Thanks, Thanksgiving

As I have noted, I am not a holiday person overall. But a days-off person? I am most definitely a days-off person. Give me a day off and I will celebrate just about anything. Let's make next Monday National Pablo Cruise Day and stay home in honor of it. Who's with me?

You don't know who Pablo Cruise is, do you? Sigh. Youth today. Luckily, you have me here to educate you on these most important matters of state.



On the first day of day-off-ness, Nordic Boy and I did a very strenuous day of sitting on our keisters. It went for hours and hours and it was only interrupted by Nordic Boy making us a bruncheon of grilled cheese and tator tots. Have I ever told you about Nordic Boy's god-given talent for making grilled cheese sandwiches? They are the absolute best thing ever. If he didn't have all of his other fine qualities, I think I might still be with him just based on the cheese grilling prowess. It's that good.

Anyhoo, in the evening we got ourselves together and went over to Delium's house for a proper Thanksgiving dinner with a bunch of friends. We contributed a mushroom stuffing type deal to the mix, which we were worried might not turn out ok since it was the first time we tried making it and it was from Martha Stewart and had some crazy mushroom varieties that are not carried at our local co-op from which we shop so we just mixed up some regular old mushrooms and Martha does not take kindly to doing things in a regular old way sometimes. We decided going in that if it sucked, we were going to blame Martha, whereas if it was awesome, we were going to take full credit. Unfair to Martha? Perhaps. But that's ok since she has her humptillion dollars to console herself with.

For the rest of the weekend, I did the following:
1. I went into work for a half day or so which was TORTURE because Nordic Boy was off and I am so not used to leaving the house when he is still there, all pajamafied and cozy. Dang him.

2. Had a whole Thanksgiving dinner gorge-fest all over again with BioGirl and her mom, who is visiting from San Diego and who was all excited that she actually got some use out of her winter coat. Weird Californians.

3. Watched a bunch of movies including Tyson (so not worth the hype), and Volume 1 of the 1960s version of Zatoichi films (nice) and The Great Escape (even better) and Gladiator (eh, it was on tv and we got sucked in) and about 20 minutes of Batman Returns on tv (ouch, Tim Burton, what the heck were you doing?), and The Wrestler (yo, Mickey Rourke is BUSTED UP, you guys), among others.

4. Replaced a bunch of pipes in our laundry room and under our kitchen sink. Now, instead of old decrepit pipes, we have new shiny ones. Hey, it's exciting to us.

5. Read, in its entirety, Prairie Tale by Melissa Gilbert, for which I was truly thankful. I'm not kidding.

Best Thanksgiving Prayer Ever

Happy T-Day, all!

I Want To Go To There

This is the world I want to live in. For real.

Drawn to Each Other

A little while ago, Josh said that he discovered that his lovely bride makes sketches of her outfits on her desk calendar at work and asked if anyone else does that.

It freaked my freak, because dudes! I DO THAT.

Not all the time, not consistently, and it's in my day planner as opposed to my desk calendar. But still. I have an OUTFIT SKETCHING DOPPLEGANGER!

How weirdo is that????



(I have blocked out my day planner meetings and such to protect the names of the persons I work with and the shit I may or may not write about my workplace therein).

Admittedly, her sketches are cuter than mine. Now that I really look at these sketches I see that I have made myself into some sort of faceless rastafarian with no hands. Which is weird.

"If You Want to Destroy My Sweater"*

Lots of things happened over the weekend, some of it good, some of it bad, and some of it ugly.

The Good
Friday night, some of my ladies came over for crafting night. Hopscotch, Biogirl, and other fine and dandy girlfriends came over with knitting, crochet, and embroidery needles aplenty and we got our old lady sewing circle on and shot the shit with wine and brownies and cookies galore. Some of us actually made progress on our crafting projects, while others of us (me and Biogirl) made progress on the food and drinks. So there was something for everyone.


The Bad
Saturday was all shot to hell with illness-related events which no one wants to hear about as it is quite gross so I shall skip right over that except to say that someone near and dear to me spent most of the day near the terlet and I had to be there to care for that person who shall remain nameless but come on, I think you know who I'm talking about. Nordic Boy renamed Saturday our Inconvenient Truth. And yes, our personal truth was very, very inconvenient.

