Atonement: The Game That Everyone Can Play!

Photo: Grapple-flavored.

















With Yom Kippur happening on Thursday, it's time to figure out our schedule for repentance, people. For all of you non-Jews out there, Yom Kippur is a holy day centered around what I generally think of as 'Catholic-sized guilt'. IRONICALLY. Basically, you repent and atone for the things you have done, which is pretty handy, since it's only one day. I'm not actually Jewish, but one day of atonement seems more reasonable than a lifetime of confession that ultimately goes nowhere. Well, sometimes it leads to the molesting of a child, but whatever--I'm just saying. You don't hear a lot of scandal coming out of the Yom Kippur holiday. People are too busy feeling bad about themselves.

I think it's weird that God's Chosen People, the Jews (Possible Jewish bumpersticker: My best friend is a Jewish carpenter who's on the Honor Roll and has the power to make you burn in Hell) and God's Righteous Army, the Catholics (Possible Catholic bumpersticker: Baby On Board, YES AGAIN) have something they actually agree on, something that levels the playing field a bit: GUILT. I know that Jewish mothers are known the world over for laying guilt upon their children like hens lay eggs, but the Catholic moms are making a comeback. I know some mother-daughter relationships that are founded on the tenets of guilt and expectations; I also know who and what those daughters are doing on the weekends in order to balance out their mothers' expectations: Jose Cuervo shots and the UW football team. Hey, it happens to the best of us.

I don't have guilt--ever. Like, NEVER. You know how some people are all rough and tough and talk a good game, but secretly they hate themselves and feel guilty for a lot of stuff? Yeah, not me; not in the slightest. I know that guilt is a cop-out emotion, as well as being the most pointless thing to ever emerge from religion. I feel no guilt. Anytime someone says to me, "Oh but I feel so guilty about that!" I laugh, because guilt is actually very self-serving; it's a dangerous emotion. Here's how it was explained to me, many years ago: If you need a pen for a meeting, and you run into an office supply store for one--but the lines are super long and you don't have time to wait, so you just steal it--it's okay, because you feel guilty. You aren't the "type of person" who would normally do something like that--as evidenced by how guilty you feel--so therefore you can feel good about yourself again. No harm done. This? Is total bullshit. But take the phrase "stole a pen" and substitute something else--"cheated on a boyfriend", "called in sick to work so I could enjoy the sunshine", "committed country-wide genocide". It's all the same: you feel guilty so that you can actually feel the opposite. This kind of thinking is a colossal waste of time. I don't atone, either, because I don't think much about flaying myself in front of others just to get my so-called reward some eighty years later. But I do think about things like regret sometimes, and regret and guilt seem like friendly bedfellows. So last night I made a list of the things I most regret--the things I feel I might atone for, had I been more religulous. Thank you for being my witnesses to this list, and for not judging me in my time of need.

Snotty atones for...

STEPMOM (1998)

I loved this movie. I LOVED IT. And make no mistake, I cried like I'd been the one diagnosed with cancer, I really and truly did... but there's no way I could have met my maker with the grace that Susan Sarandon did in this movie. I related to Julia Roberts' character, too, because Susan Sarandon's character was a straight-up cancerous bitch sometimes; I hated how they blamed each other for so much, I really did. I felt like I was a part of that family, just torn in two different directions. I even felt Ed Harris' exasperation when he didn't know what to do with all of the crazy women in his life--I wanted to help the family so that together, we could dance around on Christmas Day to cheesy Diana Ross songs, right before Susan Sarandon kicked the bucket. I can't believe I fell for this movie and I can't believe I'm admitting it on the internets. The last time I watched it, I SOBBED MY FACE OFF and ended up resembling a Mr. Potato Head with nothing stuck to his face; I was just a brown, weepy THING with no distinguishable features. I've also seen this movie around five hundred times; each time I hoped it would mean less to me, and each time I was so very, very wrong.

TAKE MY BREATH AWAY (Berlin)

This is a horrible song. Horrible. But every time this song is blasting out of some ugly old guy's bitchin' Camaro, I sing along. I SING. ALONG. I'm not proud of it, but Maverick and Goose made an impression on me at an early age in Top Gun, and if you don't know what Top Gun is, then you have something to atone for, or you're too young to be reading this blog. There are worse things to love, though. Miley Cyrus. The Republican ticket. Hybrid fruits, like grapples. Ex-husbands. The fashion of Mariah Carey. Iran. But still, that song is redonculous.

MCDONALD'S FRENCH FRIES

I know I'm not supposed to love them or dream about them or rub them all over my naked body, I know this. But that doesn't stop me from doing it. I was actually quite angry when they stopped frying them in animal fat--which is just another phrase for 'delicious goodness'--and then started frying them in, uh, animal fat. Andthengotcaught, OOPS! Oh, McDonald's, you stinker, you. Now I don't agree with their business practices, lying to the public, or Grimace--what the hell is that thing, an overweight Fruit of the Looms character? a gay grape? and why would McDonald's name it after something negative your face does involuntarily?--but I understand that I'm completely condoning their behavior since I keep supporting the business financially. I'm okay with that, but I should probably repent, because I am never going without those fries. You can take away my booze and cigarettes and illegal dog-fighting ring, but you cannot take away my Freedom French fries or my right to choose. I am PRO-CHOICE when it comes to my fries.

The King of Brobdingnag

Photo: Do not get stuck behind this man.










The month of October is a good one for music, apparently. Last Saturday, a group of us hit the Mates of State and Santogold show, which was very good. I'm not a big Mates of State fan, but they were interesting--more 'indie' than I'd imagined. Santogold, however, exceeded my expectations; I didn't know if she could represent in real life--she has an edge to her voice that toes the 'whiny' line sometimes (think Gwen Stefani meets M.I.A.), but her show was pretty cool. Her back-up dancers, though, were outstanding; they made me re-think all of my priorities (maybe I could be a back-up dancer, too!), but since I only have the one priority--my daily quest for bacon--I didn't have much to re-think. New priority as of today: find more priorities, ones that don't include a dead animal, and maybe get a job. Plus, the dancers had shiny-gold, billowing M.C. Hammer shirts that took me back, WAY WAY BACK, back to a day when I was too legit to quit.

Last night we took Whoreleen to The Presets/Cut Copy show for her birthday, and a rocking good time was had. I have to say, I'd been waiting for this Cut Copy show forever, but it was the opening band, The Presets, who showed up and delivered the most memorable performance. All of their songs have this driving beat that makes you want to shake some ass and throw out a hip; they're dark, fun, energetic, locomotive. The first song (embedded here) kicked off the dance party vibe, and that feeling never fizzled out. The Presets sound a bit like The Killers, but more gay, if you can imagine anything gayer than The Killers. Sum 41, maybe. Toby Keith, for sure.



Other feelings that stayed with us throughout the night:

BURNING RESENTMENT, mostly at the embarrassingly drunk Russian whore dancing on top of us the entire night. I'm very aware of the Russian Sex Kitten "stereotype", but since I've never met a Russian woman who has ever broken that stereotype, I'm just going to say she was your typical female Russki. Add to that fourteen gallons of alcohol and her faux self-confidence, and you have this: a Marilyn Monroe-wannabe doing upright lap dances on the four men around us, testing out her wobbly burlesque moves in between buckling and falling into us repeatedly. Watching her dance was like being trapped in a Nagel print, or like DYING, OVER AND OVER AGAIN. As much as I enjoy hookers and alcoholics and badly-executed lap dances (OH GOD HOW I LOVE THEM) this mail-order bride was one sexy dance away from getting her teeth knocked out by my incredibly-patient Fist of Rage.

EYE-ROLLING DISBELIEF at the TWELVE-FOOT TALL JACKASS WHO STOOD RIGHT IN FRONT OF US. After securing our spot in the center, about four rows back, and standing there for an hour, along comes Douchey McDoucherton who plants his tree trunk of a body right in front of us, completely blocking the stage from Whoreleen. Normally, I'm okay with looking around the person in question, because everything gets shifted when you're dancing; NOTHING was getting around this dude, not light or sound or hopes or dreams. As Whoreleen said, 'Can't he just take one for the team and always stand in the back at shows?' You can't choose your ancestry or genetics--he can't do much about descending from a line of Jolly Green Giants--but being a total asshole is a CHOICE. And standing directly in front of a short girl when you are Brobdingnagian is a dick move, dude. Too bad about your face and your height and your whore of a Russian girlfriend, but next time, be a gentleman.

