Friday, November 30, 2007

At some point I stopped caring about all of the crap in my old room at my parents' house. I'm not sure when this happened, but it was probably somewhere between my double life in Sonora and a year and a half into marriage. All I know is I used to have these gems in my old room that I was going to come back for some day, when I finally had room for them. I've had room for about a year now, but it finally took thinly veiled threats from my parents to get me in there again. Before venturing in, my dad warned me a couple of things had fallen off my shelves during the last earthquake and broken (and no, they hadn't cleaned them up. Hence, my housekeeping skills) and I sort of shrugged , "OK." They included pots I made in Ceramics class in high school, a gift from a friend who went to Egypt, and Christmas gifts from years past, lying in broken pieces on the floor. And I didn't fricking care. I piled stuffed animals, board games and trinkets no one will want onto the floor and dedicated them to my parents' upcoming garage sale. The only things that hurt a little were the style books and writing guides. I gave those away, too. They're useless junk from a past life, now.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

My favorite diet book (I own many), "When You Eat at the Refrigerator, Pull up a Chair," states that when you continually promise yourself that you will lose weight/eat right/exercise, and continually break that promise to yourself, you are breaking your trust in yourself. Which is why, today, I am feeling extremely disappointed with myself. The book says you should treat yourself with kindness and curiosity. I have trouble with the kindness part, but I am extremely curious as to why -- despite the fact that I am aware that if I continue to eat the way I do and not exercise that I will continue to gain weight and will have to buy even fatter fat pants -- I continue to do what I do.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Sunday, November 25, 2007

I'd been thinking for some time that my mustache hairs seem more noticeable than they used to (ah, the joys of aging), so I cornered my husband in the bathroom the other morning to ask him his opinion on my hairy lip. He looked like a horrified man whose wife has just discovered her "Heroes"-like ability to read minds, which pretty much confirmed for me the fact that I do, indeed, have a mustache and something must, unfortunately, be done about it. Bleach seems to be the easiest method, but I wanted to google it to find out how exactly that is done and if it is an effective method. Results included a site for men who have recently undergone sex changes and this entertaining thread for muscle heads who prefer not to shave:

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Thanksgiving 2007. Cliff:
"Don't get me wrong. One of my best friends was as queer as a three dollar bill. Actually, his name was Bill."
This pretty much sums up Thursday for me.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Neil Diamond has revealed Caroline Kennedy was the inspiration for "Sweet Caroline." Which reminds me, I want Neil Diamond's greatest hits for Christmas. I just love him.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Yesterday I accompanied my husband to an auto cross near Monterey for the first time. The best way I can describe auto cross is as a mainly male sport in which the object seems to be to drive as fast as humanly possible, as though your life depended on it, really. And to also stay inside the cones. Each cone knocked down is a second off your time. Brendan's been wanting to get me to one of these for the sheer joy of watching me freak out on a ride-along, which I agreed to, against my better judgement. I warned him I would probably scream and there was a possibility I would also poop my pants. He didn't seem concerned. After the first screeching turn, I started screaming. My bowels, thankfully, stayed clenched. The car sped ridiculously toward each turn, then skidded and screamed around each bend. Cones met their fate. It lasted 52 seconds. I shakily unfastened my cartoonishly large helmet, wiped away the liquid that had sprung unbidden from my eyes during the ride, and vowed to never, ever, do that again.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

We were watching some Dateline-esque news program -- this particular segment was titled "Sex Bunker." It was about a 67-year-old man from Syracuse, NY, who started abducting young women after his wife became ill and bedridden.
He would keep them in a bunker/basement under his house and rape them every day. Some were captive for years. He did this to five different women before he was finally caught. In interviews later, he mentioned he'd been taking Viagra.
Then during a commercial break, a terribly tacky advertisement for Viagra came on, with a handful of mid-life dudes singing "Viva Viagra," and I wondered aloud whether Viagra was aware that their horrid commercials were airing during "Sex Bunker."

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

My B12 has miraculously bounced back and my doctor tells me my ability to absorb the vitamin is just somewhat inhibited. This means I will not need shots, which is quite a relief. I also do not, for the record, have a thyroid disease, which is also a relieef.
So the lesson in all this is: A steady diet of pastries, Taco Bell and beer does not a healthy body make.
The term "cornhole" comes from a darker day when pilgrims used to wipe their butts with corn husks, according to the book I am reading, "The Omnivore's Dilemma."