The Ugly
As you might recall, I don't usually get it up for the holidays. Holidays are fine with me in that I love days off from work and spending time with my loved ones, but in terms of decorating and doing traditional things, I just don't feel the need to go there. Biogirl is a staunch celebrater of the holidays, and I have told her that I would be more than happy to de-Grinch-ify myself to the best of my ability so that we can celebrate these things together. On Sunday? Not only did I feel Christmas in my heart, I grabbed it by the balls.

First, we drove out out to the burbs and went to the mall. The crazy, crowded, Christmas-themed mall. Dudes, I don't know what it is since I haven't been in a mall during holiday shopping frenzy season (and yes I know it's early so I probably didn't even experience the half of it) for many years, but that atmosphere can put me in a deep, deep glaze. The music, the decor, the crowds, the hundreds of unhappy people. OY. It's NUTS. However! I was there to get into The Holidays. And get into them I did. How? By finding the brightest, the bedazzledest, the boxiest, most unflattering holiday novelty sweater that I could find.

WHICH I DID.

And Biogirl went there with me. And we bought them, and we love them. Christmas spirit I still might not have, but with this purchase, I think I deserve an A for effort. Right?

Come on, right???


*See what I did there? It's that Weezer song! I am so clever, you really should be in awe of it.

If You Like It Then You Shoulda Put A Frame On It

First of all, I have to clear something up. That icky "she's just 16 years old" song that I was singing yesterday? That is not, apparently, an Eddie Money song. It's some one-hit wonder dude named Benny Mardones. Look at me, besmirching Eddie Money's name like that. I take it back, Eddie!

Ok, now that I have cleansed myself of soiling the good name of a man who only wants us to have Two Tickets to Paradise, I can move on.

Last night, I spent two hours in my car. I know there are many who commute this every day but most of my car rides are 10 minutes or less, or else I am riding the bus or walking or what have you. So after two hours in my car last night, I wanted to cut someone, for real.

First of all, I had to go to this art store to get something framed. Can someone please explain to me why getting something framed is so bleeding expensive? I am willing to be schooled on this. In fact, I really want to be schooled on it, because I need it to make some sense to me. Four pieces of wood around a picture plus a clear covering over the top and this is many many dollars? Really? So far in my life I have actually avoided ever getting anything framed, because Nordic Boy usually will just get the glass cut at the hardward store hisself and make a frame easy peasy for me. But lately he is super busy what with re-plumbing our laundry room and hightailing it to Portland every week so I thought I would go ahead and just go to a frame store. I did my homework by asking around and looking on Yelp! and so forth, so I am confident I did not go to a place that was outrageous (and although it was not exactly near my house-hence part 1 of the Driving Extravaganza- I went to a place that was highly recommended everywhere I looked just in the hopes that I would not be punctured with a new a-hole along with my frame job). But still. Three prints of less than one-square-foot each and it cost me one whole Benjamin. A WHOLE BENJAMIN. A Benjamin and a Jackson, actually. Plus they told me it was going to take them until after Thanksgiving to have it ready. What the WHAT??? Is there some sort of framing craftsmanship that I don't understand? Because I just can't accept this. Well, I can't accept it in theory, because I forked the money over. Which made me feel like a royal chump. With crown and scepter.

Phooey.

At any rate, I got back in my car and started the drive back to my neighborhood to go to the grocery store to get some dinner. While in the car, Nordic Boy called from Portlandia and me being the hands-free cell-phone user that I am, talked to him on speaker while my phone sat snugly on my lap. Then I forgot all about it being there, and when I got to the grocery store I got out of the car and heard a sickening thud. OH MY DEAR IPHONE I HAVE GONE AND KILLED YOU.

Normally, I might have waited to fix my phone, but the thing is, when Nordic Boy is in Portland he calls me, like, a lot. A lot a lot. And if he can't get a hold of me, he pretty much thinks I am dead. The reason for this is not because he is maudlin, but because I have drilled into him after many years together that one of us could die at any moment, especially when we are apart. It's a cheery thing to be around, I assure you, and I know you are so jealous of Nordic Boy right now to have landed a catch such as yours truly. So after the grocery store I drove my phone to the Apple Store (drive drive drive) as if I was on fire and because everyone else in Seattle lives at the Apple Store too they told me that they could not fit me in to see a Genius (and can I just ask you what kind of an establishment is that that deems themselves, individually and collectively, GENIUS? Who are they, Wile E. Coyote or something?) that night. It was then about 7pm, and to think that Nordic Boy would be trying to call me from 7pm until the next day? Not acceptable. So I might have prostrated myself at the feet of the goddamn Geniuses and begged them to help me. Just a little. And they did. So ok, they can be Geniuses, fine.

