Holy Matri(hic)mony

What I do remember for certain is that Mel was giving her toast, thanking her parents for raising her well and supporting her through this beautiful day, when my hiccup reverberated off the marble floors in a moment of emotional silence.
It bounced to the top of the vaulted rotunda and boomeranged around the hall. When the hiccup returned to me, I buried my face in a napkin and kept my mouth closed for the remainder of the evening.
Congrats, Mel and Nick. When you get the wedding video back, just keep in mind that at least I didn't fart during the ceremony like a certain flower girl. I'm just saying.

What Would [Baby] Jesus Do?

As we head out for the holidays, I'd like to leave you with something inspirational I heard yesterday during a mediation between two young women. It really illuminates the beauty of Christmas. I get tears in my eyes just thinking about it:
"I'll straight up tell people if I don't like them. I mean, people are gonna like their friends, but people aren't gonna like other people."
Now I'm in the holiday spirit.
Let's talk shit behind each other's backs.
And to you, your Wassail, too.

One Hundred Percent of Your Daily Carbon, Chromium, Cobalt, Copper, Manganese, Molybdenum, Nickel...

Our landlord still stops by to finish things up. Apparently the last tenants were there for five years and she's gotten lonely for maintenance work. When I came home yesterday she was scraping paint off the windows. Hey, thanks. 'Preciate it. Ok. Go home. She left her supplies on the kitchen counter.
In case you were wondering about those razor blades next to my multivitamins.

Parking-Lot Edification

"Did you just say 'phallus'?"
"What? No; 'falons'."
"Oh. What?"
"You know, those things an owl has on their hands."
"Talons?"
"Oh....yes. What's a phallus?"
"Uh..."

CrockPot: The Chronicles

A few notes to the Future Me about the Present Me, Newly Urban Dweller:

• Matt says I can't call it "That Damn Toilet" until I've lived there for at least three months. Apparently the running toilet and I haven't had time to properly annoy each other.
• I made chili yesterday. "Made." Put a bag of chili mix in a pot with browned meat (What an adult am I? I brown meat instead of eating it raw.) Added tomato paste and chili beans. Burnt in crock pot overnight.
  
• Bought a bed with a wheely frame. Chased it my wooden-floored bedroom trying to put on sheets.
• We don't have a couch or a DVD player or cable or internet access yet. So we don't go into the living room.

The Pictures in My Mind Are Worth a Thousand Words

I'm documenting it here because I don't want her to forget the school bus that took us from one empty bar to another in search of people who would play her music (a 10-track cd; each track the same song: "Ladies Night"). Or the way the bouncer dipped her at the Corner Bar before she gave the blonde girl a lapdance.
Mel didn't hit her head on the karaoke machine at 1029 Club and get retrograde amnesia. Phew.
But if she had, she might have thought:
How did I get here? What is that sash on my shoulder? What is that purplewhiteball in my field of vision and why can't I grab it? Why is everyone looking at me?
And the answers would have been:
Big yellow bus. Suck for a buck.* Camera flashbulb leftovers. I'm dancing to the smooth sounds of a DiVinyl's classic while my friends sing because I can't read the prompter right now...Wait, are there two prompters?

*Cringe. I freaking hate this game.

I Get Misty

And now for my last night on Naomi Drive, a toast to the two best parent/roommates a girl could have:
Here's to the people who let me overstay my post-college welcome by a year-and-a-half; who never called the cops when I forgot a key and had to break in; who never made me clean my room because theirs looked worse; who burn bacon every Sunday, but dammit-that-bacon-was-free-food-and-uh-ooh-
somebody-please-turn-on-the-fan!; who laugh when I call the house phone from my cellphone in bed because I need some advice on which pillow positioning will stop the coughing; who don't charge rent; who tape your shows.
Who teach you to fish.
Thanks, Homies. I love you. And seriously, Mom, I won't be far.

Things Take a Turn for the Violent

For the heartless Schadenfreude out there:
Student Council is torturing us with mmmBop until the toy drive is complete. They play it during passing time all day, every day. The worst part? They're not the first ones to think of it. You want aversive therapy? Come over here, Little Billy. I'm going to pelt you with rocks until you stop screaming. Time for a visual aid!

Take out a piece of paper. Draw a circle. On one side of the circle write "Screaming." On the opposite side, write "Rocks." Make little arrow tops along the circle, all facing the same direction to show motion in a clockwise fashion.
There you have The Vicious Cycle.

Live Auction

She was so sweet and sedate. Soft. Cute. I held her for a while.
If she hadn't cost so much, I probably would have taken her home.
In reality, I don't have space. And I haven't asked my new roommate about it at all. It would be an awkward phone call to make. Hi, Nicki. Yep, it'll be us, plus one, and Lucy can't pay rent. Just try to say no to this face. Nicki? Hello?
When it was time to leave, our hosts named us Lucy's Dog Godparents. Either they really respect us or they didn't want to pry my fingers from her polka dot collar in public.

Christians Gone Wild

First, I dressed as Santa. Then, I hugged the Priest.
Big ups to Father Greg who was surprisingly unawkward sitting on my lap.
Photo by Matt Blum

Tactless Coworker Hair Discussion: It Continues Beyond Student Opinions and My Ability to Understand

Incidentally the new look has not gone unnoticed.
It's opened to mixed reviews.
Yes, well. It's a little stark on you.
...
Not that my opinion should matter a helluva lot.
Ha ha.
You know how some people, it just makes their skin stand out? It does that with yours. D'ya understand? Now, I should probably leave because I'm digging myself in further. Heh.
-------------------------------
This is the same man who speaks loudly saying things like, "Okay?" "Understand?" "I'm not trying to be difficult." I want to reach across the desk and break his glasses.
I have nice skin.
It's ok if my nice skin stands out.
------------------------------
I want to try a new game: Dragon Smack. Tie as many objects to a piece of string as possible, thwack at your opponent until you break his glasses. If the string breaks, just reach across the desk and do it by hand.

Back to Life, Back to Reality

The return after a break feels like this:
8:00-12:28: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
12:28-rest of day: bleh.
The exclamation points end at about noon-thirty when the verypressingmustgetdone(s) get a little bit done and lunch is over.
And then I start digging through old paper piles trying to find small, easily accomplished tasks.
Sharpie labels.
Fill up water bottle.
Check on Christmas gifts' UPS status.
Take an early afternoon coloring break.
Go into the bathroom and sit silently waiting for everyone to leave.

Your Safety Mattels to Us

Dammit! They just recalled my Polly Pocket!
But I could choke on anything. What else should they recall?
1. SweetTarts
2. Our own spit
3. Engagement Rings --woop! How did that get in there? Yep, that's right. Because my little sister just got one and we have a lot of people in this family who like shiny things. You say diamond, I say swallowing hazard.
I asked Carly to ghostwrite for this post, but when her eyes got all big and wobbly I knew she couldn't come up with the words. She's real excited, folks. And something on her hand looks different over here. And now over here. And what about when she's driving? And when she's eating turkey?

So Street Right Now

Just waiting for that background check to go through...
I'm moving out.
[Sounds of records scratching.]
Grown Up Life After College, Take One.
I tried to find a picture of my new roommate online with a good-old-fashioned Google search. Unfortunately, the results were something my work would call "inappropriate," which is funny, but I "won't post it here because I don't want to perpetuate inappropriateness." Or "get fired."
Other things I'm doing in preparation:
-getting the car onced-over
-checking the crime alerts/stats for my new precinct
-being generally neurotic
-shopping for cutesy, ridiculous items that have no place in my life

Gas Tank 1/2 Full (I'm an Optimist)

This is the story of the road that goes to...
Osceola.
First, let me say, DAMMIT.
There.
Now, then. Osceola, WI is not so far away.
It's just that I missed a turn along the way because hours earlier, I sat at my desk and copied the directions on to a post-it note. The very important turn marked "Osceola" tempted me even as I drove past. Oh, no you don't, I thought. I know exactly what happens when I follow my intuitions. So I continued 40 minutes up the road until I broke down in a gas station parking lot.
I have to stop here and say that this story is too distracting because the town's name reminds me of areola.
The End.

Diet Mug Root Beer Before Noon

I need a shot.
Of cortizone.
I work with a population of students who are unable self-edit.
1: "You dyed your hair!"
Blank stares.
2: "Hey, hair!"
3: "Wohhhey! Girl, I was like, 'is that you?'"
I laugh.
Me: "Do you like it?"
Her: "...It's different."
Her #2: "It's BLACK."
I keep checking my pocket-sized mirror to see if the color is really what I remember.
It is.
But then, I did just get a sign that looked like "the airplane spinning around your head is thumbs up".

Reel(y) Special Moments

Somedays you just feel like dancing on stage at First Ave.
Somedays you can because when Alasdair Roberts who is opening for The Decemberists (The Decemberists! You've been waiting for this concert for months!) asks the crowd if anyone knows how to jig, you raise your hand and are escorted on stage where Mr. Alasdair himself notes that you are both wearing orange shirts.
Here you might say something idiotic about being shirt buddies.
Two other girls will join you and you will do a jig, being extra careful not to step on anything marked "THE DECEMBERISTS," but you will be too worried about the audience seeing your Superman underpants to even care.
Good for you.
Somedays are great days.

Oh, I'm So Sad. Jesus Stole My Child. Boo hoo.