UNFUNNY IRONY at running into the people we've been avoiding. Happens every time. It happened to Whoreleen and also to me; the exact second you think, 'I hope ****** isn't here,' they show up with an entourage, looking smug and thin and adorable. I wish there was a better way to deal with this scenario, but I felt our solution--joining the Witness Protection Program and moving to Mexico--was the most mature solution we could come up with at the time. I wonder when my knee-jerk reactions will rise above a junior high level, if ever. Sometimes I'm actually amazed that I'm in my thirties, because usually my attitude is something like Eeyore meets Mr. Grumpy meets Death Row.

The Cut Copy show was awesome, but we were so tired (translation: old, old, and old) that we ended up sitting down for the show; between her cramps and my tired feet and his worn-out back (they are both UNDER 30, by the way), the three of us were quite the ball of youthful energy. Cut Copy started out the show very mellow, but it ended in a gay man's dancing paradise, crazy light show and all; the light shows for both performances were sweet, although I wonder how many Vietnam vets were traumatized by it. I'm excited for the Fujiya & Miyagi show coming up at Neumo's on the 28th--if anyone is interested in tagging along, get a ticket! The more, the better--and hopefully that giant walking telephone pole won't be there.

So a Happy (BELATED) Birthday to Whoreleen, and also to Bennannerammadingdong (that is his actual name in my cell phone--it barely fits), who turned 30-something this week--I'm glad y'all were born to keep me company at great shows filled with awful people. <3>

The Presets: sound only, no vid

I Have a (Cake) Dream

Photo: Great wedding cake.

So I woke up the other morning and decided I was going to be a baker of cakes. Wedding cakes, to be exact. This kind of split-second decision-making isn't new to me--one day I woke up and wanted to go to beauty school, so I went; same thing with becoming a parent, vegetarian, lesbian, librarian, Buddhist, event planner, college student, wife, ex-wife, blogger, and country music lover. I just woke up one day and thought, this is the direction I'm going in. Didn't always pan out, but sometimes it did. I don't claim country music as my genre, because New Country music is crap, pure and simple--if any of you want to defend Toby Keith or Taylor Swift to me, then I suggest you and your inbred clan prepare for a verbal Armageddon from Yours Truly, and MAN UP, Waco-style. You probably believe in The End Days, though, and are already prepared; thank heavens you have a wealth of Christian-driven country drivel to remind you of the end of the world. That's what I always look for in a song: a twangy reminder of my inevitable demise. But while I was actively hating New Country music, I discovered my undying love for the old school stuff: Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Conway Twitty, Beryl Harrell, The Aaron Sisters, Tanya Tucker, Red Thompson... oldies but goodies. So loving country music wasn't a total wash: I came away from the experience thinking it was positive. That's how I imagine this cake thing going. The difference being, I can't mess around with this one because I'm committed to at least one--possibly two--wedding cakes in 2010, ALREADY. This on top of the flowers I'm doing for Colleen's wedding and the nails I'll be doing for another bridal party of six--I'm like a full-service wedding planner, AND THAT'S NOT EVEN WHAT I DO FOR A LIVING. You'd never know it, though.

Now that I think about it, there's very little a wedding coordinator does that I can't do... except work every single weekend for the rest of my life. No, thanks. I just like helping out my friends by being creative and control freak-ish. I can't imagine what my own wedding will be like getting married again. I told the Esq the other day that I want a wedding ceremony that is the equivalent to ripping a Band-Aid off. Also, he should have people standing by the door in case I bolt. He just laughed. He laughed, knowing his girlfriend equates commitment with barely-healed skin wounds and has a possible wedding exit strategy in mind. And then I got a hug. That's love, or maybe it's stupidity; I've never had one without the other, really.

I know how to make a good cake. I know how to make a wedding cake, even, at least the bare bones--I've even done a crumb-coat, if that means anything to anyone. I know how to work with fondant and marzipan and buttercream and royal icing, but haven't used any of that knowledge in a thousand million years. First I need a mixer, then I need some tools, THEN the product, and after that comes time, money, and energy (although I like to think substitute 'energy' with 'meth'--same thing). Thankfully, Christmas is right around the corner; I wonder if the Esq wants a Kitchen-Aid mixer for his birthday in November.... I feel like the answer is 'yes', but that might be wishful thinking.

Kitchen-Aid makes their mixers in so many colors, but I've never really connected with one (I'm the girl who buys the car or computer based on how cheerful the color palette is--EEEE APPLE COMPUTERS AND VW BUGS COME IN ORANGE EEEE). Finally--FINALLY--they made one in a retro, light mint green, and yes I shrieked when I saw it. Damn that Mrs. Cook, she always has the coolest cooking stuff. The Esq led me away, gently, while I babbled on and on about how pretty it was and how it was $100 off and how I NEEDED it, DIDN'T HE SEE HOW MUCH I NEEDED IT, I DON'T CARE ABOUT FOOD OR RENT OR THE CLOTHES ON MY BACK. I was the addict and that mixer was the fix; I should have stolen it. Is a mixer something one should go to jail for? No. But a Kitchen-Aid mixer? That's a tough call.

So anyways, once I'm set in the tool department, I will have approximately 18 months to pull off a wedding cake learning extravaganza. I will also need some feedback, so any of you Seattle peeps with stomachs of steel are welcome to be my tasty little tasters. As Jenny said last night, "I'm really honest." I need people like that: cake-loving followers of truthiness. People who know that the Truth, the Way, and the Light all end in cake and cake with a side of cake. I think that cake makes the world go 'round (along with money and the Chinese), so I look forward to making it my new best friend. I love you, cake.

An Incredible Waste of Time

Photo: Think of what this could do for my yearbook picture background.

Website of the Day. First Runner-Up.

Both defy logic or taste. Both employ hideous photos. Enjoy!

**Thanks to Lil Red for sending me the links.

A Mexican Love Story

Photo: I'm on the far right, the one without eyeballs.

The ol' anniversary was fun. I especially liked this one because it included all of my favorite things: hanging at the Esq's parents house, ordering our favorite pizza, seeing a great movie (Religulous), taking a walk, eating pho on a cold day, buying some girl porn, playing video games, and lying around the apartment like two lazy gits in our underwear. At one point, the Esq donned a suit of armor and a battle axe--and I broke out the Mexican wrestling masks--but I assume everyone does that to prepare for sex.

Sometimes an umpire uniform wouldn't be out of line, though. Maybe just having a referee present--an impartial judge who made sure everything was balanced and fair. A dude who could intervene and prevent lockjaw or pulled hamstrings; someone who will protect the interests of both parties and call the match. Think about it. I remember being 19-years old quite clearly, and I remember what 19-year old men had to offer me by way of a sexual revolution: nothing. Wait, does Chlamydia count? (Just kidding, Mom.) Sure, I did some meaningless whoring around like everyone else, but luckily I don't have any permanent reminders. Except for, you know, the shame and crying in the shower and cutting myself, but no biggie--"just another Tuesday!" as I always say.

Using Subway, my place of tenuous employment, as a dating pool couldn't have helped. WINNERS, ALL. If I could go back in time and talk to my 19-year old self, I wouldn't even say anything, I would just punch my young self in the face and hope I got the message. Then I would point at the drug dealer I was dating at the time and say WHAT WAS I THINKING--NOT ONE ORGASM AND YOUR WEED FUCKING SUCKED. "I think it's Kona Gold", MY ASS. I think he's still in prison, actually, so this scenario just got ten thousand times better.

None of this matters, since I have Smarty McSmarterson for a partner now. The way we met is truly amazing--I've told the story so many times, you guys can probably recite it from memory, but here goes: while I was jogging--training for a marathon, actually--I ran past a building that was on fire. I could hear the ambulances, and saw the firetrucks screaming down the street, so I stopped to see what I could do. All of a sudden, the building door opened and through the flames, I could see the Esq running with a newborn baby in one hand and a puppy in the other--OH MY GOD, HE WAS SAVING THEM FROM THE FIRE. Also, the baby had Down's Syndrome. And the puppy's name was Jesus.

