Saturday, February 27, 2010

Consumables #7

The Faces of America series continued to make me cry like a fool.

Good Hair
Not any new information for me here, but it's worth seeing if you don't know about the subject.

It sort of bugged me how they made David Frost seem like an unexperienced interviewer when he kind of wasn't when you watch the real deal. That's my only beef though. Also, I totally forgot about the Diane Sawyer connection to this whole thing. Remember how everyone thought she was Deep Throat for a while there?

The Examined Life
I saw it in the theater and then I rented it to watch over again. SO WHAT.

The Healthcare Summit
Made me want to tear my hair out, for reals.

I had a long conversation with my friend Sarah yesterday, about forgiveness. Pro: It was insightful. Con: It resulted in my having that Don Henley song in my head for the rest of the day. Why, Don, why did you have to do that?

To get it out, here's a little ditty from Animal Collective.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

In which a bird says "Welcome to spring"

It seems like every year, Seattle has a Great Spring Fakeout right in the middle of February. All of a sudden, after weeks and weeks of drizzle, mist, fog, showers, and other gray spit from the sky, there always comes a day or two of bright blue skies, 60 degree temperatures, the whole kielbasa.

This past weekend was this year's Fakeout. My yard was busting out all over: crocuses, camelias, daffodils, morning glories- they all opened up their faces and smiled at the sun. It's a good thing too. The rain has started to get to us. Whenever we go out into the rain these days I can't stop myself from saying "What a world! What a world!" (And I must say, as an aside, that when Nordic Boy knows what that quote is from and responds appropriately with "Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?" it makes me love him all the more).

Never one to miss a good Spring Fakeout, Nordic Boy and I put on our grubby clothings and went outside to frolic in the yard. If, by frolic, you mean that we pulled weeds and raked dead leaves, that is. If you recall, in the past I have had a less than cheery disposition about my yard, mostly due to its overgrown, untamable nature when we bought our house. Think of it this way: our yard was the planty equivalent of a house on Hoarders. And who wants to try and clean up that sort of mess? It's overwhelming to say the least. Over the past few years, we have toned down our front yard from the mess of our predecessors and now it actually looks, well, maybe not great, but it looks fine. (Well, our front yard looks fine. The backyard is still a horror movie). And now that the front yard looks fine, the upkeep is actually pretty non-back-breaking. I am fond of things that are not back-breaking.

So yesterday, when it was fake spring, I was actually not-overwhelmed-with-a-touch-of-irate when Nordic Boy suggested we go out and clean up a bit. I was actually happy about it.

Nordic Boy started pulling some weeds on our rock wall slope, while I started raking up pine needles from under our gigantic cedar tree. This tree is easily 40 feet tall if it's an inch, and standing under it, raking up needles under filtered warm sunbeams? NICE.

Until a bird dropped a turd right onto my forehead.

I have never had a bird poop on me before. Have you? It is, perhaps not surprisingly, not pleasant. THANK JEEBUS it didn't drip down near my eye or I might have just had to scream bloody murder.

Oh, who am I kidding. Even though it didn't drip, I still screamed bloody murder. Or should I say poopy murder?

Nordic Boy came racing over because he probably thought that I had raked my leg off accidentally or something, the way I was carrying on. He wiped it off for me (because apparently I freeze into inaction when pooped on), checked the rest of my head and shoulders for other signs of birdie defecation (will we never stop finding new definitions of love?) and called it all clear. I then went into the house and scrubbed my face/forehead. Because dudes. POOPED ON.

My enthusiasm for working in my non-messy yard would not be deterred, however. I went back outside and continued my work, albeit far away from the scene of the crap. And not twenty minutes later? Um, pooped on AGAIN.

I swear to god this bird was being a dick to me. Like, on purpose.

Has this ever happened to any of you? Double stuff poopage within the span of a half hour?

Despite that, the afternoon was lovely, as was the whole weekend. Nordic Boy and I are making progress toward re-routing the water in our kitchen in preparation for a new dishwasher, I co-threw a baby shower for my dear friends Hopscotch and Rambo on Saturday night (and didn't make anyone play any games which was mainly due to the fact that my party-throwing cohost and I couldn't think of any non-excruciating ones, but then when there were no games people throughout the party kept giving me undying gratitude for it so I felt like a hero by default), and I walked around without a coat on for the entire weekend which makes me unreasonably happy.