The play wasn't dramatic enough. Or it was so dramatic that I was immune. (Ryan writes about music, so he might not mention it, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't impressed, either.)
Jewish kid gets sick; Catholic nanny baptizes him to ensure his trip to Heaven; Pope claims child for God and secrets him away to the Vatican. Much wailing and letter writing from the parents. Talktalktalk. Even the beautiful scene where Mom denies God gets re-hashed several times. And then the Nazis come.
So when Matt stopped by, I fell off the couch and faked my own death.
I think he would agree that it was appropriately moving.

Active Ingredient: Raw Chicken

The Way We Were
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Watch out. Everybody, stand back! Go get some of those nose plugs from the synchro team. BECAUSE I SAID SO, SUSAN!
Step away from the smell of rotting meat. I will approach the affected area.
[moves closer to the window sill]
What's this? My aloe plant? Why does it smell of rotting meat?
Did I over water?
But You were supposed to save me from burns and...
Garberlelehhhhhhhhhh
What have I done?
[collapses to ground, pounding fists against industrial carpet]
Exeunt.

Flexing My Political Muscle

I went off to vote.
And I'm not saying for sure, but it's possible that someone wrote-in "Google" in for City Council Member on my ballot.

We Call Him Zeke

For Halloween I went as myself, but I carried our garden gnome. I explained the costume as, "The Travelocity Production Assistant," to the one person who asked.
The upsetting thing is that no one gaped when I brought a small statue to work.

I Read Some Nabokov in College

Matt: "World of Fish. It's called World of Fish! It's huge! Come on! You'll love it. They have sharks."
Me: "Ok. But...ok."
Really, it reminded me of the old days. Betta cubes, little vases, neon rock. Smells of aquatic waste.
I miss it.
Wait. No, I don't. Before Meg (lovely former college roommate) boiled Lolita (my sweet, neurotic fish) on the windowsill, I experienced multiple failures as a pet owner. She wouldn't eat. Did I know that it was because her bowl was too big? No. Did I blame her instead of myself? Naturally. She went belly up twice, only moving once I had picked her up to make the toilet trip. Was she playing dead to prove her superior intelligence? Obviously.
I was a buffoon, making the same mistake nearly every time I "cleaned" her "bowl," transfering her into the sink instead of the cup set aside. She'd flop around in the basin while I dialed Rin who ran down the hall to save her. I blew into a paper bag.

St. Louis, We're Not

I could understand if, in a crowded subway, someone reached down and grabbed the wrong bag. Wooops. It would all be vaguely scripted:
"Oh, sorry. I thought that was--"
"Oh! Right! Ha! Well,--"
"Well--"
"No, you go ahead."
"Ehhh..."
[fumbling exchange of phone numbers or fisted cuffs depending on how the dialogue plays out.]
What I can not understand is crashing a wedding in your jeans and construction boots, proceeding to the dance floor, making out with your date (similarly clad and coiffed), and slopping back to the side of the room where you pick up my camera bag-- MY-- CAMERA BAG.
What. The. Hell.
I stand up from the table and say, for lack of better idea "Hey! That's my stuff."
Barfly McStickyfingers steps back and leaves.
And then he comes back three times.
He brings friends.
When they are asked to leave again and again, they do, but not without a fight. They insist that they were invitees. Matt, in his infinite compassion, tells the guy to, "Get out or I will throw you out." Plus a couple of bad words.
Bride Sarah calmly ignores the distraction and dances on.
I have another glass of wine and hide my bag.

I Cannot Be Angry with a Rhyme

To celebrate the anniversary and the half-birthday of my Banished Red Cells, I tried again.
Thanks again, Huatulco. You continue to impress me with your potentially-infected mosquitos.
On the way out, I stopped by the stand with sugar-replenishing sweets. I left when the urge came over me to drink a juicebox, poke my veins with the straw, and drain my blood into the empty container to begin a competing blood drive.
I went back and told Easter (actual name) that I had already used that excuse and could I please have another one? She labeled me "Malaria Area."

Reinstituting Mandatory Recess

Every once in a while my boss calls me into her office to have me fix something. I backpedal a little and tell her that I'm not sure I can fix it because I figure I should save myself the shame of being confident and then getting stumped by Microsoft Word. I don't want her to call in the media paraprofessional.
And then, inevitably, it's like today: she had accidentally highlighted something, but she didn't know how to undo it.
I think it's secretly designed to make me feel good about myself .
Educators are so predictable.

Hilarity Ensues, Kids Find Christ, Everyone Goes Home

I haven't blogged lately because I've been using all my creativity for Jesus.
There were moments around 2 am when our planning team nearly suffocated on chips and skittles, giddy on the possibilities; if only we could be a little more cutting edge with our activities and themes.
Our speaker, Greg Boyd, author of a billion books and owner of incredible intellect, challenged us to recognize the radical nature of Christianity. Our fundamental duty is to agree with God about who God is, who we are, and who everyone else is. We must agree that everyone has unsurpassable worth. Even that [expletive] whose car flung clumps of dried mud at us last night on the way home as he cut us off. That guy has unsurpassable worth.
My question remains: how do we get kids interested in a faith that seems played out and embarrassed by badly behaving adults?
We settled on skits and songs and lemon meringue.

Whole[ly Predictable] Foods

Last night we had "Darn Good" Chili. It was ok. I thought I knew what to expect. In that case, I want to know if this company makes other pre-evaluated dinner options? Like, "Reasonably Good" Lasagna, "I Don't Like It But You Might" Chicken Pot Pie, and "No Thanks, I Gave Up Meat For Lent" Vegetarian Souffle.

Exceeding Expectations

"Hey Steve, Uncle Bud's wearing a shirt!"

Stranger Danger

My car is parked on Hennepin and 24th. The passenger window is rolled down just a little bit. This guy approaches with some stupid question, and I'm suspicious, but I open the door.
Here I can see that in trying to be cool with strangers, I have allowed someone I don't know, on a random street, into my car.
He gets in--Who ignores instincts in dreams? Someone who is afraid of being called a racist? Shut up, Subconscious.
I'm scared. He's a little too close.
A cop passes by and around Guy's head I lean forward to mouth for help. Guy tells me that if I plan to ask for help, I shouldn't invite people in to my car.
Eh...ok.
I wake up.

Forever Jung

Another wedding last Saturday. Dori (seated next to me at dinner) talked AT LENGTH about refurbishing countertops, her husband's chocolate obsession, and the bodily manifestations of old age. Adults are boring.
I found a five-year old named Haley who wanted to know:
1. How do flowers get petals? [They have all the information for petals in their seeds from the very beginning, but they need water and sunshine and sometimes a little bit of fertilizer. I can not possibly give you the whole story. There is so much to discuss in the way of plant and human development.]
2. Was I six? [Um, no. But 24 is 4 times that big.]
She had some things to teach also:
1. Jesus had the bear tree. [Wha? Where is the interpreter? Use this little card and point to the language you speak.]
2. Lightning goes into your skin like this (shrreeeeeeehhhhh) [Oh. Cool. I've never seen lightning go into someone's skin, but it sounds loud and scary.]
3. My knees hurt and I know that it is time for bed. [Did Dori put you up to this?]

Not Cruel to Animals

Try this: label an empty box, "Free Puppies" and put it out in the hallway at work/school/church.

Another Instance

This One In Which I Failed A Child, But I'm Not Sure How, Exactly. I Just Know I Did Something Wrong:
"My foot still hurts."
"Ok. What have you done so far?" (Meanwhile, I am checking her attendance to see if perhaps she skipped this class or if it happens to be math-related.)
"I should have worn slippers today, but I didn't."
"Sara, what can I do to help you?"
"I don't know. Nothing, I guess. I just should have worn something more comfortable."
"...Well, I guess you have two options, really. You dance, or you don't."
"No, I can still dance."
"Ok, then. Pull it together."
As their performance draws ever nearer, my Hip Hoppers invent ways to remove themselves from dance, terrified of public humiliation. I have no ride home; I have to visit my uncle in Michigan; Dennis stepped on my foot and now it's swollen and I can't walk or even sit up because it hurts.
Enter my conscience. What is it that she wanted from me? Sympathy? An ice pack? Doritos?

I Love Meeting New People.

Thumbthing Personal
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

I can get along with almost anybody under age 5. Elise and Chad's party was full of smallish people, like this one.

But He's Not

I'm not a Good Samaritan, but I did call 911 when I saw this dude beat on a woman yesterday. So I guess I'm going to heaven.

Mrs. Lorinda N, Mrs. Lorinda Anne C-N, Mrs. LCN/LACN/LAN with Flowers and Hearts

Rin and Eric got engaged. They are affianced. With a shiny diamonded band.
She wore it to bed last night.
I can totally relate because I have dreams all the time that I am about to eat a Snickers and then I lose it when I wake up. It's not even under the pillow.
Now that she's tackled the first nights' sleep, she's worried about the rest of the day: "I am gonna need a helmet because I'll be staring at it, walking into walls."
INCOMING: Shameless Boyfriend Promotion
It is also time to plan a wedding that doesn't suck. As an auspicious beginning, they hired Matt.