I didn't say this story was going to be factual, but I did say it was truly amazing; I decided that our story wasn't exciting enough, so I embellished it a bit. Which parts were embellished, you ask? Well, here are the facts: I was there. The Esq was there. And there was a building. Those are the 'factual elements' to the story. The point is: we met, and have put those Lucha Libre masks to good use ever since.

The real story: The Esq and I met at Mamounia on Capital Hill (in Seattle) at a mutual friend's birthday party. Yawn. But it was kind of a goth party, so that was interesting--and with our Moroccan food came a Moroccan stripper sassy bellydancer, so, you know... that was breast-astic. I love to eat food with my fingers while staring at some white girl's jiggling rack, I can't imagine who wouldn't. I remember seeing him for the first time, though, and can even recall the first three things that ran through my mind when I sat down next to him:

1. Cute. Very well-dressed.
2. Too young for me. Way.
3. Single, based on the gold-rimmed glasses; those would be the first thing to go if we were dating.

#1 was obvious, #2 was unfortunate, and #3 told me I was interested, regardless of age or glasses. Actually, those glasses were taken out of rotation before we hit three months of dating, I'm not kidding. Sadly, I lost my cool ones and had to resort back to the ones that are currently perched on my very resentful face, right around the time I met him. So the spectacle snobbery bit me in the ass after all: optical karma. If you'd like to see the blog I wrote the night I met the Esq, check it out here.

...and they lived happily ever after, in their Lucha Libre masks, and not much else.


FIN

Bring On the Terrible Twos

Photo: The happy toddlers.

Dear J (...the Esq),

I know yesterday was our anniversary, but since we're celebrating tonight, I figured I would do the anniversary letter today. And like everything that comes with this blog and our relationship, your anniversary letter is ALL ABOUT ME.

Remember that time I threw something at you? Or was that even you? I threw something at someone. Well, if it was you, sorry about that. And remember the time I burst into tears because of something you said--actually, what I mean is, remember THE HUNDREDS OF TIMES I've sobbed my face off due to something completely pointless and asinine, and you had to take it in the teeth? Yeah, PMS. Again, apologies. Oh, and that time I was beyond pissed, and yelling loud enough for our neighbors to send me worried text messages... WOW. You never even raised your voice. Thanks for not killing me in my sleep that night.

I know that I adamantly support one opinion, and then adamantly support the other in the same breath; I am not a skilled debater. I know that I weep more than any human being on Earth, so much that I wonder if at some point I will run out of internal water, shrivel up and DIE. I am aware that, while making sandwiches, leaving the refrigerator door open so the contents of our refrigerator can "see the world for a moment" is ridiculous (unless you've actually read Tom Robbins' book, Skinny Legs and All), so thank you for only laughing at me twice. I know that money burns a hole in my pocket, and that Britney Spears is permanently on my Ipod, and that I'm a gigantic snob for almost no reason. My insecurities, bad decision-making, and overreactive Taurean traits don't serve me well, and I know that. I've got serious character defects, just as much as the next immature, weight-challenged, no-job-having, underachieving, lazy-ass Samoan (there are a lot of us, actually).

But I also have good qualities, ones that you are constantly reminding me of: a bottomless heart, a curious mind, quick wit, loyalty to my friends, and crazy. Thank you for seeing those things in me, and for pointing them out daily--you're digging a hole for yourself and creating a monster, but I am also in awe of you. You and your on-going patience.

What I mean to say is, thank you for hanging in there. I am a difficult person to love. Oh, I'm lovable--likeable, even. But I know that for someone to really love me--and GET what I'm about--you have to do some fancy footwork and speak in a language that doesn't actually exist yet. Thank you for learning the language and thinking I was worth the work. Thank you for still being here, and for putting up with my endless amounts of impracticality and bullshit. I feel as though my good qualities get a booster shot whenever you're around. I feel lucky every single day, even the days when you look at me innocently and I'm all WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, IT'S BECAUSE I'M FAT ISN'T IT, YOU FUCKING PRICK, I AM GOING TO SET OUR HOUSE ON FIRE AND IT'S ALL. YOUR. FAULT. WAAAAH. And then you chuckle, kiss me on the forehead, and say, "Want to play Rock-Paper-Scissors?" I hate you for that, because you know me so well. I like to think I'm holding my own against your God-like RPS skills, but I may be kidding myself.

I am a nitwit. A nitwit who loves you more than cheese or bacon, more than blogging, even. More than Barack Obama or my own reflection. More than lowered gas prices. It doesn't hurt that you're the smartest person I know, or the most hilarious, or the kindest.

Also, you're pretty.

What I'm saying is, I think I got the better deal, but that doesn't matter BECAUSE YOU'RE STUCK WITH ME NOW, SUCKA.

A future without you seems bleak; I hope I never have any Firsts again (First Kiss, First Fight, First Time You Realize Your Mate is Irreparably Flawed), because all of our Firsts were fantastic. To quote some totally fey hippie card I saw once: 'If you had not existed, I would have dreamed you into being.' Or I would have tried my hardest, damn it. I would have dreamed and dreamed and dreamed myself into a brain aneurysm, but whatever. The end results are what really count.

I know that when people break up, they talk about staying friends and moving on--but I want you to know that the only scenario where we would stay friends is the one in which you were GAY. Just so we're clear.

I love our life. I love our home. I love that, after two years, I still wake up every day and thank every deity I don't believe in for bringing you into my life. I'm amazed by you and your many strengths, the ones I test like a teenager every second of every day. Thanks for making me laugh out loud every day, and for being the kind of superhero boyfriend I never knew existed, and never thought I deserved.

I MEATLOAF YOU!

Your biggest fan,

M

Post-Debate Ponderings

Governor Sarah Palin's Closing Argument (Excerpt):

It was Ronald Reagan who said that freedom is always just one generation away from extinction. We don't pass it to our children in the bloodstream; we have to fight for it and protect it, and then hand it to them so that they shall do the same, or we're going to find ourselves spending our sunset years telling our children and our children's children about a time in America, back in the day, when men and women were free.

We will fight for it, and there is only one man in this race who has really ever fought for you, and that's Senator John McCain.

Senator Joe Biden's Closing Argument (Excerpt):

Ladies and gentlemen, my dad used to have an expression. He'd say, "champ, when you get knocked down, get up."

Well, it's time for America to get up together. America's ready, you're ready, I'm ready, and Barack Obama is ready to be the next president of the United States of America.

May God bless all of you, and most of all, for both of us, selfishly, may God protect our troops.

******

BOO-YAH, GRANDMA, AND THAT'S THE GAME. Joe Biden was the clear winner here; as the Esq put it delicately, "I can't believe she just got out-Christianed by him." EXACTLY. I'm offended that she didn't think to bless me ONCE, much less all of the troops out there.

But if we're going to be REAL here, I'd say the debate was over when Joe predictably--though respectfully--got teary about being a single parent, and about raising his two sons. The debate was over FOR ME when she said 'nucular' SIX FUCKING TIMES. I know I'm a total snob about these things, but I expect someone who is going to be in the second-highest ranking position in the country to know how to sound out vowels and consonants; that's not snobbery, that's bottom-of-the-barrel expectations. MY TEN-YEAR OLD CAN SAY 'NUCLEAR' CORRECTLY. If the job was to sit there and look pretty, say ignorant things, and be totally unconscious to the world at large, I might vote for her. But since she's an End Days-loving, moose-killing wackjob, my country would be better served if I voted for a block of government cheese.

Shame on both of you for throwing gay unions under the bus. Really. It would have been a proud moment in history if just one of them (obviously not Sarah) could have seen beyond their churches and 'traditional family values'. Fuck you and your traditional values: divorce and domestic violence and neglected children and infidelity are at an all-time high; are those the kinds of loving relationships that your God had in mind? The state of marriage today isn't what it used to be--there are very few marriages out there that can truly lead by example. So I don't know why that's the ideal, and why gay people--WHO ARE JUST PEOPLE, DURRR--can't relish in neglecting their children and cheating on each other LEGALLY, just like everybody else.

