I'm not coming back. It's not me, it's you. Incidentally, I've found someone new, even though we haven't been intimate yet because he respects our relationship and where it's going. UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE. His name is Wordpress, and we're so in love!
You can reach my new blog through my website URL: www.sn0tty.com
I'm getting a little tired of writing "Oh em gee! Congratulations on your engagement! I'm so happy for you two!" on everybody's Facebook pages. I'm not being uncharitable. I'm just being a bitch.
Yesterday, my friend Carly got engaged--ohemgee! congrats! so happy!--and she is the TWELFTH PERSON I know who's been asked The Big One this past year. That's twelve happy couples, most of them getting married in 2009 or 2010. Statistically speaking, half of these couples will be divorced within five years, but I like to think these twelve will make it, and twelve *other* couples--people from Australia, Florida, Mars--will ultimately fail. I won't win any points wishing divorce upon people (or Martians), but I'm fairly certain folks wished for my inevitable divorce, which was the best thing that ever happened to my ex-husband. It was good for me, too, but terrifying; I'd never been alone before. Through my sobbing I heard a thousand trumpets heralding his departure, so I figured that was a good sign.
NO, I AM NOT JEALOUS OF MY FRIENDS. NUH-UH. AM NOT. A little.
We can't afford toilet paper, much less a wedding; we're so broke, we can't afford to dream about a different kind of life. Lately, I've started making handwritten lists of activities I used to do, food I used to eat, things I used to buy; it's provocative like a love letter, wistful like a lost love. It's like a Hope Chest: the 'I sure fucking HOPE we can do these things again someday' Hope Chest. So, a wedding is a no-go. Plus, it's still early--if I know my boyfriend, I'd say we're at about half-time in the Big Game, maybe even a time-out in the third quarter. I don't know why I'm using football references; I guess so he won't understand what I'm talking about.
I don't object to marriage, or any of these specific couples getting married--OMG! w00t! happy!--I'm just astounded by the timing. If there ever was an onslaught of marital bliss, a veritable avalanche of shindiggery, a slew of receptions from which to do regrettable things, THIS IS IT. Couldn't they have staggered their collective happiness into something easier for me to emotionally and financially handle? Yeah, that's right, you couples should have been thinking about my needs--HOW DARE YOU. The audacity of your inherent happiness offends me, sir, it surely does. What? I SAID GOOD DAY, SIR.
It's hard enough to come up with funds for a wedding shower gift, bachelorette party debauchery, wedding gift, the inevitable baby shower gift that comes a year later--but twelve times over? I CAN'T EVEN COUNT THAT HIGH. That being said, congratulations to all of my newly-betrothed friends. Oh! Em! Gee!I am just so happy for you all. I hope you enjoy your wedding gifts of stolen single-ply toilet paper and hastily-handwritten wishlists. If you're lucky, I'll throw in a dream for free. Maybe this one:
I had a dream last night that I was Britney Spears, performing a song at The Showbox in downtown Seattle, with back-up dancers who turned out to be drag queens. Is this a sign that my life is finally in the shitter? Or was it a cosmic message about a possible future career as a drag queen back-up dancer? Don't knock it; I'll pretty much do anything at this point.
It's always the people I hate the most that come back to this blog, time and time again. Oh, not YOU... but, you know, The Others. The uber-devout with their unkind, not-very-Christian emails; the narrow-minded gay-bashers, who reveal to me their Doomsday prophecies of Hell and Damnation (where I'm headed, too, apparently); the bigoted conservatives who scream about Obama the Muslim, Obama the Terrorist, as though I personally voted him into office without anyone else's help; people I've never met who've called me a negro, a whore, a heathen, a shitty parent, a sinner, a bad writer, a bad role model, a bad female; women who let me know I'm a traitor to other women--for what reasons, they won't say; wymyn who tell me I'm not pro-choice enough, who say I need a louder voice; people who give a shit about my opinion on divorce, as though my opinion really matters; men who imply, suggest, or otherwise demand I blow them, fuck them, fuck their wives, their girlfriends, or sometimes, just to fuck off; old acquaintances who feel my political, religious, or social opinions somehow affect their daily lives; family, friends, and strangers having different opinions about a piece I wrote, some feeling they have the right to demand changes or re-writes because they're unhappy about my level of honesty. And then there's the religious right-to-lifers, people who take care of their families as diligently as they insult me about my stance on abortion. Guess what? I'm not just pro-choice: I'm PRO-ABORTION. I think everyone should have at least four! Stick that in your rotting birth canals and smoke it.
This is just the tip of the blogging iceberg. Yes, I know it's part of the game, but it's wearing me down; I know this weekend was hard, but that was all my fault. I wasn't prepared for the onslaught of defensive linebacker comments, nor was I ready for the rush of hate mail awaiting me later--and for what? All so they could tell me how wrong, horrible, awful, misguided, angry, idiotic, stupid, and wrong, wrong, WRONG I was about everything, ever. These were all written in defensive, judgmental, condescending tones, letting me know how defensive, judgmental, and condescending I am--to which I respond: HELLO, MIRROR. There are so many people who come here to lurk and specifically disagree with me, or who just plain hate me. I don't need the approval of those people, but I would like them to go away. Wishful thinking? Probably. I guess I'm in the Denial stage of my blogging grief.