So to recap: pros of the weekend were successful party-throwing, sunshine, and plumbing progress. Cons were getting shat on by a feathered friend, twice. On the face. I am choosing to still call this a great weekend.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Consumables #6

Faces of America
It's genealogy, and it's PBS, and to some this might be enough to want to stab one's eyes out but to me it's completely awesome. I talked about it with some friends of mine and I was sort of scared about how disconnected and uninterested they were about their history. How can people think it's ok to not grapple with this stuff, good and bad? What's that you say? Because they are not nerds? Oh shut up.

Oprah scaring us about John Wayne Gacey all over again
Sometimes when I come home at night and Nordic Boy is not home, I put the tv on for some background noise just while I get in my jammies, wash my face, and put my hair in a ponytail. Just for a few minutes. Oftentimes I go to what's on my Tivo Suggestions list for this. The other night, Tivo suggested that I watch Oprah. Oprah was talking about scary clown serial killer man. Which is so not what I want to hear when I am home by myself. Damn you Oprah.

This is a documentary that is a sort of high stakes Project Runway, where fancy people like Anna Wintour create a fashion design contest in order to support young designers. When I saw it on the Netflix, I was oh so excited to watch it. I loaded it up and then let it sit in my queue all juicy-like, where it waited for days until I had the time for a viewing. When I finally started it, I realized that I had totally seen this before. Which is ok- I mean we all watch movies over again sometimes, right? But in this case, I thought I had something new to watch. This is what happens when I forget my Ginko-Geritol cocktail.

9 Songs
I had heard about the controversy surrounding this movie (unsimulated nasty business in a mainstream film!) but all I knew about it was that it had the nasty business and some live versions of songs in it. There had to be more in it than that, right? Turns out, not so much. There's humpification, interspersed with concert footage and literally that is all there is. Oh, and some brief scenes of the male lead tramping around on a glacier, because love is COLD, people. It's GLACIAL AND IMPENETRABLE LIKE THE ARCTIC. OOH SO DEEP MOVIE GOERS. Next you are going to tell me that love is a battlefield, like that is new news. To this I say: meh.

The Hurt Locker
Perhaps you have heard that the director of this is the ex-wife of the man who made Avatar? Have you? Have you heard it? Don't you want to hear it, over and over again, in a never ceasing loop? Don't you want all entertainment media outlets to talk about it incessantly? Because these two people! They made movies! And they used to be married! MARRIED, I SAY!

Lastly, Emo covers of Ratt are fun.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Orange you glad I didn't say knock knock?

The other day, after helping a kid at work find a book of knock-knock jokes, witnessing his glee, and then wondering to myself about the continued popularity of knock-knock jokes, I, being the cutting-edge sort of lady that I am (after all I am just now seriously contemplating getting rid of my paper daily planner in favor of Google Calendar because I live in the future where android chefs make Smores out of little pieces of motherboard) decided that knock-knock jokes were just a little too antiquated and I was just the person to update them.

Me: Don't you think knock-knock jokes should be updated?
Nordic Boy: Like how?
Me: I don't know. They seem so outdated. At the very least, you should be able to start them out with a doorbell instead of a knock.
Nordic Boy: That would make a difference how?
Me: I don't know. But it's more fun to start it out by saying "DING DONG" and then the other person saying "Who's there?" Rather than "knock knock."
Nordic Boy: But then technically I guess people have peepholes now, so they don't have to say "Who's there?" at all.
Me: Oh never mind.

Since we had this conversation, I have diligently tried to integrate the BRAND! NEW! knock-knock joke into our household conversation. When things get quiet around our house, I will try it out. "Ding dong!" I'll say. Without fail, Nordic Boy will keep on reading/cooking/fixing stuff/sudoku-ing. Nothing, no response. Granted, I am prone to babbling weird things in his presence (even though I do not ever babble weird things when I am alone, so psychoanalyze that one), so me shouting out "Ding Dong!" is not out of the realm of possible idiocy that I might say. And if he doesn't remember the Update the Knock Knock Joke Campaign, then why would he say anything in response to my outbursts? In polite society, someone shouting out "Ding Dong!" does not warrant a response. Clearly.

Finally, I was at the end of my ding dong rope.

Me: Ding dong!
Him: (silence)
Him: (silence)
Him: Oops! I forgot! Sorry.
Me: (sigh)
Him: Maybe no one's home. Have you ever considered that?