Jane Fonda Hasn't Even Seen The Motor In [The Back Of] My Honda

I get a little absent minded around lunchtime. Some brilliant mind put the fridge and the microwave in completely separate rooms.
The whole retrieval and assembly process takes about 6 minutes, but I manage to weave across the office no fewer than 4 times.
Today someone asked me if I scatter my food so that I will get some exercise.
Is she calling me fat?*
[Cue dream sequence: I enter in leotard and leggings circa 1981 and run laps around her desk, getting faster and faster until I leave a hole in the carpet.]
Tomorrow I will ask her if she keeps her food in one place to conserve energy.


*Just kidding, only my mom and my boyfriend do that.**
**Kidding again, my whole family does that.***
***Kidding. Enough.

Biggest Fan

When the car windows fog up, do you use cool or warm air? We tried both. At the same time...
Wait.
I can't finish anything. I'm enjoying Richards' new cd, and I remember why my mom never let us listen to Top 40 while we did our homework.
I thought I might just be sick with blogblock, but my doctor claimed not to know anything about it.
I'm going in for a second opinion.

Methinks, But Me Does Not Say

If you have to explain multiple times daily that you're "not trying to be difficult," thou dost protest too much.

You First

Notice: The If book of questions* can be deleterious to relationships.
Matt would like a Spanish-speaking escort.
If he survives to need one.
Brent prudently declines to answer. Maggie half-smiles.
Incidentally, the one emotion of which we'd elect to rid ourselves: jealousy. We all agree on this.
I experience it like a tourettic tic. I watch myself and think, "Why did you just say that?" [I say it again, worse]. Lather, rinse, repeat.


*to the third power, assuming that you're still dating after the first two editions

Apply Football to the Wound or, Truly Religious Experiences with HDTV

My father is unable to tune things out. He believes the world is out to irritate him.
And if they knew how completely they upset him, the world would be so into that.
Our Director of Liturgical Music (read: guy who has a PhD in organ music) chooses some variation on the same mind numbing "melody"every week. He holds out one insidious note beyond the human capacity to forgive. If it were a Disney film, we would shake our heads, laugh, indulge the children leaping around our feet: "Yes, Little Billy. He is playing the organ! You are a smart boy." My father wants to kill this man. He wants to shove a hymnal in this man's ear.
He is only calmed in front of an HD football game. His eyes bore into the screen. He forgets to blink. He loses his homicidal urges.
There is only 3rd and 10.
Until the commercials.

She Failed World Geography, And I Failed Because I Used Wikipedia To Prove A Point

I wish I could tell you that some sweet simple child and not a 40-year-old woman said this:
"Ben Gali-- not a person?"
"Uh. Not...actually."
I'll see if they can add it to the list.

They're Laughing in Hades

Did you hear the one about the girl who always dodged high school people in public places and then her own personal hell was realized when a former classmate camped out at her office until she returned from hiding in her colleague's room?
Yeah, it's not that funny.

City Silences: Sriracha Waxes Poetic

We flew home this morning on an American Airlines. From NYC. At 8:30 am.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared.
The air felt heavy in the taxi on our trip to the airport. Aside from armed guards, there was no serious security scrutiny. Our ascent was marked by my twitching looks at the skyline.
Just pensive quiet.

We flew home this morning by happy circumstance. We missed our plane last night (negligence) and spent our extra night with Chris who works as a webmaster/designer/geek extraordinaire of this place with beautiful expensive furniture. He guided us through the City's maze of deliciousness to and from food and drink, past tidbits of conversation like this:
"So, do you do origami?"
We stood on line for cupcakes from Magnolia. And ate them in the park, wearing smiles. Not speaking much or loudly.
And the breeze blew. And a tree grew in Brooklyn (though we were not there to see it).

Ponderance

Beyonce,
Welcome. Please have a seat. Not on the B'day
No. That's your album. Wait. As in the French fixture? It couldn't be.
Who is responsible for this faux pas? Which idiot manager let this woman call her new album after a piece of bathroom technology (a marvel, certainly, but not something to celebrate in song).

Turn Up Your Transistor Radio to Hear the Post-War End of Amnesia (And Other Album Titles. And Links! You Love Links!)

Muffin and I spent last night with M.Ward and his crowd of hipster fans at the very crowded and smoke-free Varsity Theater.
Once we arrived, we uncovered the leeeeetle hitch of age (apparently "as old as you feel" does not fly with people who card). I called Dan and Matt for some advice: how to smuggle a 17 year old into an 18+ concert.
Ideas we considered which were promptly shot down
1. she lost her ID and I'm her legal guardian?
2. that she doesn't have an ID because she's in the witness protection program please don't ask for any further details as I'm not at liberty to disclose that information?
3. we're on the list. She's the drummer's sister? (Clearly the most likely until you're asked for a name--either yours or hers.)
By the time we're at the front of the line, we're sweating like criminals. "What is this crap? Why are we afraid? The worst they can do is say no." And then some squad cars flew by.
The best they could do is look at Muffin's ID, see the Under 21 Label, and not do the Under 18 Math.
And they did.

Bringing Hangovers Back

Dollaz
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

If these glasses are any indication of the amount of fun I had last night...
Well. Let them be every indication.

Electronic Blood Pressure Monitor

Burt, the Custodian Who Calls Himself Grandpa, just visited me twice in the last 15 minutes.
He came to pick up garbage. Twice. I am not complaining. Better than missing the garbage twice when it needs to be removed. When he found that I had none the second time, he said, "I like you."
I smiled.

It brings up two things for me:
1. I'm afraid of memory loss. I already have enough trouble trying to distinguish my dream recollections from actual history. Post-it notes cover the entire surface of my desk (and desktop. Thanks, Post-It Notes Lite!). I make two item lists.
2. I hope public opinion of me doesn't center on my garbage production.

Words From My Father, Who Should Not Be Left Alone Anymore With The Old Person Dictionary Of Obscure Phraseology

"She can't buy a pig in a poke."
"What?"
"She can't buy a sow in a bag."

Lonely At The Top (Or, Good Thing I Have A Heart Of Stone)

What sucks:
"Hey! New office. Everyone's jealous."
"Yeah, I love it. It's great."
"I mean, how do they make these decisions?"
"Uh."
"Just...wow. I mean, this is a nice set up. New furniture... And a window."
"Yeah."
"Ok. Well, I'm cool with it. No big deal."
"Yeah."

What rules:
I have a new office. With a window.

Boredom + Google Searches + Emergency Chocolate = Danger

Resistance is growing thin.
Please send help.
And.
If this doesn't make your blood rush just a little, we can't be friends.

For The Record, I Thought It Was A Prop.

Another recounting of public embarassment. This time, not my own.
There I sat at lunch, casually observing passers-by in that awkward education conference way: quiet and respectful without making eye contact that might lead into a conversation. Creamsicle* padded down the hall chatting into her cell phone. The conversation sounded confidential, but pleasant enough.
I saw her see the child-sized chair.
I was skeptical that it would hold her.
And then....
Crack. Fall. Still on phone. Mumble. Vacate.
When I picked the pieces up after she had left, I found that the plastic chair was without bolts. As if someone had puzzled it together for just such a careless visitor.
It wasn't me.
Seriously.
But if I were going to do something like that, I would have left a video camera running and brought someone attractive to have her sign a media release.

*I do not know her name, but she wore orange and white. And I was eating.

Soggy Days, Stoppard Plays, Blank Verse, Pudding

11 am:
pudding

12 pm:
In honor of the natural gloomy light pouring in the window, I've put on only one small light in my office.
"You do have another light switch. It's right here."
"I know. I like it like this. I feel cozy."
"Uh huh."
I can almost guarantee that I would be working better right now in sweatpants with a fleece blanket.
A wide field of construction dirt is turning into a rainy mudriver outside. Galoshes left at home yet again. Dammit. Why did I not anticipate a Wonka creation?!

12 am:
Saw Stoppard's The Real Thing last night and have been haunted by pithy material all day. Alas, the more I try to remember, the less I can. Panic! At The Laptop. If only there had been a line to remind me about bringing galoshes to work I could have remembered text and danced in acid rain.

I Used Occam's Razor For A Close Shave

This morning NPR featured a story about Mr. Wang's Button Factory. His tiny town is responsible for 60% of the world's buttons. Buttons Are His Destiny.

What it must feel like to have purpose? Why am I worried about Purpose in August? This ennui should stay in the storage closet until winter like my warm clothes.

I realize that it has been months since former professor and oft quoted* Hardy wrote, asking me about my goals and still I have none.

So I went to Anthropologie and met Rin for ice cream.
The simplest explanation is always the best.

I could have told you, too, about my lackluster day during which I worked for three hours editing a video to lose it all in the saving process. But I'm afraid you might learn that I'm dull-brained enough to permanently delete items that I needed. It shouldn't be called the "Recycle Bin" if it means "Trash. Don't Put Anything In Here If You Expect To See It Again."


*"A fast-rolling turd smells less."
"Pontiac, Grand Am. We Build Excitement."
"Would you like to hear the duck call? It goes.... here, ducky, ducky."

Leg Hair, A Close Third

I wish for
1. Armpit hair to all grow at the same rate.
2. World peace

Betty White Goes Blue

I dropped a lens cap yesterday at a wedding. Made a big sound when it fell from the balcony during a break in the music. No one was hurt, but when Matt looked back at me I ripped into him like whodoyouthinkyouarethatshitwasaccidentalIwillkillyouifyoudon'tstoplaughing. After which I was ready to cry.
Imagine being William Shatner.
In fact, imagine being anyone in the audience, or on stage, or the camera crew. Anyone in the venue is subject to public humiliation. And an alarming number of gay jokes.
And Farah Fawcett's bra strap.