Monday, November 12, 2007

I was mulling the oddness of the phrase, "he was hoisted by his own petard," the other day, and decided to look it up. Apparently to be hoisted by one's own petard is to fall into one's own trap, according to Wikipedia, which is a sometimes-dependable source.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Yesterday my dad was entertaining his two young wards in the park, when a large, friendly cat ambled up to demand attention. They pet him for a little while and took note of his name tag, which read "Domino" and had a phone number on it. My dad calls the number but Domino's parents are not home so he leaves a message.

Later that evening as we're all celebrating sister and brother-in-law's joint birthday party, my dad gets a message on his cell phone from Domino's mother, who thanks my dad for calling her and then continues on to explain that Domino "really gets around," and that she's grateful to have him and doesn't know what she'd do without him since her husband is in the hospital. At that very moment, Domino was outside "doing his business" before it was time to come in for the evening. She just wanted my dad to know.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

"When I was a boy, I was told that anybody could become President. Now I'm beginning to believe it."
-Clarence Darrow
courtesy of a bag of mint tea

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

I must suggest you visit this blog, which is basically photos of signs that have really random quotation marks on them. I am pretty sure my journalism friends will appreciate it.
Also on that note, B and repeatedly noticed one of those sign-holder people holding a sign that said "Condo's for sale," and I would always say, "Look honey, there's a condo for sale. Just one. Same condo's been for sale for a while, I'd say!"
Then the other day he called to tell me someone had wised up and removed the apostrophe from "condo's"!
This morning I had blood drawn again, which always makes me feel weaker and more fragile than I actually am, just because I fear the results. 15 minutes later, buying a latte (caffeine habit still strong, I'm afraid) I saw an impossibly slender woman in line and almost cried at the seeming hopelessness of diet and exercise when every pound lost is such a battle for my low metabolism body. Later, at work, I had to smile at an email from a co-worker who started what she's decided to call the Winners Circle Weight Loss Competition.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Ah, here is the somewhat discombobulated diatribe from Sonora that merely mentions my resemblance (is that a word) to the rodeo queen. The rest is pure blather. Is blather a word?