Since then, no one has ever been home. Isn't that weird? Maybe they're on vacation.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Happy Presi-Tines Day

I had this totally exhausting phone conversation the other day that lasted for hours and was way too emotional (I AM TOO LAZY TO BE THAT EMOTIONAL FOR MANY HOURS), and since it happened, I think that I just might be all out of words. So if you know me in real life, and you talk to me or ask me a question, and my only response is to say BLAH BLOO BLEE BLAH* to you, just nod and smile.

So let's just see what sort of blog post I can manage to string together. Let's just hope there are words involved, and that they make a modicum of sense.

Ooh, good sign. I used the word "modicum."

But what to write about? I could tell you that I spent my President's Day on a walk. The whole day, pretty much. I walked out of my front door and I just picked a direction and I walked for hours and hours. I walked so much that I could barely get myself home. And goddammit, I didn't think about the Presidents once, not even for a moment.

I could tell you about how Nordic Boy and I have attempted to watch The Olympics but have discovered that watching The Olympics is like Sominex to us. Give us Bob Costas and a carefully edited sappy athlete bio, and we will be in dreamland faster than you can say giant slalom.

Or I could tell you that I know I forgot to do my weekly Consumables post last week, but that I watched My Brother's Keeper, and Letters from Iwo Jima, and Food, Inc. Because, you know, that's a cheerful trifecta.

Or I could tell you about how I spent Valentine's Day. There were no presents or cards or chocolates or whatever it is you're supposed to do on that day (well, except for the gigantic Hallmark number that was apparently dipped in a glitter bath that we got from my mom who is incapable of sending me cards without a glitter crust on them, god bless her). We spent much of the day in the hardware store (Nordic Boy's true love) and the only Valentiney thing that happened was that I broke out into a hardware-store-inspired serenade on the way home wherein I sang Peter Cetera ballads with a plumbing or insulation theme ("You're the meaning in my life! You're my IN-SOOL-AY-SHON! You bring heating to my life! You're my IN-SOOL-AY-SHON!")

I could write about the dinner I had with BioGirl and my other friend H on Friday night, and how I interrupted our funny conversation about scary movies (which is scarier? Serial killer movies or paranormal movies?) by starting to talk about actual mortality and how that is actually the thing that scares me the most. I mean, aren't we all just afraid of dying? Or our loved ones dying? Isn't that what's scary? I thought it was interesting. Turns out it was just creepy. And it made my friends look at me weird. And stopped the conversation dead for a second. Ha ha, get it? DEAD.

Or I could just say this:

Yeah, let's go with that one.

*This phrase patented by Life of a Lovechild, for which I am eternally grateful.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Give it away, give it away, give it away now

One of Nordic Boy's nicknames for me is "Get Rid of It." Librarian "Get Rid of It" Girl. That's because I, for some reason, constantly want to be giving things away. I think there might just be a small part of me that would not mind living in a house that had no furniture, no pictures on the walls, no books, no possessions whatsoever. Perhaps my true calling is to live as a cloistered nun (except for the pesky organized religion and that whole no sex thing). Or in a padded cell, more likely. I am not proud of it. As a matter of fact I am a bit weirded out by myself on this one.

So whenever there is a question about something being kept, or given away, I will most certainly vote to get rid of it. Nordic Boy and I got into a whole discussion last weekend because when he went grocery shopping, he decided to buy two of everything that was not produce, so that we would have an extra one on hand. When I saw the cupboard contents, I was all "TWO CANS OF PINTO BEANS? THAT'S NUTS! WHY WOULD WE EVER NEED TWO CANS? ARE WE HAVING A DINNER PARTY?"

Do you have those things that you know, even as you are saying them, that you are being totally weird and crazy, but yet you can't stop yourself? Yeah.

I have figured out, in my typical navel-gazing way, many of the reasons why I love to Get Rid of It. It is multi-layered and I shall save most of it for people who know me and love me already and have to listen to my nonsense unconditionally. However, I was thinking about one aspect of this that I thought might be of interest to you, as it will result in your being able to laugh at me, which is something that must be blogged about according to my blog bylaws.

I was brought up to be overly gracious about receiving gifts from people, no matter how weird and hideous the gift was. I was expected to not only be thankful for the gift, but to also use the gift. No immediate re-gifting allowed in my house. Not that that was an overt rule or anything. It was one of those unspoken things I learned. Not being thankful for a gift and not using a gift was just not done. So when I was a young adult in my late teens and early twenties, I started to realize, epiphinany-style, that I didn't have to keep and use crap that I didn't want. I learned that I did not need to be the Statue of Liberty of gift-receiving, and that I did not have to welcome the tired, poor, huddled masses of Precious Moments figurines and Santa Bears that people wanted to give me. Really, it was kind of a big realization. I could still be thankful for the gesture, but not have to keep the stuff.