Coming to You Live From the Corner of My Couch

More failed endeavors:

• a change purse

Inspired by Sunday's Target ad featuring a $135 sewing machine, and resisting the obvious temptation to buy said item, I opened the closet and dusted off Ye Old Singer. "What should I make?" "Uh." "...Wallet?" "Sure." "Or...." "Hey, Drumline's on TBS." "Ooh!"
My project sits abandoned on the kitchen table.

• artichoke pasta

This was a particularly stinky adventure, on account of the minced garlic. I sought guidance from allrecipes.com. I entered my ingredients and loosely followed the instructions. The breakdown occured around the cooking time: noodles do not cook correctly "give-or-take a minute."

• fitting into my jeans

Speaking of which, I cannot believe (per Cosita's entry), that someone would knowingly subject their body to the triangulation of skinny jeans. When did "taper" become a selling point?!
Additionally, if it were New Year's, I'd resolve not to buy things that don't fit with the assumption that guilt will move me to work toward them as a goal. Ass! Dammit! Haha. Both of those are appropriate exclamations!

As it stands, my real resolution is still in full effect.
Consider that a successful endeavor.

File under: Humanitarian and Deeds, Good

Hark! The sweet sound of locusts and Craigslist in the summer.
During these last few days of freedom before my regular work resumes, I spend hours surfing over losts and founds, apartments, want ads.
Thought I should pass that along.

Countercultural Cake: Subterfuge

Disclaimer: Matt is Mexico Sick. He and anyone light of stomach should not proceed to the pictures. And happy anniversary, Dear. Hope you're done puking.
Now on to: Poppa's birthday, A Gehry Cake in Pictures
At about 9 am I went for a walk feeling extraordinarily ambitious to be out so early on a Saturday morning.
Ok, it was 9:30.
Ok, it was 10.
Damn!
When I returned home the supplies were laid out before me to make the Most Delicious DadBirthday Birthday Cake Ever. No matter that I couldn't locate the round pans; I laugh in the face of circular confections! I could use a rectangle. And one better: I could sculpt the cake into a new form!
A tower! Yes, a birthday tower!
I cut the cooling cake.









As I piled the pieces, family members began to suspect that I did not have a plan.
The sections got smaller and smaller.
"But there is frosting," I said, "to hold it together. Seriously, I've got an idea."
I did not have an idea. Or rather, this was not it:













Soon and very soon it became this:










By and by, my father stopped checking in on it. Carly's new boyfriend would be coming for the celebration. More shame on the family's tarnished culinary name? She jailed herself in fear:



What now? A new cake? There simply was not time. A time warp? There simply was not a car to get us there and back. A springform pan, some ice cream, and a Cold Stone ambition? It could not fail.










Wait. It could?
But it looks so...










Oh. I see.
But it tastes so...
I could always pitch the idea to Quaker Warmish Oatmeal Packets-of-Sickening-Liquid-y Flavor.
Well. One person's birthday is another person's opportunity to create something disgusting so that in the future they will never be entrusted with important tasks again.

Say You Want a Revolution, Well, You Know

Hey, everybody, it´s time for a meeting!!!
In the town square.
With bats.
What?
Surprise! We´re in a protest zone.
Yeah. Yesterday, Matt was in photojournalist heaven when the crowds in the city center decided to chant and congregate. The video cameras captured speakers pleading with their fellow Oaxacans for non-violence. Matt snuck up there like AP and sniped a couple of shots before he determined his real calling: Latin American Protest Photographer.
Great.
Because my real calling is Professional Worrywart/Professional Bacterial Infected-er.

Poetry Night at La Nueva Babel

By way of an appendage to the last entry, because Matt thinks I misrepresented our conversation a little. I say, poetic license; you say, potahto.
It was not so much, ¨Will you marry me?¨as it was, ¨Should we get married?¨
And the answer was no. For both of us. He reminded me of that as well.
Flare for the dramatic.
Someone should go check on my mom, too, please. Nothing to see here, Mom.
We´re back in Oaxaca now for three days and not ten minutes ago, far away from a nudie beach, we passed a man in the street sleeping pantsless. At 2 pm.
I´m trying to incorporate all of these elements into an appropriately self-effacing, rudimentary Spanish poem for tonight. It´s open mic at the bar down the street. So far I´ve got:

Borracho.
Dos horas de la tarde.
Yo
no
soy.

Thank you, thank you. Buenas noches.

Mexico by the Numb3rs (that one was for my dad who watches that weird show on CBS with the guy who killed Kellie Martin's character on ER)

Today we joined a nudist colony. I will spare you the Sharpie Art.
Just kidding.
I proposed marriage and Matt said no.
Just kidding again.
Wait, that wasn't a joke.
Circumstances change. We find out that people won't be around forever (as if it is some great mystery...What? People will be born and they will die? What is this crap?) And not that it's not crap. It is. It just makes you realize that if you had a year left and you wanted to get some shit done, you do it. And so.
It was the first of what I hope to call My Stream of Marriage Proposal Rejections Parts I-III.
After 3 I'm done being rejected. Third time's a... I'm Not Going To Live Through Another Rejection Even If I Was A Little Sauced, Because I Do Love You and I Don't Care Who Knows It.
Ahem.
In other news, we did go to a nude beach. It was mostly non-nude. But there were a daring five. (That's eight boobies and one...gentleman without trousers, for those of you keeping track). See how I distract you with body parts from the fact that something in my personal life is now public?
Look! Zebras! Mystifying stripes!

Internet Cafe With An Ocean View (If You Bring A Picture Of An Ocean In With You)

While I waited to use the interwebs, here in Huatulco, I picked up a little light reading. The Sports Illustrated College Basketball issue of 1996-97 lists Chauncey Billups as one to watch. So look out for him. 10 years ago.
I imagine that Huatulco is like Myrtle Beach. If in Myrtle Beach people harass you about buying trinkets and local flavor is a guy saying,"Hey, Man. Where you from?"
Uh...shut up.
So instead of sweating out the humidity on beach front property, we called our parents on analog roam (thank you, technology) and decided to see a movie. I chose Pirates of the Carribean, part 2.
Matt chose: Tokyo Sinks.
We will regroup after and write reviews.
In Spanish, of course.

I´ll Take A Beer With My Politics, Please

Old Man in Mitla: Que piensas de la guerra con Israel y...
(hic)
OMIM: Suisse...
(hic)
OMIM: Suisse?
Matt: Lebanon?

Brain: Cerrado For Cleaning

My rate of failed to successful Spanish: 809 to 1.
For shame, for shame.
I walked away from a perfectly lovely though completely unnecessary* top today in the zocalo because Matt wouldn´t help me ask the quiet lady how much it was. She was not impressed.
Or maybe she was irritated to be nursing a child well over two years. Who can say?

*Luggage arrived yesterday late afternoon and as I pulled it up the stairs, ramp, stairs, ramp, stairs into our dwelling I realized I had overzealously overpacked.

Should Have Packed Deodorant In My Carry On

Huevos rancheros, everybody!
We´re here.
Unfortunately, our luggage decided not to join us. Thank you, Continental. You knew it would only spoil us to have toothbrushes.
I´d also like to send a shout out to my man, Seguridad 073422, for offering to send our bags here for free, (if and) when they are found.
If by chance our valises decided to ship themselves back home, let them know that they can find us by using the family whistle.

BRB

Matt and I are going away again on Tuesday and will be back on August 11. I'll give you a few hints:

1. I ate a gyro.
2. The salad from Saturday's wedding had olives in it.
3. I'm reading the Bible--in Greek.

If you guessed rainy Oaxaca, Mexico, you're right!
In lieu of my usual freakout, I've already packed. Yeeehaw.

Fore Score and Twenty Hours Ago

What's that, Sri, a golf tee in your hair?!
Why, yes. Thank you for noticing. I did a little golfing* yesterday in the blistering heat of Fred Richards' course.
The hair ornamentation totally upped my street cred among the local pros, which I really needed since I missed the ball 5 times before making initial contact.
As for the other players:
Matt threw a club. Carly made par (once). Poppa did not get a sunburn.

*Officially, I hit one ball far and a few putts. Really, very little golfing, but I did walk all the holes.

Mason Jennings Sang Me To Sleep (or was that a movie on Hong Kong Nihilists?)

Acer's mouse is on a 5-second time delay, which acts sort of like a parental control for bedtime.
"Are you sure you need to blog now, honey? Shouldn't you put down the computer and step away from the internet(s)*?"
No.

A list of things I memoed in the last 48 hours to tell myself and you, the internet(s)**:

• Sexual harrassment from the custodians
• Physical Tuesday--don't be awkward--male doctor
• I always forget my galoshes when it f*#74ing rains. Whyyyyyy?
• Why do children of police get in trouble with the law? For attention? They think they're above the law? Cue Arnold Schwartzehrehhherrgerrr (sp?): Nobody is above the law. Nobody.
  
• Matt: music stand
  
• Irritable bowels ruined my night--ask male doctor, but don't be awkward

*That one was for you, Rin.
**And that one was for Eric.