Then I had to drive to the dry cleaners to pick something up, and then had to go to the co-op. And then my butt grew right into my car seat and I became a Transformer and rampaged through my fair city. BLAH.

In non-grumpy news, my friend Hopscotch is having a baby boy who we have fortunately/unfortunately started to call TimJim. Also, my friend Maddie wrote for The Colbert Report a couple of days ago, which made Nordic Boy and I act as though we had something to do with it, which, you know, we totally did, if by that you mean that we watched and squealed and clapped at the screen and looked at each other with smug faces.

This post is so grand, I think you should frame it.

Why You Should Be Thankful That You Don't Live With Me

I don't know what is going on when I fall asleep each night, but each morning for the past few days I have woken up with the most godawful soft rock oldies hits in my head each morning. And I have sort of loved it.

A few days ago, as I got ready in the morning, I sang to myself:
Some guys have all the luck...some guys have all the pain...some guys get all the breaks...some guys do nothin' but complain...

Nordic Boy: Wow, really? Rod Stewart at 6:30 am?
Me: You knowing what that song is makes me love you all the harder, my friend.

The next morning.
Me: Ya mo beeee there, (up and ovah)...ya mo be there, (up and ovah yah)
Nordic Boy: Why are you singing that?
Me: Why indeed.

The next morning:
Me: You can do ma-gic! You can have anything! That you desire! MA-GIC! And you know you're the one who can put out the fire! Youknowdarnwell, whenyoucastyourspell, youwillgetyourway, whenyou HYP-NO-TIZE, withyoureyes! aheartofstone will turn to clay!
Nordic Boy: Why is this happening to me?

This morning:
Me: She's! Just! Sixteen years old! Leave her alone! They said....
Nordic Boy: NOT THE EDDIE MONEY PEDOPHILE SONG.
Me: If I could fly! I'll pick you up! And take you into the night! And show you a love! Like you've NEEEEVER SEEEN! NEEEVER SEEEEN!
Nordic Boy: I knew there was a line somewhere. And you, sweetheart, have crossed it.

Trips to Portland and Suburbia

Last week, I took a vacation day and went to Portland with Nordic Boy. We arrived late, late on Wednesday evening (ok fine it was 11pm but that is way late for us), singing Journey songs at the top of our lungs the entire way there. It's a good thing we did that because it was most depressing for us to realize that when you drive to Portland at night, you can't get a good look at the Hamiliton Corner billboard, which for those of you that are unaware is a giant billboard along the I-5corridor with a big drawing of Uncle Sam on it and an everchanging string of right-wing batshit crazy written in big block letters, usually having to do with the Mexicans wanting to take jobs away from us including Obama (who is really Mexican, or Kenyan, or just, you know, brown) who is also interested in taking away all the guns that the folks in Real America use in order to defend their homes from the rabid Commie librarians who want to turn all of our children gay by reading them picture books about the two male penguin parents. Is it wrong that I sort of love that billboard? Maybe love is the wrong word. I just look forward to reading what it has to say every time I drive to and from Portland. But at night there are no lights for it so we missed out on the crazy. Rats.

While in Portland, I met an old friend for lunch. He's a friend of mine from high school who I literally have not seen since 12th grade but through the magic of the Faceplace we are all the sudden friends again. I must cop to a small amount of trepidation for this meeting because you never know what a person who knew you in middle school might remember about you that you have totally blocked out about yourself (hey, remember that time you pooped your drawers in Algebra class??). The friendship also has the misfortune of his knowing me starting in 7th grade, when he moved to Flint. 7th grade, can I just tell you, was not my finest hour. It was, actually, my worst hour. I know many of you feel that way about middle school, so I won't get much sympathy. But for me, 7th grade was the year that I pulled a total Angela Chase and dropped my childhood friends for the cool crowd. Dudes, it was GROSS. Luckily I snapped out of that shit by 8th grade but of all the years to make a first impression in my life? Seventh grade would be last on my list.

