bathed in the last fortnight. What the fuck? Dr. BS acknowledged that it was a very different crowd, both in terms of overall odor and general attractiveness. Yes, there was a decent fedora showing, but apparently not nearly as many as the night before. We saw Dreads again too, but didn't get close enough to smell him, because he was sitting two rows ahead of us, smack dab in the center, just as he had the night before. Maybe Tom Waits is his uncle. We also saw a guy, four rows back from us, who also had a sad, wispy beard despite that fact that he appeared to be a grown up, and he was playing a harmonica as we waited for the show to begin. Come on, dude, said the Brain Scientist, we don't need this level of detail about your persona. I am still laughing about this. Of course we were surrounded by people from other states who had flown in for the show. The couple next to us were from Alaska, and had spent the day shopping at thrift stores and eating at our very favorite Mexican restaurant. Stupid Alaskans! Stop buying our Tom Waits tickets and cool vintage dresses and eating our chimichangas! GO BACK TO YOUR IGLOOS!
Back to the fedoras. I counted 27, one of which was worn by a lady, and featured an elaborate plume of feathers.
As to the whiskey consumption. Did I have some? Hell yes, I did.
After the show we stood around outside, at least one of us counting fedoras and breathing deeply, hoping that someone would happen by who carried the legendary stink of the prior evening. No such luck. Later, as we started our journey to the car, we ran into the guy who owns one of the local bars that is a popular hangout with the drunken hipsters who inhabit the dry, dusty parts of Satan's Nethers. He was excited to see the Brain Scientist, who was for many, many years a regular patron of this bar. He slugged us both in the arm and offered to buy us a drink at a nearby bar. Of course we went, and over Sierra Nevada he explained to me that times are tough, necessitating that he jerk off the dog to feed the cat. Really?
And the concert? INCREDIBLE. Tom Waits puts on a very, very, very good show. I would get all smelly and run around in jazz shoes – beige jazz shoes – if he wanted me to. And that's saying a lot.
too many cooks
originally posted May 18, 2008
I volunteered to make dinner tonight, and just spent a bit of time perusing fajita recipes and their associated reviews at epicurious. The following review grabbed my attention:
04/08/08brandyannfoster from corvallis, or
This recipe has some good things about it..the lime and cilantro cabbage topping was good. Unfortunately the chicken marinade needed more spices in general. I may try again with a lot more garlic, some lime juice and some cumming in the marinade.
Huh. I must admit, I've never thought of doing this to liven up a dish. And, as it turns out, Julia Child advocates something that sounds disturbingly similar:
http://www.unknown.nu/julia/sounds/cups.mp3
Who knew? I guess I'll need the Brain Scientist's help after all.
I volunteered to make dinner tonight, and just spent a bit of time perusing fajita recipes and their associated reviews at epicurious. The following review grabbed my attention:
04/08/08brandyannfoster from corvallis, or
This recipe has some good things about it..the lime and cilantro cabbage topping was good. Unfortunately the chicken marinade needed more spices in general. I may try again with a lot more garlic, some lime juice and some cumming in the marinade.
Huh. I must admit, I've never thought of doing this to liven up a dish. And, as it turns out, Julia Child advocates something that sounds disturbingly similar:
http://www.unknown.nu/julia/sounds/cups.mp3
Who knew? I guess I'll need the Brain Scientist's help after all.
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