Just Like That Gwyneth Paltrow Duet

Air Conditioning Not Included
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Colleen and I passed this Sea-Foam Wonder on 94 last weekend.
We turned to each other to celebrate the rural American glory and both of us without our cameras. What are the odds?*
If you recognize this truck or know these people, please send them to me. I want to put them in and their tigerlillies in my pocket for all times.

*Sidebar: I went to college with a kid who wrote a book called What Are The Odds. People were always making that joke. I tried to find new ways of saying it: "What is the likelihood that this specific event occurred at this specific moment?", "How unusually serendipitous!", "You're joking if you think that would happen ever again!", "Eh! I'll take two."

I'm An Idiot. [Reprise]

"Shoot."
"I cannot see a damn thing."
"What does that say?"
"Not unless I hold my eyelids to the side like this."
And today Dr. Mike asks me if I "might be wearing them in the wrong eyes?"
"I might."
I was.
For a month.
A month of headaches and squinting and sweaty glasses slipping off my face rather than wear those [expletive] contacts for one minute more because what kind of doctor prescribes the completely wrong thing and another thing why is this industry taking me for all the money in my uninsured vision life?
They're not.
Ass.

But They Protect Me From Nighttime Monsters

I never used to sleep with sheets (I originally wrote sheeps,* which is also true. That hasn't changed. I still don't.) Until...
Now I've lost my train of thought. "Join hands. Start a thought train. A thought train." [Giant train comes barreling through my room now filled with conventionally pretty strangers and mountains].


*Word does not exist

Oracle of Delphi, where are you now?

Before She Set Off
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Motto: "Saving the World, One Fashion Misstep at a Time"
Special Powers: this pose, perfect grilled cheese, curiously good aim at tennis, pointing her toes, talking to strangers
Tragic Flaw: Inability to see her own clothing choices

Very Anonymously Recounted Conversation with Unnamed Sister

"Objects in mirror appear closer than they are."
"No, objects in mirror are closer than they appear."
"Oh, thanks... [pause] That could have gotten me in a lot of trouble."
"I'm making a memo of this."
"If I had a blog, I'd make a memo of the fact that you're blogging this."
"Do it."
"Fine."
"Good."

He's Your Man

Danimal shared a free ticket with me last night for the Leonard Cohen biopic--a little heavy on the Bono--but overall very enjoyable.
The experience:
Crowded theater = seats in the second row.
Too much U2. And Bono says "chasm" as in "chhhhasihhm." (Ali, I'm sorry. But you will love it.) Why do I want to rip the sunglasses from his smiling Irish eyes?
Everyone is huge. HUGE. Not sure how much that has to do with sitting in the second row.
Martha Wainwright has such a lovely voice. At first I did not appreciate its simultaneous smallness and maturity. But I could have stuffed her into my bag, if it had not been full of saltine crackers and Sharpies.

At Least They're Honest

No internal filter. They get that later when they learn to be ashamed of their natural tendencies and their bodies.
In this discussion of organic farming, did you happen to mention corn? Because, "once I was in a corn maze and I wasn't even most of the way through and then my sister Natalie went back into the corn maze to find my mom and me..."
"I have to use the potty. Right now."
"So she found my mom but she didn't even find me, even though I was hiding right behind a corn wall..."
"If we're not there yet, are we close to there?"
"And when I came out of the maze it wasn't even dark yet, even though we were in there for a really long time...."

Water-Logged Brain

At least once a wedding/shoot/day I say something that makes everyone around me supremely uncomfortable.
For example, at our fake bridal hair-and-makeup session last week Matt suggested taking the models to a lake when I piped up with, "What, like a lesbian wedding?"
[Silence]
"Cool!"
And then I tried to explain even further, saying, "Because seriously, if we take it to Calhoun everyone will be all, 'I just saw a lakeside lesbian wedding. Oh, we're so metropolitan.'"

And Knee-High Boots On Order

Lauren Weisberger's Unnamed Prada-Wearing Devil Book: Have some more Diet Coke and then we'll talk...
Me: No. I won't read any more of you. You anger me.
LWUPWDB: No. You love me. I'm Dan Brown for girls who don't bother with ancient codes.
Me: Argh! You don't impress me with your designer references or Starbucks drink orders. Andy drops $20 on an $8 cab ride and expenses it. I can't take your fabricat--
LWUPWDB: You want fabric? Miranda Priestly spit on this fabric once. It's still worth 10,000.
Me: What? No. Just give me some elegant prose. Something deserving of the English language.
LWUPWDB: My recitation of street names isn't enough for you? Lex, Madison, Sixty-seventh...That's not what you said last night when you read 80 pages before bed.
Me: But! Wait! I was under the influence of caffeine. I totally felt like Andy; I could barely keep my eyes...oh.
LWUPWDB: Aha.

Eye Shouldn't Be In Charge... Or, Eye'm Not Blind Yet. But Maybe By Lunchtime

Last night as I enjoyed the fluorescent festivities, I had an idea: cosmic tennis. The balls, the lines, and the rackets would all be neon and we'd use blacklights (naturally) to make the whole thing go. Like bowling, but better.
I was in a great mood until I took a glow-stick-bracelet to the eye this morning. Technically it was just the inside of the bracelet.
Stop, drop,--No, wait, that's for fire! Get back on your feet! You can't reach the sink from down there--flush.
I learned my lesson in Stoneberg's class. If something enter your ocular cavity, you must remove it immediately, preferably in a yellow two-spouted sink, but not if you're being a little jerk. Only if you really have chemicals in your eye. This is not a playground.

Before-Dark Patriot

I used to cry at fireworks. Many years ago. But not so many that it wasn't a little strange that this oldish child was publicly freaking out about some thunderous booms.
And now that I am grown up (in years, not inches) I realize that it probably won't kill me with its sound waves, even if I am sitting directly below the spot where, one year, Anthony's mom got a piece of shrapnel in her eye!
If the idiot neighbors who set off the noisy shit with NO SPARKLING of any kind can't control themselves, I'll exercise my constitutional right* to call the police.

*It's probably in here somewhere.

She Practiced Her New Signature

Sara's Ring
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Sara J and Adam got married today.
We had plenty of time for everything, since the hair began at 8.
And Apples to Apples began at 10:30.
The heavy drinking began shortly thereafter.
It made me wish I hadn't dropped my 50 mm lens on a cobblestone last week.
This picture is, thusly, older than today. Before there were bands to match.

Boob Club

Tonight at...er...Booze Club...Un-Book Club we discussed this:

over this:

Inside Edition: Pasta Express

My bottom line review:
I watched noodles slouch. It might not be faster, but it's way more fun than making them in a pot. Unless your pots are clear.

Mind, Intestines in Equal Atrophy

Still here. Still sick.
If you need a better measure of my ill health... I am watching Steve Harvey reruns.
Recent Google searches:

• dysentery
  
• why do babies drool when they get new teeth?
• what can I eat that won't make me sick?
• will anything fix this scratch on my glasses for free, because even though I am still under warranty, Lens Crafters will make me pay $90?
• other things I can stuff in the boob part of the dress
• healing power of popsicles

Send help.

The Ignominious Poo

I'm home!
[Gurgle.]
Excuse me.
That must be the explosive diarr...wait, Matt hates that word. But since he's headed back out of town again right now, I can tell you that I cannot get further from a toilet thanthis.
Luckily it hit after our trip to the Land of Weak Plumbing, intensive-labor, and little sleep.

And then it was Saturday. Jason and Makenzie got married. We took lovely pictures of their farm nuptials. It was all very sweet.
Until 11 pm, CST, when the walls of the Blue Earth AmericInn rumbled, nay, roared with my bowel movements.
Which reminds me:

Dear Blue Earth AmericInn,
Please consider installing fans in your bathrooms. If not for odors, than surely for sound privacy.
Thank you.

KFC: Making America Fat, Faster

We're heading down to Juarez again. The 28-hour bus trip (No, I'm not inflating. It takes longer to get down) to El Paso includes regular stops for re-fueling our bodies. It's a very strenuous ride, you know. We burn a lot of calories, sitting and squirming.
This year I will to eat fewer things that make me feel sick and thus, I vow not to eat one of these.

Tessburger the Trampolining High School Graduate

Everyone Is Doing It

"I need some long-range goals, Carly."
"Ha! Wait, I just spit so much I need to wipe it up. [Incoherent advice given here.] I wanted to set some short range goals so I get through the day without jumping off the top of Campiello. Then I realized that it's only one story and I don't even know how to get up there."

Crushing Entrepreneurial Spirits Worldwide

Whether I have money or not, I rarely stop. But nothing makes me feel like an awful old hag more than passing by a lemonade stand.
"Lemonaaaayyyeeeed! Twentyfiveceehhhhnts!"
"Eh. Sorry!"

Freedom Ringing

The man best known for dressing in a fat suit and starring as a Big Momma was given way too much credit today:
"I'd like to be a radiologist."
"Dang, this girl has a dream...It's like Martin Lawrence said..."

Anchors, Away! But not by the hydrangea, please.

Love is all about compromise. Which reminds me of a story told by a kid with an awesome lisp: "Compromishing. Compromishsing is like when you have a whole Schnickers Bar, and you schare it with your friendsh."
I told Matt the other night that I don't want a lake house. That it sounds like a nightmare, actually, might have been what I said. I realize that we're counting a lot of unhatched poultry here, but I just wanted to be up-front.
And in the spirit of give-and-take, I wouldn't mind getting a boat for the driveway.