This is where you are welcome to chime in with a collective "No Shit, Sherlock" if you feel the need.

Let's get to some examples, shall we? When I was in middle school, I loved classic movies just as much as I do now. My geriatric movie tastes started young. One summer, I had seen "Some Like It Hot" oh maybe three million times. That same summer, my best friend's mother thought it would be a nice gesture (it was), to get me a poster of Marilyn Monroe in a sexy dress. And although I loved Some Like It Hot, I really didn't need or want a big ass poster of Marilyn Monroe on my wall. No matter. I put it up. That same summer, my sister decided it would be funny? nice? a good idea? to buy me a lifesize cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe. I ask you. Why would anyone want a lifesize cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe? I know, some people want this. But I didn't. Still, I propped that sucker up right next to my bed and left it there.

You know something? Those dang presents are still in my childhood bedroom at my parents' house to this very day. Because YE SHALL NOT REBUKE PRESENTS LEST YOU BE SMOTED. Smoted? Smoten? Smotified?

This was par for the course for me (look at me, using the golf talk like an asshole) growing up. The other day, I was emailing with a friend of mine from high school, and she sent me a funny picture of the two of us in 9th grade, when we dressed up like "nerds" for Halloween. The picture of us is funny, it's true. But the thing that slapped me in the face about the photo? Well, you go ahead and take a look.

Dudes, that huge poster on my bedroom door? THE GIANT HEAD OF BRUCE WILLIS.

Listen, no offense to Bruce Willis. I know that he is a big star and that people buy and love posters of him. But I can say with unequivocal certainty that there was never a day in my life where I thought that I needed a Bruce Willis ANYTHING. I have never seen Die Hard in my life. In fact, I don't think I have ever seen a Bruce Willis movie. Wait- there was that gangster one with Matthew Perry. But other than that- nada. I did watch Moonlighting with my parents when I was a kid, so ok, there was that. But truly, Bruce cannot count me as one of his fans. And yet- there he is, on my door when I was 14 years old. And do I have to tell you why?

Someone gave me that poster as a present.

I swear to you, if someone had given me a photo of a bird turd, I would have framed it and put it up.

Now do you see where the rebellion comes from? Why I am so adamant about not having shit that I do not want? And let me just say this in as Life Coachy of a way as I possibly can: I am telling you that once you start down the path of accepting things into your life that you don't want there, once you start settling, that path can only lead to bad things. Like Bruce Willis wallpaper on your bedroom door.

And also, let's all pretend we didn't see that giant Swatch clock on my wall, shall we? That one I bought myself.

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Ly's Donuts

Oh blog, wherefore do I neglictify thou so verily?

In my world lately:

I went to a party this weekend, and it was actually fun. Sometimes, I think that parties sort of sound fun in theory, but then it ends up being me standing around with a drink in my hand wondering what to say to all the people that seem to know each other so much better than I do. But this one rocked it. My friends Sarah and Craig, who are, when set up on an objective and precisely calibrated awesomeness scale, basically blow it up because they are so awesome, had a party for their 30th wedding anniversary. Sarah and Craig are the couple that I look at more than any other that I know and think: I hope that Nordic Boy and I are loving it up like they are when we are in that stage of our lives. They are just so good together, and they are so active and fun, and laugh a lot, and respect each other and help each other and support each others' independence, and they are always trying new things. It's such a beautiful thing to be around. Nordic Boy and I just adore them to smithereens.

I have nothing witty or silly or funny to say about that. They are just the tops, and that's that.

In other news, there is this donut shop in the University District here in Seattle. It's called "Ly's Donuts." The other day, Nordic Boy was referring to it and accidentally called it "Here Lies Donuts." I don't know what it was, but that just about busted my guts, I thought it was so funny. Like, I laughed so hard there were tears. Since then, we have come up with an entire marketing campaign for Here Lies Donuts, which has a cemetary theme. The sign will be a tombstone that reads "D.I.P."

That's for "Dip in Peace." Get it? Instead of Rest In Peace?

Whatever. It's funny to me.

Most of my other news is work related, and let's be honest, no one gives a shit about that.