That's Religulous

I'm hoping to see the movie this weekend at the Neptune; it looks really interesting. We watched The Daily Show last night (from a couple days ago), and Bill Maher--host of Real Time on HBO--was the guest. It was one of the best interviews I've seen on The Daily Show, so good that I transcribed my favorite segments for posterity. He made a lot of good points, and I realized that while I don't exactly like Bill Maher (he's kinda slimy, although very smart), I certainly agree with him on religion. The movie clip that was shown had him in London, preaching actual Scientology tenets in the park to anyone who would listen; it was pretty weird.

Bill Maher: 60% of Americans believe in the Noah's Ark story, literally--they believe it is literally true. We wanted to make the point in the movie that if you ranted, as a crazy person, the tenets of any religion--we picked Scientology--and we did this in London where people don't know me, they just thought I was one of the ranters--it sounds crazy. Because it is. People started to feel sorry for me 'cause they thought I was a nutter, but I'm only telling you what Tom Cruise believes. If somebody says to you, "Xenu, the intergalactic evil warrior came to Earth 12 trillion years ago and gathered all the people in volcanoes and blew them up with H-bombs", the correct response is, "Well... I guess anything's possible." But to believe it's unimpeachable truth?

The thing is, you know--we laugh at this because that's the new religion, Scientology--but it's not really that weirder or crazier than Christianity, I hate to tell ya. We're just used to that one. Because if someone came to you today, and told you that story, you'd never heard that... and said, God had a son. He's a single parent. And He said to his son, "Jesus, I'm gonna send you to Earth on a suicide mission, but don't worry, they can't kill kill you, because you're really me. But it is gonna hurt for a hot minute, I'm not gonna lie about that--you're gonna hate me, but it's the best thing for ya, son...I MEAN ME! It's the best thing for ME! I'm YOU, you're ME! So here's the plan, son--I, God, the Father--wink, wink--I'll go down to Earth first. We'll split up the work because we're two people... NOT REALLYYYY! And I'll see if I can't find a Palestinian woman to impregnate so she can give birth to you...I MEAN ME!" It's just the silliest thing you'd have ever heard. And this is a monotheistic religion, you know?

Jon Stewart: Isn't there somewhere in our being the need to believe in these myths? We're the only ones who know that this life is finite. Doesn't that fill that purpose of comfort and aid?

Bill Maher: Well, it's comfort and aid that comes at a great price, like almost every war in history, and suicide bombers, and the oppression of women and minorities, and having sex with children...

Jon Stewart: But OTHER than that *laughs*, the comfort part?

Bill Maher: Look, when these books were written, like The Bible, it was at a time when Man didn't understand where the sun went at night--George Bush still doesn't--or what made their women pregnant, or what a germ or an atom was--so it was forgivable to make up myths and stories. But now it's 2008, okay? It's not that forgivable. And the fact that a 'Sarah Palin' might be a heartbeat away from the presidency... I think people should be very frightened at that, that this person who is going to perhaps be the Vice President, believes in The Bible literally.

*commercial break*

Jon Stewart: We're here with Bill Maher, HBO's Real Time and the new movie, Religulous?

Bill Maher: Yes, it's like you're saying 'religion' and end with 'ridiculous', it's a word we made up, much like religion itself. But I heard you in the introduction say, 'Bill Maher will say there is no God'--I don't say there's no God. I'm not an atheist because I find atheism to be a mirror of the certainty of religion, and I don't like certainty about the next world because we can't know. What I say is, 'I don't know'.

Jon Stewart: What was nice about the movie is your quest is to just KNOW; it feels like curiosity for people who are certain. You seem to be saying, 'How are you so certain?'

Bill Maher: Exactly. I'm only asking questions. I think the reason why it's done so well in the screenings we had, even among religious people like this movie, it's 'cause it's not judgmental, it's not pointing fingers, it's not out to make people feel bad, I'm just asking questions. And it's amazing that these are questions that people are never confronted with, because FAITH is such a magic word in this country; when you say 'that's my faith', then all bets are off--can't go there. Well I went there. But I'm just asking questions like, 'Why is faith good?' Why doesn't God just defeat the Devil?' The Devil, himself--I asked a lot of people, 'What's the difference between the Devil and The Anti-Christ?' Nobody knows. That's what we found out is that religious people know so little about religion. Because I didn't know, I was like, 'Are they the same guy, the Devil and The Anti-Christ?' 'Oh, nooo,' they all said, 'he's not the same guy.' So I said, 'Okay, does the Devil work for The Anti-Christ? Or does The Anti-Christ work for the Devil? Or is it like the Joker and the Riddler, they're both bad guys, and sometimes they team up together?'

But it was my job and I feel it is my job to just keep asking these questions, because people are not confronted by them. I asked people everywhere I went, I said, 'How come God, who's all-powerful, always goes through a prophet?' He always takes somebody up on a hill or out in the middle of the desert or in the woods where nobody's around, darn the luck, and he says HERE'S THE DEAL and you go tell everybody else. Why doesn't He--He's GOD, He can do anything! Why doesn't He just go, Hey folks! Hey, take a break! It's me, God, and I just wanted to tell you that the correct religion iiiiiiis.... SHINTO!

Jon Stewart: AAAAAAAAAHSHINTO.

Bill Maher: I knew it!

******

And to this interview I say: Amen.

Killing In the Name of Jeff Goldblum

Photo: Go away.




















We have flies in our kitchen; they live in the kitchen sink. I used to go after them aggressively, fantasizing about the things I would do to them when I finally managed to catch one: torture, I suppose, and a good dose of heavy sarcasm. I imagined them begging for their puny little fly lives and me, the victor, laughing maniacally as I ripped their limbs off. After I realized I was outnumbered, I only experienced anger when one got in my way, like flying in front of my computer, or around my orange juice glass (I don't know when I was taught that: tiny flies + juice=CERTAIN DEATH, but that's how I feel about the matter). Now they're like household pets--I think of them as lovable scampers, just a part of the family! When I do the dishes, they buzz around me happily, even though I've just destroyed their resting, nesting, and molesting grounds; I shoo them away in that 'mock-shooing' gesture that's best suited to shiny grandmas and grandpas in 80's television commercials. I'm hoping they catch on to the English language and learn how to sing in five-part harmony soon; what fun we'll have, singing aloud to each other and dreamily doing the dishes.

Fuck these little flies, man; I assume they are of the fruit variety, but now I don't know because they've taken to squatting in other parts of our home that clearly have no food matter in them. Somebody please tell me how to get rid of these assholes? My kitchen is CLEAN. I'm assuming it has something to do with the sink drain, but I don't know what to do about that. Soap? Drain-O? Vampire blood?

The Nephins at The Zoo

One couldn't stop crying, the other couldn't stop laughing; both continued to eat their pizza regardless. Good times were had.

The photo blog has also been way updated!

You Know Who You Are

Dear People I Personally Know Who Are Not Going to Vote This Year For Incredibly Stupid Reasons,

There are a lot of you--too many. I can count on four hands (yes, I have four hands!) the people I know who are resistant to voting. You're all between the ages of 21-35, and while I'm unsurprised at your political passivity (given your general passivity in life et al), I'm still bewildered--BEWILDERED AND ENRAGED--at how small your thinking is; 'one vote doesn't matter' isn't going to cut it this year. If you don't vote, you're the one who doesn't matter, and your opinion doesn't mean SHIT to me. Please stop complaining about the current administration and the state of our economy--please stop talking about how this war cannot go on--please stop whining about the last election (I WAS THERE); I know it's your right as a citizen to vote or not vote, but I don't want to hear your negative opinion if you aren't interested in actively doing something about it.

I've heard at least four of you say, in an airy-fairy voice, "But...it's all so confusing! I just...I don't know what to think, and...and it's all just so hard!" I'm sorry, are you an adult or NOT? You get to vote for A) McCain or B) Obama. HOW MUCH SIMPLER CAN IT GET? Do you need someone to show you how to READ, or do you just need practice checking one simple fucking BOX? It bothers me that these are people who say shit like this every single election; I'd rather hear them say, "I never vote, because I just don't fucking care." Because that is the absolute truth--don't hide behind your supposed stupidity; we wouldn't be friends if you were really that dumb.