Luckily, my friend either did not remember this about me or was gracious enough to not mention it, and we had a lovely lunch. I am always amazed at how many cool people I seem to meet everywhere. Aren't cool people supposed to be, like, rare? In my world, they seem to just come out of the woodwork everywhere I go. Perhaps you are thinking that that is because everyone is just cooler than me, so I have a skewed perspective or something, and to that I say an unequivocal WHO ASKED YOU.

Speaking of cool people, Nordic Boy and I then had dinner with the ever-lovely @metaleah that night. She was in town for a museum conference (a librarian crashing the museum world! like a secret agent or something!) and so we went and picked her up from her hotel (in Nordic Boy's company car which this week was a gigantic white pimping Pontiac that was just begging to be donked) and went out on the town. Once again, cool person, in my immediate vicinity. I must have a magnet in my brain or something.

We got back to Seattle in time for a lovely weekend, which included a field trip out to the burbs with BioGirl for a day of getting ridonkulously lost in mall-land. This is not unusual for me (people who plan suburbs, do you not believe in grids? Or numbered streets that actually go in number order? Or sidewalks?) but BioGirl is my go-to guide whenever I need to burb it up. She's like a burb sherpa or something. However, this time, she seemed just as lost as me. Which takes some doing, let me tell you.

Yesterday Neighbor J came over for the day and we just sort of ran our mouths for the entire day. Sometimes I think that if there was such a thing as a conversation contest, Neighbor J and I would be like, the Tiger Woods of that sport. When we lived in the same building as each other, we would talk on the phone for 3 or 4 hours a day. We both had to invest in a headset phone just so we could stay verbally attached while we went about our day.

Finally, last night I watched The Way We Get By. Don't let me stop you from watching it because I thought it was great, but let me tell you it was depressing. It really crushed the everloving hairy Jebus out of me and made me go to the bad place where I just wanted to hug Nordic Boy by the neck and weep about him not dying and leaving me all old and alone with my cats and the headboard of our bed. Never mind that I don't have cats and that you don't know what the headboard reference is unless you have seen the movie. Just watch it, but be warned that you might feel like shit afterward. Wow, how is that for a recommendation? Nice one, LG.

At any rate, to combat the depressing, we then watched Beach Girls and the Monster. Which might qualify for the weirdest double feature ever.

Hope you all are having a loverly Monday!

I'm a Pecker, You're a Pecker

Do you have jokes that have been with you for years and years- so long that you don't even remember what they mean but they can still bust you in two laughing about them?

When I was in high school, my friend Michael and I thought that words that sounded like "penis" but weren't penis-related were funny. As most teens (and some adults, um, you know, like me) do. Like pianist. When we would warm up in choir class we would shout out "where's my pianist? I do believe I have lost my pianist!" and fall over laughing. Another one was peony. We would say things such as "I picked a peony last night and boy did it smell good!" We would slur these words as much as possible so as to make them sound like "peen-ist" and "peenie." Because we were raised to act a fool like that.

Related to this was the fact that Michael used to spend his summers in Georgia, and while there he had a job at the local McDonalds. He would tell us stories about a regular customer, an older gentleman who would drive up to the drive-through daily to get his Dr. Pepper. Only the old coot never said Dr. Pepper. He called it Dr. Pecker. Which, come on, comedy gold.

The combination of the Dr. Pecker thing and the pianist/peony thing somehow- I can't for the life of me remember how or why- resulted in the phrase "I'll have a Dr. Pecker and a small peenie, please!" said in the thickest southern accent one can muster. And we said it CONSTANTLY. I can't think of what type of situation would call for this type of tomfoolery, but we made it work. Heaven forbid you ask us any sort of question about what we would like, or what we would have, or what our preference was on any matter. You would be met with this phrase.

This resulted in the very strange conversation that I had with Nordic Boy this weekend. It happened in a restaurant and I hope to HIGH HEAVEN someone was eavesdropping on us.

Nordic Boy: You know Amy? She got one of those dogs. What are they called? Those small ones?
Me: I don't know. A poodle?
Nordic Boy: No. Fluffier than that. Um. A Peony?
Me: That's a flower, not a dog.
Nordic Boy: Are you sure? Those fluffy dogs? They aren't called a Peony?
Me: You mean a Pekingese?
Nordic Boy: That's it!
Me: A peony...as a dog...that's funny.
Nordic Boy: Well, I was close.
Me: (yelling) I'LL HAVE A DR. PECKER AND A SMALL PEENIE PLEASE!!
Nordic Boy: Wow. Did you just have stroke?
Me: In a sense.