Among The Failures Of Our Legal System...This Woman Will Never Be Caught

Oh, no! An Untidy Burglar invaded my room!
Make no sudden moves.
Instead of taking valuables she moved my clothes to the floor! Dirty clothes everywhere! And clean clothes--even in swaying piles--all over the bed!
It's as though she tried on several outfits every day for the last week without ever stopping to re-hang or re-fold a thing!
I'm...I mean... She won't get away with this!

"Um...it's a small dog..." "Puppy!"

I have a new workout plan: Catch Phrase. Just put me in a room with other people and a timed device. I will lose fifty pounds in sweat.
After which I will take a picture of my hot new bod with this sweet camera phone! Let's call those two people George and Milo. And let's say that the pictures were actually that quality. Lies!
My only real difficulty with the phone (aside from the fact that I somehow activated the white balance) is the cat-attack noise it makes when I'm snapping a shot; far too conspicuous for my intent. I wanted to capture a doggie stroller for you this weekend--pink, frilly, incomprehensible--but, no.
Which brings me to my next and final point: live animals and art fairs should run on parallel tracks, never to meet.

Ack! Why I Don't Go In There At Lunchtime

Dental hygiene is important to me, but not if it comes at the price of brushing my teeth in public bathrooms.

Vision Vision

Here's how I know I'm a misanthrope.
I met my dooble and I hated her.

Kill Bill put me in a bad mood... and other true stories

Part I
I once got buried alive in my dreams and I looked a lot like Uma Thurman until it turned out I was just watching Kill Bill and all I wanted to do was think about how hot it was this weekend or how I forgot to pour some out for the homies who served our country. But now all I could think was "get me out of this plywood coffin."
Part II
"I love you, but I don't like you very much right now." I would like to tell Mr. Tarantino the same in re: his volume 2. Of course, I wouldn't expect him to listen. I would expect him to tell me to "CENSORED myself" and that he doesn't much "give a flying CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED what [I] think because [I] didn't even pay the CENSORED CENSORED cash to see it on the CENSORED screen."
And I would nod patiently, in case he flashed a weapon.

Places My Scissors May Have Gone, Seeing As They Did Not Come Back To Me

• Someone's backpack
• A' cuttin' (and he did ride, uh huh)
• The garbage
• El Salvador
  

When You Think You Know, But You Have No Idea, And It Has Nothing To Do With MTV Video Diaries

"I loved The DaVinci Code; I saw it with Maria and Sara last night."
"Oh, really? Tell me about it."
"Well it was good, but I didn't really understand it."
"Ok. I read the book, maybe I can help."
"What was the book about?"
"..."
"Same thing?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. What's it called?"
"The DaVinci Code."

Chemical Burns and Classroom Showers

Sakes alive! I've got an eye on fire!
I just poked the side of my sclera with residual Indian food on my fingers!
I canotn evern asee the akeyeboayard, aoh outcgh nmsy etaws## Thet vyrn!!!!!!

Pickle for a Nickle; Chicago for a Dollar

1. Play-doh scented perfume!!! Can I pre-order?
2. Matt asks me things in a robot voice: "Would it be hard to date me if I talked like this?" "Yes."
   
3. Our Jackass take-off/redux did not win the video competition last night. However, I would like to award Finest "On Second Thought" Performance to that Info Desk guy at Barnes and Noble who looked at us, looked away, and then looked back to say, "You can't film in here." You really got into that role, Glenn. And we appreciated it, even though we lost us the pizza party reward.
   
4. Ashley's getting married. It was the first email engagement announcement ever received, thus signaling the end of the Modern Era and the beginning of the Internets Rule Us All Era (aka, the IRUA Era).
   
5. Let's go.
   

What's Up, Ladies?

Trapped in a World of Giants
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

This is William.
We met at Sara's bridal shower, though he's probably already forgotten me. I'll never let go, William. [tweet, tweet]
He stole her thunder with a gums-only smile.
Look out for me when I am a dentured woman. I will totally kill at parties.

Impromptu Surgery? Or, How I Ran Home After I Saw

Discovered another universal truth:
Dusk is a scary time to see a single latex glove on the path by a creek.

Stay Classy, San Diego

Here is Rin's advice for weddings, but it applies to so much more:

• No Hotel Ballrooms
• No Chicken Kiev
• NO MIRRORS AND VOTIVES AS CENTERPIECES
• No Open Mic Toasts

It's Not On Fire

People are trying to kill our roof.
At 6:54 this morning as I emerged from the shower, I thought I had entered an intensely personal war zone [sound clip*]. Rebel groups vigorously remove shingles.
And then I dressed in the dark because the very small man (or a regular-sized man with a very small shadow) outside my window could have seen in. "Do you like my dress?...No?... I should go with the capris?"
I demand good fashion sense from my insurgents.

*Like I have that technology. Just imagine the sounds of a war zone.

She Will Object

Things she loves more than us:

While The World Watched

Ladies of Bookclub,
I'm happy to report that I have an answer to the issue we discussed last evening, which in no way related to Joan Didion's research-paper-of-a book, The Year of Magical Thinking.
He relieved himself through tubes.
Thank you and see you next month,
Me

Level 4F, Spot 2. Or Maybe It Was Level 4E. Or Spot 4, Level 2.

Long ago, Anne and I took a rather educational trip with her parents to our Nation's Capitol.* I have fond memories: Smithsonian visits; Old Town Manasas; the grassy Mall; and public transportation, which I navigated expertly. After three days on the subway, Mr. Dad** declared my "good spatial awareness" to Anne, Lynn, and maybe some food service strangers and a couple of museum docents. Washington DC knew I had good spatial awareness.
For shame.
As I spent 30 minutes today searching for my car in the right spot of the wrong parking ramp, it occured to me that maybe he was just being nice.

*Back when we called them "'rents" without a trace of irony.
**This is not to preserve identities. His name is Mr. Dad.

Hand Me The Whole Box

I've managed to scrape together what's left of me after watching Brokeback Mountain in a pre-period Horomone-ic State to tell you all that that movie was too sad. This film--cheers Ang Lee and that lady who wrote the short story--brought up some major issues for me. Politically. I realized that I've been ignoring something I feel strongly about and it's time I address it with you: We, as a nation, need to explore a new ratings system.
Funny-Appropriate for All Ages
Pathetic-Appropriate for Nearly All Ages
Not That Sad-Appropriate for Most Ages
Sad-Appropriate for Some Ages, But Not The Littlest Or The Oldest Or The Emotionally Vulnerable
Quite Sad-Appropriate for Everyone Who Isn't Prone to Tears
Real, Real Sad-Appropriate If You Have No Other Demands on You for the Rest of the Day
Do Not Watch This Because Its Sadness Runs Too Deep and It Will Sneak Up and Fill You With the Sadness of 1000 Rainy Days-Appropriate for Those Pronounced Legally Dead

Stay In School And You, Too, Can Make Off-Color Jokes

Last night we "helped" Dan "prepare" for his big test on Things Doctoral. And I got to thinking.
I am fortunate to have friends who care about important things in life:
Family,
Education,
Renal and Penal health...

Allright, you caught me.
'Renal' and 'penal' were my only motivation for this post.

ExtrapoLOVEtion

"Kelly*, are jou pro or con immigration?"
"What do you think, Edgar?"
"Kelly, If jou was in love with an immigrant, would you marry hem?"
"Hm?"
"If jou was in love with an immigrant..."
"Yes."
"You would marry her?"
"Wha?"
"Hem."
"Hmmmm. I am in love with someone."
"Yes, but if this person is an immigrant...."
"He's not."
"If he is."
"If he were."
"If he were."
"Yes, I would."
"So you like immigrants."

*Still not my name, but he says it and I respond.

Something Nice to Say

In the grueling process of writing recommendations*, my creativity wanes. They feel insincere. I realize that they should include some personal reflections of my relationship to the candidate. Most of my favorite memories have no place in a formal letter. Like that time during our 28-hour bus trip to Mexico when I considered throwing myself out the window to escape her enthusiasm for celebrity gossip. Or the time on the way home when I did.***

*Much like bridal parties. "Hey Friend, I like you so much. Please pay lots of money to be part of my special day."**
**Sara, Anne, Nancee, you know I love you. I will never wear those dresses again. Er...except for yours, Nancee, and that was just because my mom wouldn't buy me a new dress to wear to Homecoming sophomore year. Anyway, I was younger then. And purple was my color.
***Poetic license.

Flathead: Not The Screwdriver

Shoot. I missed Ghost Whisperer. AND it was To Be Continued. Double whammy.
At least my head will be well-protected when I hit the wall in distress.
What was she wearing? What were the dead people wearing? How will she help them if she can't get anyone else to see them? Why isn't she scared that she's always being stalked by dead people?!
I've got a helmet.
It is pink.
Truth be told, the helmet is for the Vespa. It doubles as an at-home safety accessory and bowling ball and hair smasher-down-er.

Combating Obsesity and Inflexibility at the Same Time

Today I did the sit-and-reach. I found the contraption had been left out, so I saddled up. Reference my visual aid at left. There was no Presidential Fitness Standards Scale around to chart my success. Still, it went pretty well. So I placed myself in the 99th percentile.