I've heard another four of you claim that your vote doesn't matter. If McPalin wins, I'm telling Santa what you did, and you will not get any Christmas gifts this year. Instead, your Christmas gift will be McCain increasing our war image by 1400% and asking all concerned citizens to stand up and fight for their country, AGAINST EVERY OTHER COUNTRY ON EARTH AND MAYBE EVEN THE ENTIRE SOLAR SYSTEM; when that fails--because gee, people don't really LIKE going to war, namely people like you and me--then the mandatory draft will be put into place. Count on it. The guy is a warmonger, I don't care that he was a war hero; anyone who has fought in battle or been captured is a hero to me. But I consider finding peaceful solutions more heroic, honestly. If we were judging people by that barometer, McCain would be as popular as...well, his runningmate, Sarah 'Interviews Like an Olympic Champion' Palin. I'll bet, if he's elected, that passing a mandatory draft bill will be high on his list, right after overturning Roe v. Wade. And my second bet is that once it's passed, you four are going to be drafted into military indentured servitude from 2-4 years, especially if you have any skills worth a damn--like, can you use a computer? Do you speak English? Might you possess an index finger? Yeah, WELCOME TO IRAQ.

The rest of you make good or interesting points: ballot boxes have been tampered with, the state of our economy is going to be in flux no matter who is elected, Washington state will most likely vote Obama whether you vote or not... but not all of you are in Washington. Some of you are on the East coast, and I know at least TWO of you are liberals living in red states (for which I am deeply sorry); what will it take to get you to vote? Anything? Or is the apathy just too strong after years of governmental failure? I understand where you guys are coming from, and have only this to say: WELCOME TO IRAQ.

And to the one yahoo that I love/do not understand in the slightest: you kind of make me sick now. Actually, saying "kind of" and "you make me" aren't very personal statements--my therapist would say, "Start with 'I' and don't say 'kind of'--it comes from a more powerful place." So I want to change my statement to: YOU FUCKING SUCK. You won't vote because you don't want the government to know about you? Do you know how DESPERATELY RETARDED that sounds? You think they should know LESS about you? How about putting all of your money in a shoebox under your bed? How about canceling those credit cards? How about selling everything that is in your name, like your car and your computer? How about giving up that cell phone or the internet or playing video games online? HOW ABOUT NOT FILING YOUR TAXES?!?! The government has better things to do with their time than log into your file and write down who you voted for; but if they really wanted to know something, they could track you through any of these examples listed here. Moron.

I also don't appreciate how you didn't forward your address from the last place you lived, just so you could avoid doing jury duty. I'm not big on Civic Duty, but I also believe that for a co-op to succeed, people need to participate--and I think it's really self-centered and cowardly that you went on and on about how you have a job and jury duty doesn't PAY very well. SAME THING WITH THE REST OF US, YOU FUCKING ASSHAT. I've done jury duty TWICE, probably to make up for how many times you HAVEN'T, and at the time I was making around ten bucks an hour--so take your 40k a year job and shove it up your ass. I've accepted the paranoid, downward spiral you insist on being on, but I never knew how slimy you were. I guess anything is possible in an election year.

I know I'm repeating myself (yesterday's Twitter update: I am the preacher and you are the choir), but it's so important to me. I don't understand how I know actual people who don't give a shit, but since this letter is to you, I'll sign it as a friend. And when we're shipped off to Iraq together, I'm going to sucker punch you in the face.

Love,

Marika

These Are the Links of Our Lives

Photo: As seen on threepotatofour.










I received this email from a blog reader this morning:

Snotty,

I've gotten a lot of good links from you through your blog, so thank you! I regularly check in with dooce, stuffwhitepeoplelike, etsy, explodingdog, and offbeatbride.com--I had never actually heard of any of them. I was wondering if you have some kind of daily rotation or something, maybe like a morning routine of websites you check? Maybe there's something I'm missing! :)

Thanks,
Suzy Q. Public

Thanks for asking, and yes, I have a very specific online morning routine; here 'tis:

1. Correspondence: Hotmail, Gmail, Myspace, Facebook, Yelp.

2. Blog mail: sn0tty.com, of course. I leave actual blogging until after checking all of my websites for newer news.

3. Politics: The Huffington Post, The Cafferty File, Prose Before Hos, The Daily Dish with Andrew Sullivan, National Review, Bill O'Reilly online, Slate Magazine, and National Public Radio. Yes, I said Bill O'Reilly, Andrew Sullivan, and the National Review; it's boring to read your own opinions over and over again. Even when your opinions are BETTER.

4. And because the line is so incredibly blurry, I do gossip next: People magazine, Perez Hilton, Pink Is the New Blog, and Defamer.com.

5. Then blogs I can't live without: DOOCE, Stuff White People Like, Verbal Cartoonist, Post Secret, Institute of Official Cheer, Exploding Dog, Offbeat Bride, I Heart Photograph, Seattle Trademark Lawyer, Cakespy, and Mornings With NPR.

6. Then, design/cool stuff blogs: Design Sponge, Apartment Therapy, A Cup of Jo, Etsy, TED, and Three Potato Four.

7. Then Craigslist, to browse through the Free, Furniture, Customer Service, Admin/Office, Retail/Wholesale, Salon/Spa, Writing/Editing, and Best Of Craigslist.

6. Then onto my friends' blogs, namely the ones I'm following on Blogger, Wordpress, Vox, Reddit, etc. There are too many of you to name.

7. Then, after 27 hours of online reading, I blog.

Holy shit, I need to get a life, or maybe a job. Wait, this is my job, I'm just not getting paid for it. Need to work on that.

The Much-Improved Fruits of Our Labor

Photo: I love my home.

I know it's only the living room and entryway (although our hallway doubles as a dining room), but no one cares about the bathroom--which is filled to the brim with my loose hair since I shed like a yeti--and the bedroom isn't blog-worthy because it's next on the overhauling list. You'll never see the kitchen, unless you physically come over, because it's my office and I don't like messing with my creative space. You have to be pretty creative to make your kitchen into an office, believe me; it takes a lot of love, imagination, and painkillers to make your kitchen a workspace. Yes, indeedy-doo.

I wish the photos were better, but I had to make do with my camera phone, the same camera phone that has no flash, very slow shutter speed, and a knack for making everything look fuzzy. Thank you to Palm who did a minimal amount of work in the maximum amount of time so they could make my phone a reality; I cannot wait for a fourth-generation Google phone, or whenever a good one is coming out. I shake my fist at you, IPhone (mostly because I don't have one).

Mork & Mindy & John & Sarah

Dear Man I'm Living With,

Whenever I use the mustard, I always lick the top clean before putting it back in the fridge; I even thank myself while I'm 'cleaning' it, as though I'm being helpful to you in some way. I used to do this with the milk, but the cartons got too soggy and the plastic jugs had dried milk flakes around the top, so now I'm all about the condiments. I don't even really like mustard, but I guess this is my thing now. Just thought you'd want to know; maybe you should buy your own and label it, because there is no way I am ever going to change this behavior. Love me, love my lack of refrigerator boundaries.

Yours,
M

Dear Women Who Continue to "Rock" the Tired Look of Oversized Metallic Handbags,

White denim. Chunky heels. Rhinestone-encrusted Razrs. Pleated pants. Sarah Palin. All of these things seemed fresh and exciting at the time, but now they should be put to rest, just like your metallic handbag. Look around you: the only other women sporting those metallic handbags are Kim Kardashian fans and 11-year old girls who are just pretending to be women. If you want to emulate Mork & Mindy with your accessories and be all LOOK AT MY DOPE HANDBAG NA-NU NA-NU, then FINE. I'm just saying, you look like shazbot.