So, to answer my initial question about why I neglect my blog? I think we all have an answer for that now, don't we?

Friday, February 05, 2010

Consumables #5

This week's standouts!

The Up series
This has nothing to do with Pixar or balloon aviation. This is the Up documentary series, which is a big hoopty deal in documentary land. The first one is shot in 1964, when all of the subjects are 7 years old. They are interviewed about their lives. Then every 7 years after that, the filmmakers find the kids again and interview them about their lives all over again. So you see the same kids at 7, then 14, then 21, all the way up to middle age. I had never seen the last one, so I went ahead and rewatched them all. That's just how I do.

Grammy Awards
Now that P!nk went and sang a ballad while flipping herself around on a sheet and dunking herself in water and spinning like a sprinkler, no one ever has an excuse to lip sync, like, ever ever again.

Ugly Betty
Cancelled! Dang.

Detroit Metal City series
A strange manga series about a mild-mannered singer-songwriter in Tokyo who also fronts a death metal band incognito and who has all sorts of moral conflicts about it. I picked it up because I thought it was going to be a comic about Detroit. Go figure.

Nouvelle Vague
French bossa nova cover versions of Depeche Mode, Talking Heads, Joy Division, etc.? Hells yes, please.

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Ain't Nothin' But a Groundhog

When I was in 11th grade, I was dating this dude. Well, dating. I don't know- that's a strong word. We didn't really date in high school. Either you were hanging out with a boy for a while and kissing (and perhaps other things), or you were Boyfriend and Girlfriend. When I was in high school, the couples that were bonafide couples seemed like they were friggin' married. Seldom did my friends or I venture into Boyfriend and Girlfriend land (or Boyfriend and Boyfriend land, as the case may be). Even if we were seeing/dating/getting physical with boys, I can't recall any of my friends calling anyone they were seeing a Boyfriend. That was sort of beyond us.

Anyway. I was "seeing" this dude in high school, which for a while mainly consisted of lots of flirtatious phone calls, and note writing, and conversations in gym class. And one day, after school, we kissed. And people? I had kissed boys before, but there was some sort of weird lining-up-of-the-planets in my hormones or something that day, because that kiss knocked me out. Heck, it was a kiss that was so good it nearly knocked me UP, if that were possible. It was like up until that point I was making out with boys in a "this is kind of nice" sort of way, and then this kiss was my first inaugural AAH-OOH-GAH kiss, where the Barry White music started to play in my mind and it was ON. So although it wasn't my first kiss, it sort of was. It was the first time that kissing seemed super delicious and sexual to me.

And that happened on Groundhog Day.

For the next few years, every time Groundhog Day would roll around, I thought about that. What a weird, weird way to commemorate a day about rodents, right? After a few years, I sort of forgot about it. Yesterday BioGirl and I were talking about Groundhog Day, and it made me re-remember my romantic Groundhog Day in 11th grade when that cute boy and I made out like we had struck gold in the Yukon. I've never been a big Valentine's celebrator, but maybe that's because my February heart belongs to Groundhog Day.

So, Happy Groundhog Day, everyone. It's a great day to suck face, take it from me.

Monday, February 01, 2010

Pillow Talk

Lately, our bed frame has been squeaking (keep it clean, everyone, keep it clean).

It squeaks on Nordic Boy's side. A lot. A whole friggin' lot. Even if he turns over at night, it's all SQUEEEEEEEK. And I am all SHUT UP BED. And then the bed is all YOU SHUT UP. SQUEEEEEEK.

It has started to drive me crazy.

The other night, I told Nordic Boy, who can sleep through a cymbal-player's convention, that he needed to fix the dang squeak. (And it is only now, as I am typing this, that I realize just how much I take for granted that Nordic Boy can and will fix whatever I deem fixworthy, and who never ever says to me, as he probably should, FIX IT YOSELF, ARE YOUR ARMS BROKE?).

Anyway. So before we went to bed, he pulled the mattress off for a preliminary look. He did some of his magic, and the squeak went from alarmingly squeaky to timid. Now it is barely a squeak at all.

Since it was after midnight and Nordic Boy hasn't been feeling so well, we called it good enough for now, and we went to bed. As we drifted off to sleep, this is what we said.

Me: It's almost gone. But not quite.
Him: Yeah, I'll fix it tomorrow.
Me: You think it'll be an easy fix?
Him: Yeah. I just have to oil up the nuts.
Me: (snort, giggle)
Him: Oh geez.