Subject: squash for days

Good evening loyal readers and Happy Belated Father's Day to those dads on the list, of which I think there are at least two, one of whom is my own.
Things have mellowed down a bit as far as strange happenings in Sonora, which is why this letter comes two weeks from the last. Or, maybe I'm just becoming immune.
I did, however, sing karaoke the other night.
My good friend Gen wanted to go eat some tapas at our new hangout, so five of us, including the new intern, Liz, and a new reporter, Josh, ate some tapas and everyone had a little wine, except for me, of course, because I try to live a sober lifestyle.
I've consulted my notes and see that Josh wore a T-shirt that said "I love Mother Goose" on it and another fellow, an ex-boyfriend of our education reporter, Claire, showed up in a shirt that said, "Mujer Rubelde," whatever that means.
Moving right along, some of the group decided to saunter across the street for a little amusement at the Sonora Inn aka Days Inn aka the Victoria Saloon aka that karaoke bar.
Suffice to say that four of us sang the Spice Girls' "Tell Me Whatcha Want." It was a rather embarrassing evening.
The rest of my notes have no order whatsoever, so you'll have to excuse their jumbled nature.
Firstly, I keep cooking the same thing. I shove all my favorite vegetables and some chicken in a wok, stir fry them and eat them with brown rice. I am either too lazy or to stupid to think of something else to make. It's to the point where people at work are making fun of me for constantly bringing in the same leftovers. I'm open to suggestions.
Reminder: My cell phone rarely works over here. It has to be a full moon or something. If you've called me and I never called you back it's not necessarily because I'm an evil, horrible person, although certain people would attest that I am, it's because it sometimes takes two weeks for the cell phone to tell me I have voice mail. So if you want to call me, call my house: 209.588.8504 or work (it doesn't matter that I am at work, please call anyway): 209.532.7151. Or e-mail me because I check my e-mail once a day, usually.
I have a new coffeepot. It's a stainless steel Mr. Coffee no-drip coffee pot, all shiny and pretty, black and silver. It has only two faults. It drips and it beeps. Yes, I did say it is a no-drip coffee pot, but alas. This pot is a hand-me-down from my parents, who shunned it quite harshly because it does, indeed, drip. Every single time. There is no way to make this coffee pot not drip. There is also, apparently, no way to make it not beep. When the coffee is done brewing it beeps loudly, five times. Like a construction truck backing up or something. It's SO annoying.
You've all heard of Gary, Indiana? Birthplace of Michael Jackson? I was reminded of it recently from a news report about the Gloved One going bankrupt (he's not, by the way) and returning to his hometown where they gave him a key to the city or something. Ever seen The Music Man? Matthew Broderick redid the Music Man and there was this HORRIBLE song called "Gary, Indiana." It goes something like this, "garyindianagaryindianagaryindiaaaanaaaaa!" I like to sing it to drive my mom nuts. Just thought I'd throw that out there.
This struck me as funny the other day; Our crime reporter, Amy L. (there's an Amy A.) answered the phone like this: "This is Amy. (slight pause) Aw, shit. Thanks." And then she hung up.
Changing the subject again, my editor Patty told us a friend of hers called some family with the last name Whitehead and asked, "Is this the Blackhead residence?" and the people said, "No." And so the friend said, "Oh, I must have the wrong pimple."
The other day I was in the grocery store and noticed a father and son shopping for beer. The boy was probably 4 years old and the both of them were singing, "Daddy is great! He gives me chocolate cake! Hahahahahaaa!" Now, the hahahahahaaa part is essential. I'm thinking some poor mother somewhere is cursing her ex-husband.
So we know Nick Nolte is nuts. I watched some program about the new Hulk movie coming out that he's in. I guess he showed the director some microscope he's got set up where you can stick your blood under the lens and project it onto a screen on the wall and watch all the cells float around and stuff. He's a certified freak. And he knows it. Because then he said, and I quote, "I am crazy. I'm a liar, too."
Last but not least, I am apparently the spitting image of an ex-Roundup Queen. I've been told this by at least three people. This girl's name is something like Taleeza or Sharooza or Kareema. I can't really remember, except I know it was weird. I am quite curious to meet my cow-herding twin.
Well, breathe a sigh of relief because it's over and you can move along to much more titillating e-mails about stuff like how to lose 300 pounds in 20 days.
Take care,
Maybe I should join the CIA or something, because I apparently look like everyone. Which means I would blend well, right? This weekend Hubs and I were stopped at a light and there was a woman standing on the corner, waiting to cross, and he remarked that she and I looked alike. She didn't look particularly attractive to me and happened to be wearing something I wouldn't be caught dead in: spandex pants. Then yesterday my engineer tells me he met a girl in a bar over the weekend who could've been my sister. I asked him if she was hot and he said she was, hahhaaaa... Then this morning one of the women I work with tells me she thought she saw me at her nail salon, getting my nails done, which I so do not do. There are at least a couple of MOAM impostors out there, confusing all of my friends. One of my husband's friends actually once thought he saw me having dinner at Maggiano's with another man so he took a picture and sent it to my husband!! These women are causing trouble for me! This seems to be a running theme in my life. I've actually written about this before, too, when I lived in Sonora and was told by several people that I was the spitting image of the Rodeo Queen (it's a long story). Methinks I must find the original article.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Even at 96, the notion of romance apparently still flourishes. Brendan's grandmother enjoys explaining to us that her new house-mate, a wheel-chair bound man with a penchant for belching, has proposed to her. Although he was a doctor at one time, she tells us, it would be ridiculous for them to marry. "Not at my age," she shakes her head, wide-eyed.

Friday, November 02, 2007

One of the things I love about my husband is his absolute adoration of all animals, whether big, small, hairy or bare. Among his favorites are cats and donkeys. A few days ago he says he "saved" a baby raccoon that was dragging itself through the parking lot where he works. It may have been hit by a car and its hind legs didn't seem to work. He called animal control, which sent out a pony-tailed hippie-type, who Hubs spent some time talking with regarding the fate of said raccoon. The hippie said there's a good chance the raccoon will be rehabilitated and released back into the wild. Hubs is very proud.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Oh misery of miseries. I've done it again. Waking up this morning, I removed my ear plugs and squinted at the clock to check the time, as is my custom. My near-sighted eyes saw 7 a.m., which equaled me running late. I got up and showered, all the while feeling exhausted and sick to my stomach. I put on makeup. I went back to my bedroom to get dressed. I looked at the clock. It said 3:30 a.m. I looked at my slumbering husband, who was quietly snoring. I repeated his name a few times at full volume so I could share my folly. He didn't wake up and I realized I shouldn't torture him with my mistakes. I crept back into bed. Today will be a long day.