Resentfully,
Snotty

Dear Every Man I've Ever Met Who Thinks That Thinking Sarah Palin Is Hot Is Hilarious,

Wow, that was a mouthful. That is also what Sarah Palin she said, but I digress. I understand that men check out women (and vice versa--or if you're gay, same-sex checking out--or if you're Morrissey, staring into the ocean and then crying out in anguish); it's just something guys do. So of course you're going to check out the first semi-attractive governor in the nation, I wouldn't deny you that. But how can you continue to stand by and ogle her after knowing ANYTHING about her?! DID YOU NOT SEE THE KATIE COURIC INTERVIEW WHERE SHE BASICALLY SAT THERE AND SUCKED HER THUMB FOR TWO DAYS?! ARE YOU LIVING UNDER A MOTHERFUCKING ROCK?!

If Hitler was resurrected tomorrow, he would choose Sarah Palin as either his runningmate or his mistress... now I'm not comparing you men to Hitler, but I'm not NOT comparing you to him, either.

Get your head on straight, for fuck's sake.
Snotty

**EVERYONE! The last day you can register to vote in Washington (or change your address, whatever) is OCTOBER 4TH...otherwise you can't vote for Obama! If you were planning on voting for The McPalin Plutocracy, then 1) why are you reading my Obama-loving blog, and 2) the last day YOU can register to vote in Washington is OCTOBER 5TH. But if you really want to vote, awesome--I'm a fan of anyone who exercises their rights and does their civic duty. Sort of.

And for the Cafferty fans out there (of which I am one), watch him sink his teeth into Sarah, without getting bleeped:



Excellent.

The Vinyl Solution

Photo: I own this. You're jealous.















We've been making a big push towards Homeland Security in our apartment this week, and when I say 'we", I actually mean ME. To be fair, the Esq has been very helpful in transporting stuff and thrift shopping with me but, like all men, his tolerance for obligatory shopping and transportation only goes so far before he's all STAB STAB STAB. 'Homeland Security' is not just a failed national color-coded system that ultimately went nowhere; it's also the feeling of becoming more secure and comfortable in my home. We have acquired a kitchen table and chairs circa 1973 (octagon-shaped and lemon-flavored), a 1950's Danish dresser (or as I like to call it, "the 8-drawer refinishing project that may or may not ever happen"), two vintage chairs for our living room (late 1960's, I believe), a slew of new vinyl, and a bad ass poster from Manon Lescaut (c/o the Seattle Opera). Because when you think 'bad ass', I know you think of the Seattle Opera.

I finally went in to J and S Phonograph (on 65th, for those of you in the Seattle area), and it was the most amazing vinyl experience I've ever had. The owner, Jim, is so nice and knowledgeable, and the record selection--while small--was everything a girl could hope for. 99% of his stock is new, which is crazy shit, I tell you; to be looking at a Beatles' record or more importantly, the George Michael album that I bought (Faith!), and know that you're the first person to ever play it? CRAZY SHIT. I also bought the soundtrack to Clash of the Titans, which had also never been used, I can't imagine why. There were a couple of Hitler albums that I'll need to go inspect further, too; if I could get HIM on vinyl, I would die happy. Think of how entertaining it would be to play that shit right next to your open window in a very busy city. Then I would scream OH MY GOD HE'S BACK HE'S BACK! And then I would eat lunch and have a nap.

Other vinyl I purchased over the weekend to round out my weird collection:

Back to the Future soundtrack
Carol Channing in Hello Dolly! (Original cast recording)
Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue; The London Symphony Orchestra
Terence Trent D'Arby (a blast from the past)
Mahalia Jackson, The Power and the Glory
Mahler's Symphonies 5 & 10, Unfinished; Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra
Military, Fanfares, Marches & Choruses--from the time of Napoleon!
The Spirit of Christmas--Mormon Tabernacle Choir
Let's All Go To the Circus!
Earth Wind & Fire Best Of Vol 1
Midnight Cowboy soundtrack
Lady Sings the Blues soundtrack
Actual speeches of FDR and JFK (JFK's inaugural speech!)

I know, I'm a nerd. But I really love strange-sounding or funny-looking things; I'm very proud of my Mad Max soundtrack, which is quite possibly the most pointless album I've ever heard or owned. I might regret the circus music, but everything else I'm excited about, even the Mormon Tabernacle Choir; no one does Christmas music like they do. I also love soundtracks, but never thought I could get very many on vinyl; J and S Phonograph has HUNDREDS of them...I couldn't stop looking. Finally the Esq pried the records out of my cold, dead-like hands, and led me out of the store and into the sunlight; I nearly died from browsing.

My apartment used to remind me of sad crap and felt really claustrophobic; now our hallways are echoing--NO I'M NOT KIDDING, ECHOING!--from the lack of junky piles and excess furniture we never really needed. I might do a Snotty photo tour, just to show it off, but feel like the battery to my camera must be found first before taking any pictures. Sometimes you can over-organize... but I feel confident it will be found, because I put it in a really obvious place that I would totally remember... not the USUAL obvious place, but a SUPER obvious spot that I would NEVER EVER FORGET. This might take a while.

Heaven-Sent

Photo: Jan 26, 1925- Sept 26, 2008












You were the first older man I fell for; I felt equally giddy about your Homestyle popcorn, and maybe even your salad dressing.

You made me want to eat 50 eggs and go on the lam. You made me want blue-eyed babies. You made old movies watchable.

I loved how devoted you were to your wife--when you were asked about infidelity, I laughed when you said, "Why go out for a hamburger when you have steak at home?" I knew you weren't saying your wife was a slab of dead meat, but that she was the best slab of dead meat you ever could have married. I thought that was terribly romantic.

I will never forget Brick Pollitt, Eddie Felson, Chance Wayne, Luke Jackson, Hud Bannon, or Butch Cassidy; good, bad, and great men who were brought to life by your immeasurable talents. You were a class act, something rare in Hollywood. You were the very definition of 'cool'.



















"I picture my epitaph: 'Here lies Paul Newman, who died a failure because his eyes turned brown'."--Paul Newman

Survey Says....

I borrowed this survey from Bangs McGee, who finally got engaged this week! Congratulations, and thanks for being too blissfully engaged to care that I'm stealing straight off of your Myspace page.

I haven't done one of these in a while, but I liked the questions (and more importantly, Bangs McGee's answers), so I thought WHY NOT. Enjoy!

DAS SURVEY:

You're trapped in a room for 3 days with your worst enemy--what do you do?

You're stuck on an elevator with the person you've fallen the hardest for--what to you do?
Club my boyfriend over the head and drag him to my lair. Maybe cut somebody's face off and wear it, so we can re-create the elevator scene in Silence of the Lambs.

The celebrity you love the most offers to marry you, as long as you don't talk to any of your current friends or family members anymore--do you marry them?
Sadly, yes--but I'm being realistic. I'm not going to NEED any of you people when Johnny Depp is my husband.

You weigh 700 pounds, do you get liposuction or lose the weight manually?
Manually, but only if that means something dirty.

Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?
Move in and duke it out, like all good couples.

Your boyfriend/girlfriend finds out they have AIDS, do you get yourself tested?
Only after I send out letterpress announcements.

You wake up and you're the only person left alive, what do you do?
Find something to procreate with, if I know me.

Do you want a life style like Britney Spears?
Financially and pharmaceutically, but nothing else. I stand on principles.

You have to dye your hair a different color for the rest of your life, what color do you choose?
Brown. Yawn.

Someone asks you on a date, where do you wanna go? Browse a record store, get a hot dog, peruse the Goodwill, play skeeball, get lost in a bookstore, ride on the Ferris Wheel, visit the flamingos at the zoo, march in a parade, bake cupcakes, catch a silent film, throw the first pitch out at a Major League baseball game, and a photobooth. In short, everything. (This was a lot like my first 'hang-out' with the Esq, minus the parade.)

You have to get a facial piercing, what do you get?
Nose, because I've done it before.

You have to get a tattoo, where and what do you get?
The alphabet, in varying sizes, colors and fonts, all over my body.

When is the last time you were in a photo booth taking pictures with friends?
The last time was with the Esq on his 25th birthday, back when I was 50,000 years old.

Are you mad about anything?
Just the small stuff, like how LESS THAN FIVE BUSINESSES IN AMERICA can control our entire economy and the federal budget. No biggie.