I'm Kind of a Big Deal

I have discovered something today, and it is this. I think I might be an a-hole. And you know what else? If you're my friend, it turns out you might be one too.

Happy Wednesday!

I was reading this post at the Maiden Metallurgist today, where she talks about how oftentimes women take the self-deprecation a bit too far. Like, those "I'm so fat" comments that women say, and so forth. She told all her trusty readers that if they do that, then to stop that shit, and I heartily agree. It was a truly inspiring post and says a lot about why I think she's pretty dang awesome.

However, it also showed me that I am an a-hole.

Why? Let me demonstrate: because she ended the post by asking readers to list, in the comments, three great things about themselves. And many people did, but said it was hard. I didn't list, but not because it was hard. I didn't list because I thought to myself "ONLY THREE? That is way too little, for I am delightful in scads of ways. Scads!"

A-hole. Me. I know.

Granted, I didn't always feel this way. I wrote about it a couple of years ago in one of my favorite posts about when I told some old ladies I went to rodeo clown school, this process that I've been in, especially in my 30s, to own being proud of myself. And it's working out pretty darn good. Practice really does win the day. When I get a compliment, it's super easy for me (now) to say "thanks." And I give myself a break pretty much as a rule. And I can't remember the last time I said "I hate my hair!' or the like. Not because I am better than anyone else. But just because I practiced it, intentionally, for a long time. And then it just started to come natural and I now don't have to think about it nearly as much.

And you know what? If that makes me an asshole, that's cool. I am ok with that. Because the stress I used to put myself through in my 20s? FUCK THAT.

So, instead of a list of why I am awesome, I am going to make a list of some of the reasons why I am able to even think that I could be the slightest bit awesome. Thank Jeebus for the following:

1. My mom, who raised me with good body image and always made me feel smart and pretty and good about my sexuality (yay girly parts!), and who taught me that I never needed to apologize for having a big assertive mouth (you're welcome, America!).
2. My closest friends, who don't put themselves down (which, as I stated above, might make them a-holes too). Since they don't put themselves down, I don't put myself down. Because when someone says "OMG my boobs are so ugly!" what other response is there except to say "your boobs? You haven't seen ugly until you've seen these knockers!" The more I thought about this one the more amazed I am at these friends. Thanks BioGirl, Neighbor J, Hopscotch, Sarah, Alli, Map, Cousin R, etc. You guys are my role models, for shizzle.
3. My Women Studies degree. Oh yes, one of my degrees is in Feminazism. And they beat the shit out of you if you put yourself down or disparage your uterus or what have you. Ok, not really. But kind of.
4. Nordic Boy, who has for many years loved everything about me, including the changing size of my ass and my ever-increasing Granny-liciousness.
5. And me. That's right, me. I deserve some of this credit too, because I, did I mention, am awesome. And maybe an a-hole. Holla!

Doc Octopus on a Plane!

Well there goes another Halloween down the crapper, and there are smashed up gourd innards on the street to prove it.

So: costumes. Let me explain mine to you. First of all, Nordic Boy, Neighbor J, Biogirl and I all think that screaming out "SNAKES ON A PLANE!" is a gutbuster. Hence, we made our Halloween costumes along those lines. BioGirl was an airplane passenger with a snake wrapped around her. Clearly, when you see her you should yell "Snakes on a plane!!!" right? That is totally the thing to yell, right? Or you can also stare at her and say "What exactly are you supposed to be again?" Either one of those responses were heartily accepted.

To confuse things even more, Nordic Boy dressed as an airline pilot and pinned a big photo of a cupcake to his shirt. And I had a flight attendant outfit on and a basket of snacks. Obviously, we were CAKES ON A PLANE and SNACKS ON A PLANE!

Yeah, don't feel bad that you don't get it. No one else did either. But when we thought these costumes up, we laughed our asses off, which is what matters in the grand scheme of things.

Our friends, however, rocked the costumes like you would not believe. People really get into this Halloween thing, did you realize that? I could go on and on about the costumery that I saw Saturday night because it blew my friggin' mind, but let me just tell you about my favorite costume- a kick-ass Dr. Octopus costume. It was SUBLIME. Check it!

COME ON.







R U SERIUS?

I know, my friends are way totally cooler than I am, I am highly aware.