The Bangles: Where Are They Now?

On my feet and hands and ears.
I'm decked in finery because last night my sweet Indian friend, MW, hosted dinner for Matt and me*. Her parents are far away across oceans and continents; we've appointed ourselves surrogate eaters. Being a connaiseur** of Eastern food, Matt made some gentle and informed inquiries about the dishes. The highlight being, "Is this naan?" and the response: "We call it bread."

*And apparently dinner includes jewelry. Who knew?
**Not technically, but if consumption measured specialization...

Authority is Equal Parts "Author" and "Ity" and "Lies We Tell Ourselves"

When a kid cusses you out in the hall and you let him get away with it you are
a. a sucker.
b. never going to hear the end of it.
c. not a teacher because he would have been suspended for insubordination before the word got out of your mouth.
d. stuck talking about it with the social worker to solve it "without taking the other route."
e. a sucker.
f. multiple-choice blogging to show the true extent of your disciplinary impotence.

For The Adamantly Un-religious

I have a church at which I am active. It does not mean I am better than you. [Ok, I am a little bit better just because I was a vegetarian for a little bit, a little bit ago. Don't ask me if I ate chicken. I did not. When you are a vegetarian, you don't eat chicken. But you may be surprised by how many people will ask. So many.] By mentioning my religious activity or affiliation when you ask me pointedly where I was this weekend, I am not attempting to sway your spiritual inclination this way or that.
I don't like swaying anyway because it reminds me of middle school spring concert choreography.
I just wanted you to know that I had a wonderful time talking about JESUS with a bunch of beautiful CHRISTIANS, including lots of CATHOLICS. And we prayed for your soul.

Limelight? I Look Better in Blue

Who will write me some lyrics?
I'd like the song to include the following theme or line: "Hungry enough to eat my arm, but I'm saving my lunch for lunchtime."

A Hoss Was Born

Judy Garland's classic re-worked. Entirely. In fact, all we'll keep is part of the name...
Our dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Squab, welcomed a new, smaller, girl-version of themselves tonight by way of C-section and a few beers.
Ouch!
Ok, the drinks were mine... Rimshot!
Ok, the drinks were the doctor's... Rimshot!
Congratulations, you two. But seriously, lay off the sauce. You've got a baby to think about.

Of No Liturgical Significance

Our Easter here at the Hot Sauce household included multiple family bonding experiences. Clarence (the bear) shows our musical selection during house/food preparation.


Jack (the cousin) models how our game of speed Scrabble degenerated into a Celebrity Jeopardy caliber competition: "Make a sentence with your letters. Actually, you can even steal other people's letters to make sentences that don't really make sense or promote healthy lifestyle choices."


Hannah (another cousin) produced some Jabberwocky sentences, which I will not post here lest she call me out for copyright infringement. Very enterprising young people.

When I'm Sixty-Four

I will still want to steal giant blinking construction signs and say, "Jackpot" when they are piled on the side of the road.
I will still resist the temptation to put them in my neighbor's yard.

FYBU

There's this awesome project for Ugandan children, whose national language is English, but whose educations have been interrupted (destroyed?) by the chaos of war. When the children get to refugee camps and shelters, they get books written by well-intentioned kids across the ocean/world/universe.
I got a chance to peruse some stories before they were shipped off. My favorite title: "What Happens If You Turned Into A Potato?"

Lamentations or, An Open Letter to The World

Dear People,
Stop Dying.
Sincerely yours,
Loved Ones

Perhaps You and Your Wife Can Do Another Spiritual

I was in the midst of an existential crisis, so I went to see the priest* who assessed that my "problem is that [I] have no problem."
Walking out of the office, pleased, I called Matt to tell him. As if I were somehow freed.
And now I am insulted.
Indignant.
Impertinent and other "I" words.
Can't untouchable spiritual discomfort be a problem?
Days like today, though, you feel guilty for being sad. Sun came at just the right time. Like Reese Witherspoon holding a bowl of raspberries as you're Joaquin Phoenix coming out of serious detox.
Rising from the...ok. Too much.
I'm sure God loves similies like that. God, you really shone down on me today like a character from Walk The Line, and I appreciate it.


*I fought the compulsion to call him the "village priest" (because the whole experience sounds very down-home and yet, exorcising) but it would be inaccurate. We live in a city.

Subtract step 2 from step 1 (if the result is zero or less, enter 0)...

I have to put stamps on my freaking tax return? You're the government. You spy on people. You spend how much keeping our homeland secure? You can afford this. You just tell your U.S. Postal Service to hang out while we all send in our taxes for free.
And what if I didn't have a computer? And if I didn't want to go to the library where I could file a return and put all my information on a public computer! It's like telling a stranger your social security number. The cache might be set to hold everything. And cookies and whatever.
"Hello, Sir or Ma'am. Would you like to steal my identity and all of my routing information?"
I WON'T BE A CITIBANK COMMERCIAL. Or a TAX-IDENITY THEFT COMMERCIAL! OR ANY COMMERCIAL ABOUT MONEY OR THIEVERY!

Face-Eating Monster Baby Overtakes Blog Writer

Spring Shirt
Originally uploaded by xuarrac.

Sure, he seemed innocent enough. Until he pulled himself up on my lap careening for my face. "Aw, he wants to give me kisses." How wrong. Indeed, how foolish I was. His smile deceived me and I was bitten.
My cheek still bears his mark.
Beware this child!

Pimp My Break

Spring Break 2K6.
Aaaaaah ye-ah. Gettin crazy at tha homestead! Me and Momz headed out for a bite round abouts tha California Za Kitchen! What, wha??? Sipping on Ice Tea (not that shiznat from Long Izzzland, fool). All jacked up on caffeine and hummus.
This place is off tha chain!
Seriously.
I spent my day at the church and the mall and the dentist. And tomorrow I get to go back. A follow-up visit to repair some damage in the form of a(nother) cavity. In true SB tradition, I'm thinking of drinking heavily and tattooing myself before the appointment. And then requesting gold-plating because I deserve it and I'm tired of accessorizing.
Teeth, get thee to a fluoride-ery.
One of my dearest high school girlfriends loved the dentist. And she feared butterflies. And she had an appetite like a trash-compactor. Mandy, I have some teeth that need work, but I hate the metallic taste of the drill and I need someone to go in my stead. I will make it up to you by protecting you from winged creatures and feeding you toaster strudels.
Are you available around 9:30 tomorrow morning?

But You Don't Have To Take My Word For It

Please, please read Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
It's in paperback.
This could be my pounding headache or three hours of sleep talking, but I am sure that you will like it. YOU MUST. Because God wants you to*. In the month since I finished it, I have not let the characters leave me. They haunt me like images of a Steve Perry-less Journey**.

*It is just not possible to know whether God does, indeed, want you to like it. But I suspect that God would be pleased to see you reading something at all.
**Not really. The characters are beautiful and flawed. A Steve Perry-less Journey is haunting in a different way. A bad and different way. Just read the book.

You Can't [Donate If You Tell] The Truth [Which, Of Course, You Must]

"Where have you traveled in the last three years?"
"Uh..." [I hesitate. I know, but if I tell her she's going to not let me donate. I tell her anyway.]
"Anywhere outside the resort in Cancun?"
"Tulum."
"Well..."
"What?"
"I'm sorry. Mexican ruins are high risk for malaria."
"But! We didn't even get to the iron! I've been taking vitamins!"
"We have to protect our patients."
"From me? I'm safe. Look! See how safe I am? And how much iron!"
"I'm sorry."
"[mumble]"
"You're not a failure."

Love Handles

In A Pickle
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Apparently grocery bags shouldn't be heavy enough for two arms, unless you have two arms free. Here is my Sharpie interpretation of tonight's massive Pickle Loss. That's right. Pickles died tonight. They sacrificed themselves on the driveway of life. Only their odor remains.

The Passive-Agressive Post

My ever-expanding definition of "douchebag...."
Where should I keep all the, "If I'm ever in this situation again[s]"? In a notebook? On Post-It notes? Tatoos?
I was stuck between two of my selves on Saturday: The Misanthrope and The Customer Server. We were setting up a group formal when a smug man handed me his [cue: disdain] point-and-shoot Sony. With the weight of my own camera and its three-pound lens, I thought about doing some damage to his lower regions. I stood, brows-knit, mouth-gaped, and stared at him for several seconds until I grunted, "yeah." He made sure to tell me not to charge him. I made sure to pass off his camera to someone else, lest I absent-mindedly toss it off the balcony or into the lovely fireplace.

No More Minors...er...Drama

Happy Birthday, Big Girl.
P.S. Thank you, State Legislature, for making sure that my sister does not die from Power Hour festivities.
P.P.S. Thank you, Hornsby Apple Cider, for being in our refrigerator for over a year. You were there for us when we needed you.
And that matters.


Legally
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Along The Same Lines

It will be very difficult for you to keep a straight face when someone comes in to tell you that he has detention for saying "butt plug" very loudly in class.

Adults Speakoutagainst Swearing (A.S.S.) is on to me.