Your good friend is getting beat up in a fight. Do you help out?
HELLZ YEAH I LIKE A GOOD FIGHT.

Do you like your first name?
Snotty is an adjective, and I like adjectives.

Are you listening to music?
Santogold, Cut Copy, Stevie Wonder, Rachmaninoff.

When is the last time you went to a birthday party?
Scott Rosen's at Moe, last Saturday.

You planning on going to college?
My mom is.

Could you go a month without cursing?
It would be easier for me to go a month without breathing.

Ever been on a horse?
I've been to horse camp. Make all the jokes you want.

What's the funniest movie you've ever seen?
Showgirls, as brought to you by David Schmader.

What are you wearing?
A turban and a smirk.

Behold, the Power of Corn

Photo: The harsher side of corn.










On Yelp, there's a Conversation feature where you can introduce an asinine topic and then a gang of imbeciles will reply; I haven't ever used it, but feel certain that I will. And that certainty feels more like a deep, eye-rolling sigh of resignation, because it will not turn out well; I don't represent well on forums. People always think I'm a giant asshole *ahem*. Until then, I am content to lurk in the shadows, snickering at the topics, comments, and member nicknames as fast as they're churned out: literally every second.

Today I logged in, and the first topic was: I FEEL LIKE A WITCH TODAY. Upon further investigation, the question posed was this:

What do you do to tame the bitch-o-meter?

Chris "Viva la Vegas" says: 'drink, preferably not tequila.' ...um, it's 7:23 in the morning. You're really living up to your nickname. I also love how it's the first comment, and that Chris is a DUDE. Thank you, Chris, for your penile opinion and misguided interest, but I think this question is for girls who have actual vaginas. Or, as my little one used to say: buhginas. You have neither.

Lore "I really need a boyfriend" says: 'sex. anything with carbs...pizza, pasta, mex. food. chocolate ice cream. jogging. morphine.' She comments again, because apparently that list wasn't long enough: 'hot bath with candles bath salts bubbles and a good book. chick flick and buttered popcorn.' The only thing missing from this list are six cats and a vibrator. I think it's fairly evident that Lore needs a boyfriend, and not just because that's her nickname; it just seems a nickname like that is going to put people off... namely the people who might date you. Otherwise, she'd be a great catch; I'm down with girls who are into Mexican food and morphine.

Jasmine "Disco Infiltrator" says: 'Bong hit.' Well, now it's 7:37 in the morning. Seems like the right time for a bong hit--oh look, it's also Miller Time. In Australia.

Kat "Bubble" says: 'Maybe you need a cat massage. I hear he can do wonderful wonderful things for you.' ...WHAT? Am I on mushrooms? I swear that Kat just said 'cat massage'.

Miss Mary Ann "eats tomato soup year round" says: 'nothing.' I tend to eat tomato soup when I'm feeling cold or depressed; imagine how Miss Mary Ann must feel, eating it all year round. Miss Mary Ann has a case of the Mondays.

So you get the gist. Someone introduces a topic--much like on any forum--and then a bunch of yahoos make helpful (bong hit, pizza) or unhelpful (cat massage, tequila) suggestions. Other topics, in the Humor & Offbeat section, include: Do these pants make my butt look big? Dammit, I have the flu. Don Cheadle's amazing coffee shop purchase. *Blank* makes me want to *blank*! And, Dude Where's My Car? (Just kidding.)

Anyways, this whole post has been to prepare you for the ultimate Yelp conversation. I randomly found it after Googling the word 'corn'. I can't remember why we were talking about it, only that we were--Whoreleen, the Esq, and myself--and then we lost it, because... well, it was about corn. We couldn't help ourselves.

'10,000 names of corn' thread--Yelp New York

Norm "brave": any corn fanatics out there? i just got back from vermont. corn is god. i've had so many varieties over the years i've lost count. i've been trying to remember the names. they're like poetry in a way, sort of mini-metaphors. silver queen, silver king, providence, honey select, that's all i can come up with. help me out? **I love how this begins: CORN IS GOD. Also, he's had so many varieties of corn over the years! Like...four. It's like the frat guy who's all 'DUDE I BANGED EVERY GIRL ON CAMPUS--but I only remember Jill, Lauren, Suki, and Dan....' Suuure you did, man. Sure you did.

Steve "the definition of ignorant": We call it "maize". **HOW LOW does your self-esteem have to be, I wonder, in order for your Yelp nickname to be "THE DEFINITION OF IGNORANT"? Quite frankly, if I look up 'ignorant' in the dictionary, I doubt Steve's picture is going to be there.

Jimmy J: I've got some on my feet. **Ha. Hrmf.

Bill K: Not too many one-syllable names for vegetables. I imagine you'd have to get creative to jazz it up. Same deal with squash. **Yes, squash is indeed one-syllable. How might one get creative with squash naming?

Jessica "pundit buzz": I called the ear I had last week "Darren". **Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Jessica, meet Jimmy J. You two are soul mates.

Franco "Gris-Gris": Corn--comes out the same way it went in. **Comes OUT...the same way it went IN.... so I understand what this lovely fellow is trying to convey, but all I really see is: I EAT CORN WITH MY ASSHOLE.

Norm "brave": you're all just a buncha cityslickers. you don't know what you're missing.

Nina C: I don't know the names for the different varieties of corn, but I love sweet corn. I'm always excited when the first corn shipments arrive to the supermarkets in the summer. Then I know that soon the greenmarkets will be stocked with the yellow and white ears of sweet, starchy goodness. I love corn in my salads, salsa, burritos, in my soup, on the cob, any way! I may be a cityslicker, but my heart belongs to corn. **THANK YOU, NINA! Thank you for not answering the question, but giving us an arbitrary glimpse into your giddy relationship with corn, in a description worthy of Oprah and Martha Stewart's undying gratitude.

Liiisa "Winner, Winner--Chicken Dinner!": Had to throw out 6 ears tonight because they went bad during my extended trip to NH/VT. **1) This is really how Lisa spelled her name. 2) This is really her nickname. 3) This was her actual comment on this thread. Now you can sleep better at night, knowing that Liiisa's trip to NH/VT was extended and that, unfortunately, her 6 ears of corn were spoiled because of it. Selfish Liiisa.

Mike "The-Boss": Call it what you like, but Corn is Corn! Now you may have some different varieties of Corn, but when all is done and the sun goes down, Corn is Corn. Now if I was one of those overpaid, politically correct, culturally sensitive, environmentally aware, grief counseled, corny professors, I might disagree, as that would be a part of my job. But in my heart, I would know that Corn is, in fact, Corn! **Being an overpaid, politically correct, culturally sensitive, environmentally aware, grief counseled professor, of corn or otherwise, in THIS economy? I'd be pretty fucking happy. Even though I know in my heart, that Corn is, in fact, something that makes my car go VROOM. If only it did the same for my body.

Allison "Allie G": Mexicorn! **I assume she means a Mexican unicorn. Which everybody knows is el chupacabra.

So what's worse... the conversation, or an entire blog dissecting it? I'd say I'm worse off, but still--the whole thing was a LOLocaust. Anyways, real writing later; I got up at 6AM and couldn't go back to sleep. Now I'm sleepy and craving bacon. I'm going back to bed.

King Cousin's Kiddos

Photo: OOOH! EEEE! A butterfly!










I spent yesterday afternoon at the Seattle Science Center with my mother and two nephins; the nephins are named that because they're sort-of nephews and sort-of cousins. I don't mean to imply that my siblings are some kind of backwater Okie's who bred half-human babies together--I just mean their dad, Brock, is my sort-of brother and sort-of cousin, therefore the nephins are, too. Brock is in between brother and cousin; he's like a King Cousin or a muted brother, something like that. His dad and my mom are sibs, but he lived with us in high school and was always my favorite friend before that. Brock and I have been invisibly joined at the hip since birth (or slightly thereafter), even though age and life and family and Lake Washington divides us these days; it's easier to stay in touch over Facebook. It seems my family is always in catch-up mode, constantly in motion; Brock's family is no different. And these children are his fault.