If you tend to spew words like "crapface" when you're working with 11-14 year-olds, their collective silence might be an indicator that you just said something bad.
And then Tony thinks you're calling him "Crapface." Which you're not! You're just saying "crapface" to the air because you weren't thinking about the fact that he has to enter from stage left so that he'll be walking on from the livery and not the library.
And then maybe you're guiding a student through some class notes and you say: "So you have assignments and all this crap."
But it's not because you think biology is crap. Let the record show that you like biology. And Tony.

I Also Read Tea Leaves

I just ate two pieces of Dove chocolate. They are Promises; chocolate with little messages. Both wrappers said, "There is a time for compromise...it's called 'later.'" Significant only in that I interpret things as being "signs" from time to time.
But then the third one said, "Get your feet massaged."
And the fourth one said, "Hey, why not?"
So. I guess the time for compromise is now.
Dammit.

Rude Awakenings

1. Your alarm playing, what you have decided must obviously be, the Looney Tunes theme song. How can this be the first time you've identified it?
2. The water in your bottle tastes like soap.
3. Someone leaves you a voicemail saying, "I didn't know you existed."
4. You call the person back and she tells you again--this time, live--that she didn't know you existed.*
5. [This space reserved for forgetting your keys.]

*I'm sure this one is rude. I don't know if I can be personally insulted. She didn't know. It seems like no. And yet...

If A equals B, and B equals C, then...

He, my erstwhile protector, has come back to me for math help. Yesterday, as we were working on his assignment, he mumbled to himself....

Me: Sorry?
He: I am saying that books just gives you problems.
(pause)
He: When I have a wife, I will tell her, 'You are a math book.'
(pause)
He: 'Math. Book.'

Later...
Me: I can NOT figure this out. I'm sorry.
He: You're having math book.

Stick Shifts and Safety Belts

Matt calls when he's driving. A manual car. On a snowy day. Which is not safety first. Which is my motto.
He says, "What do you think about... A restaurant? We'll call it, "No, You're Not a Loser (Fine Dining for Non-Losers)."

Photo Park

Snow Day Montage
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Whoop that trick. Here, the result of my first vaguely successful and highly monitored Photoshop experiment.

"Snow slows commute, triggers power outages"

I misread that headline thinking that it said "outrages." I would have told the outraged to relax and enjoy a cup of tea.
Other potential headlines:
"Snow makes people whiny and my brakes ineffective"
"Snow slows brain function, response time"
"Snow falls regardless of what we do to stop it"
"Snow begat snow begat furied emails to our Superintendent"

How Can This Be?

My father knows the meaning of the word "crunk."

Opaque Tights and Bootcut Jeans: The Night of Bar-room Music from H-E-Double-Toothpicks

"She's Canadian and we play her song anyway."
[final chord, mild applause]
"Thank you....Thanks, y'all."
[overenthusiastic woman and friend dancing in front of seated patrons stumble toward the stage]
"Can I sing with you?"
(overlapping) "Can she please sing along? She's good."
"I sweartagod I'm good. Seriously. It's my birthday. I'm double curvy."

Our heroines weigh their options:
1. We let Boozy Marmalade sing her birthday tune or
2. We watch her gnat around our microphones until we get violent (resulting in a trip to the emergency room and lawyers office, suing to cover the hospital bills and her emotional damage).

Boozy chooses a Joplin jam. She sings and surfs an imaginary board with her eyes closed. Luckily, "Me and Bobby McGee" has built-in slurring. In fact, Boozy sings pretty ok. Until the second verse when all the words are just a step ahead of her brain. And the next chorus. And the "Nanndnanananananaa--"
Boozy demands applause. "MORE! IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!"
Eyes roll out of heads and onto the floor.
The bar empties.
She, she, she oughta know.

Like You Like What You See

These make me want to dance around and clap my hands (and say yeah).

Tortura: Shakira's Unwritten Verse

Watch American Idol. (This is step one of The Torture, even if you know one of the contestants who is doing so well you could just spit because you accidentally forgot to call in your vote for her last week.) Watch it because you yourself must be put to the test (of extreme boredom and nonsensical spewings of our Idiot Nation) before you subject others.
Tell your sister you have dog jaw. While she's insisting it's called "lock jaw," put her finger near your face. Quickly turn and bark.
Brace yourself for the spray of violence about to hit.

I Yield My Time To The Chair

Nail clipping in public is NEVER ok. In fact, neither is tapping acrylic nails together. Sick.
Let me know if you're interested in co-authoring a bill.
These crimes are punishable by death stares.

Warm Inside

Last weekend I joined a group of high schoolers on a trip to Chalet Paradise [not its real name] up North. We snuggled up to the tv/fireplace with Grey's Anatomy Season One on DVD and we ate store bought cookie dough. (Like you do.) At night we met to reflect on the day's events (namely, the watching and the eating). Matt talked about the many ways in which we try to fill ourselves; we agreed that the [proverbial] table is a place we go to feel full. But as of yesterday we entered Lent, which is a time to be [proverbially and literally] emptied. Now we are emptying [you get the picture] ourselves to be filled [ ] at the other table, the God Table.
My point is two-fold:
1. I love the idea that all of my food-based issues can come back to this one idea--looking to be full, having one central place to be fed, and
2. I understand that there won't be baked goods at God's Table. And that's fine. But let's take a moment to discuss how satisfying it is to eat just the top of a muffin.

Don't Put the Pizza in Point First

"It's not really Fat Tuesday until you've thrown up."

On Your Mark

When I played viola (in the days of yore-when "played" meant "awkwardly held"), we started off with racing stripes as finger guides. True, I've never been very close to a trombone, but I have some very pressing questions. How do people learn to play these? What does the music mean? Spit valves are gross! (That's not a question, but seriously.)
"Ok, little Billy. Extend your arm just a little, now a lot, now the most. You can play other notes, but we don't use markings, so use your imagination. Get to an A flat."

More Years, More Better

Now that I'm an adult, I get to pee whenever I want.

Self-Diagnosing, Self-Medicating

At 2:30 AM in a fit of cough rage, I stumbled around the house looking for something to soothe my sandpapery throat. I landed at the Valentine Altar (are we violating some code by leaving it up this long? There's no Epiphany to remind us that the season is moving back into Ordinary Time. Besides, it really does move right into Birthday Time-another post, altogether). I took a strawberry lollipop back to bed with me, which was Solution Part 1 of 5. Parts 2 through 6:
-Water
-More coughing
-Chloraseptic spray (expiration date 1/2002)
-NyQuil
-Drug-induced sleep

Not A Spoiler

Dear Matt,
I would really like to talk about a certain Grey's Anatomy which you have yet to watch. And I'd certainly hate to spoil the bit about G. O'Malley or George O'M. So if you could just hurry up watch it, then I wouldn't have to tell you about the... WHAT HAPPENS NEXT FOR GEORGE O'M or G. O'MALLEY!
Thanks,
Me

Sljivovica! To Life!

"We lived on a hill so steep we put diapers on the chickens."
Our favorite Buhl residents celebrated 60 years of marriage. Making their grand total of meeting + dating + marriage = 60 years and 2 weeks.
Matt and I spent this weekend sipping Serbian moonshine that burns like battery acid (before meth was meth it was moonshine) and watching old married couples trade stories about their years in the service.
"You never knew who your neighbor would be; you couldn't choose them. But you shared everything."
And they made their own fun at the expense of loved ones. Because... who wouldn't?
The husband who, of his wife, said "there's acres and acres of her, and she's all mine" or the one whose wife had legbraces "from the polio, you know. And when she announced that she had to use the bathroom, he would run and turn on the water. They were a peach of a couple."
Lift your glass and toast with me a congratulations to the bride and groom! May God bless your chickens, your neighbors, your acres, and your legs!

You Don't Say

If there were an American Idol for public speaking, I would apply to be a judge. At the very least, I would watch it and throw jujubees everytime Ryan Seacrest says he's "out."
---------------------------------------------------------
Our Minority Education Partnership released the State of Students of Color report, a book full of data from a local and national level. Take this achievement gap! I can see you and now I will attack you!
Unfortunately, speaking about diversification makes people uncomfortable. Several presenters seemed under tremendous pressure to choose their words carefully. And we were all there for the same purpose: preaching to the equitable-education-loving choir. Still, it led to comments like one pre-service teacher who said, "I took one course on poverty and oppression which really opened my eyes to...for lack of a better word: oppression." For a moment I knew where he was going. Before he derailed, he could have mentioned something about how we as a state and a nation systemically, intentionally under-serve so many of our students and then scapegoat them for, say, our school's failure to make Adequate Yearly Progress.
[sound of my head exploding]

Digital Ephemera

Bitmap Art
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Every year, Poppa sets up a little table with things red and candy-based. I took a few pictures, but Carly's bmp paint version surpasses my photographs.
May I present to you, the best thing I've seen all day...

Haiku to Express Dissatisfaction with The Heat Source

This morning my toes curled up like little shrimp when they touched the bathroom tile. 58 degrees. I offer up some poetry.

Draft One
You stupid furnace
You pile of expensive poo
It is cold here now

Fine, but it's not getting to the root of the problem. The cold is caused by a bad machine.

Draft Two
Our furnace: broken.
Love, space heaters will keep us
Warm in hearts and body, too.

A little too flowery. As if I have feelings. I can see my breath. My limbs don't even have feeling.

Draft Three
Good thing, isn't it;
I don't own a bat or gun.
This furnace would die.

This bowl of violent porridge is juuuust right.