His kids, Braxton and Bennett, make an interesting pair; they're like the modern day equivalent of Goofus & Gallant. I don't see them very much, but when I get the chance, they're a lot of fun. Rambunctious, scream-y, fear-in-your-heart type fun. Braxton is the oldest--I think he's, like, three or four?--or maybe six, I can't remember--and he is cautious, intellectual, sweet; he's inquisitive and deliberate. Bennett, on the other hand, is... two? Man, I'm a bad aunt. He's NO MORE than two, I know that much. Bennett is like a pocket-sized Chris Farley, minus the booze and cocaine. He's all about the laughs and the screaming. He's sturdy, bullish, independent, and loud. That kid is made out of concrete. Where Braxton is sensitive, Bennett is brutish; when Braxton is deep in thought, Bennett is throwing himself off a chair five feet high. I think the wee one will be an adventure junkie, and the other one will worry. I also think Bennett looks like his dad, whereas Braxton resembles his mom, but they both look like members of the Aryan race (adorable Children of the Corn!), so it's a lot like comparing Nazis to Neo-Nazis.

We did all of the Science Center things you're supposed to do--the shadow wall, the bubbles, the anemone pool, the Planetarium, the Insect area. At the bubble pool, Bennett did a face plant into it (A POOL FILLED WITH BUBBLE MIX), and came up super excited... until he realized there was something on his face. Now the 'something' was just a big cluster of bubbles, but for some reason, he couldn't divine that--he stood there, frozen, his little hands moving towards his mouth where the cursed bubbles lay dying. Nothing on his body moved except for his slow-moving, chubby little hands, and his big round eyes--they kept flitting back and forth, rolling around, trying to find the source of this madness. Finally I wiped the bubbles off of his face, and he ran off, freed from the bubbly chains that once bound him. I couldn't figure out what that was about; he acted like ten scorpions were laying eggs into his wide open mouth. Kids are so weird.

We ended up in the bug section. This cannot be overstated in any way: I DO NOT LIKE BUGS. Another bold statement: I would rather eat Mad Cow than have a butterfly land on my finger. I'm already an angry heffer six days out of the month (the Esq would claim 16 days, but hello--the alternative to NOT having a girlfriend is HAVING ONE, and all of the trappings that come with it); I can handle tainted beef. I cannot handle the fluttering loveliness of a hand-sized insect, I just cannot. But bugs in general... horrifying. The last time I saw a spider on the floor, the Esq asked me, "Would you like me to get that?" but I couldn't answer him because I was already on a one-way flight to Mexico. Because everyone knows that Mexico is spider-free.

Something people don't seem to understand about me is that I'm not down with ANY bugs. You guys are all EWW SPIDERS EWW and then in the same breath OOOOOH A LADYBUG, EEEEE A BUTTERFLY! I'm sorry, what? The NAME of the BUG is LADY...BUG. Ladybug. If the word BUG wasn't your first clue, maybe the pronotum and antennae tipped you off. Maybe the fact that it's a part of the beetle family will change your mind--EWW BEETLES EWWW, yeah, now you see what I'm talking about. Also, the butterfly is the craziest bug of all; just because it has brightly-colored wings does not mean it isn't going to attack you. Or rather, mistakenly fly into you with its buggy little body, but WHATEVER. GROSS.

We took the kids into the Butterfly exhibit at the Science Center, which is pretty cool for people who enjoy having large flying bugs twittering about in the air and underfoot. Some of the butterflies were beautiful, but for the most part, I was trying to keep Bennett from stomping on and/or eating them. I forget how strange it must be to not have a voice. He can say certain words, but for the most part, he was pointing and screaming. And when you're excited by butterflies, but have no words, that's a lot of pointing and screaming. I believe the word "Baaaaaaa-BAAAAAAAH" was actually 'butterfly'; the distinction between that and 'bubbles' (Ba-baaaaaa-ba-BAAAAH!) was hard to discern, but I soldiered through it. He could have been saying LET ME DOWN BITCH, but I guess we'll never know.

Inside of the exhibit, I randomly remembered something about my (ex) mother-in-law. She came to visit once, and we had to work during the day, so our neighbor, James (everyone from that building will FOR SURE remember JAMES), took her to the Butterfly Exhibit. He paid for it, but because she thought it was so BORING--I think she used the word 'pointless', I also remember the phrase 'serious waste of money'--she reimbursed him for the ticket. I don't really have any judgment attached to the story, I just find it extremely funny that she rejected the Butterfly Exhibit outright; no niceties to grease the wheel, no polite nodding of the head, just a firm and final THIS SHIT IS RETARDED.

The kids tired us out as much as the Science Center did them; it just confirmed my semi-childlessness. I'm good with the one. I don't know how people do it. My mom kept saying, "I'm so glad you came!" because she would have been way outnumbered if she'd gone on her own. We went on the Monorail and walked around Westlake Center, we rode the carousel with the boys, we had lunch at the Center House. Lunch was strange: Bennett was eating yogurt with one hand and a pickle with the other. He's like a little human garbage can. I tried engaging both boys in a lunch conversation, while waiting in line at Subway, but it ultimately went nowhere.

Me: So...what do you people eat?
Braxton: What people?
Me: You. Little people. Kids and such.
Braxton: LITTLE PEOPLE? You think I'm LITTLE?
Me: No, not like--NO. You're the perfect size. I mean, what do you want to EAT? Here at Subway? Right now? In this very moment?
Braxton: I like spaghetti.
Me: How about a sandwich that tastes nothing like spaghetti? Like tuna!
Braxton: Okay!
Me (holding Bennett): So!
Bennett: -squirming-
Me: What would YOU like to eat?
Bennett: BAH BUH BUHHHH BAAAAAAAAAH BAH!
Me: Sounds like another tuna sandwich to me.
Braxton: He can't talk.
Me: You don't think that sounded like "tuna sandwich"?
Braxton: Maybe he said 'spaghetti'.
Me: TUNA IT IS!

After buying tuna sandwiches ("...AND Cheetos...AND apple juice...AND a cookie!" said Braxton, who clearly hoped they were spaghetti-flavored), my mom came back from the loo and we sat down for lunch. Braxton surveyed his delicious bounty and nodded sharply to me (although I like to think of it as 'bowing' or 'genuflecting'). "This is the most awesomest lunch EVER, Auntie Marika!" Technically, I think that dipping an oversized pickle into fruit-flavored yogurt is probably the most awesomest lunch ever, but I didn't say so. Bennett's stomach must be like Highlander's, although I think there can only be one.

Upon leaving, we strapped the boys in (I also equate this phrase with putting on a bra), and my mom gave Braxton a piece of gum. He was happily chewing away on it when a big "HMPH" came from the backseat; I turned around, and there was a very sad face sporting a very stuck-out lip. My mom asked him what was wrong; apparently he'd swallowed his gum: "MY MOUTH JUST SWALLOWED IT!" he cried. He said the word 'swallowed' in the same manner you might say HORNSWAGGLED or GENITAL WARTS. I thought the image of his mouth being a totally separate entity--a totally separate, TRAITOROUS entity--was very visual. My mom offered to drive me to 826 Seattle, and before we left, Braxton struggled to understand volunteerism.

Braxton: What's a volunteer?
Me: It's someone who works for free.
Braxton: But why?
Me: Why, indeed.

I also did that thing that my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles have done to me over the ages: "HEY YOU GUYS, LOOK OVER HERE, THERE'S THE COOLEST BRIDGE ON THE LEFT..." and I started in on the bridge's information and possible history--then realized OH MY GOD I'M EVEN BORING MYSELF. My family members always wanted us to look out the window at something, learn something new, check out some crazy wonderful thing in nature, and I was all YAAAAAAAAWN. I wondered why they felt we needed to learn anything while riding in the car--wasn't I learning enough from my Sweet Valley High book? Now that the tables have turned, I am no closer to understanding why people do this, or why I am quickly falling into the category of Teacher to Unwilling Participants. At least Braxton was interested, but Bennett was sleeping like the dead; luckily, I have the rest of his life to teach him stuff that he won't give a shit about.

The day ended with tutoring at my favorite space travel supply company, and eating at Pies & Pints with Whoreleen and the Esq. Their chicken pot pies are TO DIE FOR, NOM NOM NOM.

A good day, overall.