I didn't start this blog to be hated. I just wanted to make people laugh and have a place to practice some writing, not host a website for jerky people I would never hang out with in real life--why am I facilitating the comments and emails of people I can't fucking stand? When over half of my energy is dedicated to putting out fires because of this blog, instead of creating good content, it makes me wonder: what the fuck am I doing here? I've already asked what the fuck they're doing here, but the answer is usually 'because you're wrong and I'm here to set you right.' Take your well-meaning intentions and play out your dramatic bullshit on the people who expect it: your children. While you're in here setting me straight, they're out there, doing drugs and dating girls like me. If only you'd been more diligent in converting them, and not just Yours Truly.
I feel like I'm going in the wrong direction here. I'm truly sad about it, but not completely out of the game. I just need to re-group and start anew with some confidence. I'm a tough girl, but I can only take so much unwavering hatred from people. Sometimes I feel like the Ann Coulter of whatever the opposite of Ann Coulter is. What's on the other side of evil? Mother Teresa, or just more evil Sean Hannity?
Comments--from people I love (a big shout-out to my regular peeps) and from people I can only describe as AIDS-worthyfuckoffs (you know who you are, YES. YOU.)--are closed for now. I need to figure out how to handle this, and then handle it. Until then, I will blog about boring, vomitous things, like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Oscar nominations, my ass.
(I'm selling these and another pair on Craig's List right now--but since the other ones are on the teal side of the color spectrum, and somewhat *blingy*, I couldn't bring myself to admit publicly that I'd bought them.) Entitled: ***Are You An Orc? Or Perhaps Half-Giant?***
Are you related to Hagrid from the Harry Potter series? Were your ancestors jolly, green, or giant in any way?
Are you a big girl with no fear of heights, or an even bigger drag queen with fabulous taste in shoes? DO YOU HAVE ENORMOUS FEET?
If you answered 'Yes!' to any of these questions, then I have the shoes for you!
I bought these 3-inch heels (size 13--I'm a 12, but they're small) in a feeble attempt at warding off my thirties, but here I am at thirty-two: that plan failed miserably. They're adorable and super fun--but only to look at. The punchline is: I paid over $300 for these two pairs of Linea Paolo heels, but I never actually wore them. Well, I wore the black ruffly ones to The Mercury on Capitol Hill, but you know how their gothy patrons dress; no way could those shoes compete with the Glittery Emo Parade in such dark and smoky quarters. I learned something valuable that night, something I will never, ever forget: fat people and peeptoe shoes have parallel purposes in life. Much like in Ghostbusters, you should never cross the streams.
Make me an offer I won't refuse. They're very cute, but I'm never going to wear them; I've made my peace with kitten heels and Frisbie-sized flats. Buy my shoes and take them out dancing! Your feet, and my kicks, deserve it.
The Esq and I are self-described font snobs, and actually quite proud of it. I'm the worst kind of snob, the kind that expects better choices from the people around me, but the Esq has higher standards without being a total dick. Me, I'll point at your Times New Roman effort and laugh in your face. I'll do it loudly, and without remorse--if anything, YOU'RE offending ME. If you can't branch out from the one default font that comes with Windows, then you must buy picture frames and keep the photos that come with them, never showcasing your own family or friends. IF YOU EVEN HAVE ANY.
Helvetica is fine, if a bit pedantic, but every Arial font drives me totally insane; the same goes for the Lucida family, Verdana, Comic Sans, and Franklin Gothic Medium. As fonts go, they're worthless: too boring, overused, or way too narrow. I'm a fan of Garamond for professional work, Century Gothic for kids, Bookman Old Style for letter-writing, and Trebuchet for this blog. Gimmicky fonts like Jokerman, Rage, Chiller, Ransom--they're interesting, but they use up a lot of printer ink, and are somewhat hard to read. I find that Courier New and Modern No. 20 are wannabe fonts, and the 'cursive writing' ones--like Lucida Handwriting, Monotype Corsiva, Freestyle Script, Mistral--are for princess-y girls between the ages of nine and thirteen. Don't even get me started on the non-letter fonts like Dingbat or Wingdings, because I don't know who seriously uses them; someone who speaks in pictures, I guess. SKULL AND CROSS BONES-CHILI PEPPER-PALM TREE-MANSION-BABY BOTTLE-FACTORY-STOP SIGN-EAR... it's sentence structure from briny deep, the stuff nightmares are made of. Don't ever use Wingdings if you're trying to communicate clearly. Point being: I know my fonts, and so does the Esq.
Last weekend, we helped my kiddo with his Science Fair project; the experiment surrounded SweetTarts, and which liquid would dissolve them fastest. The entire weekend was a lesson in on-going patience, or maybe a shrieking advertisement for birth control. I could have thrown together his project in about an hour, but he had to do everything. Like, everything. I did learn something new: Oren doesn't know how to type. After watching him type the word 'science' over the space of five whole minutes... peck............ peck...........peck........SNORE... I realized that multiple sections of scientific data (question, hypothesis, variables, data, materials, graphs, photos, and conclusion) would take him three years and four months to complete. I could feel myself aging with every peck. So the Esq, who did most of the work (as a former Science Fair competitor), worked his magic somehow, and taught Oren basic word-processing. By the end, he was a pro.
In the beginning, however, we had to figure out the layout for his triptych, help him write some paragraphs, make headlines or titles for different sections--so we pointed him in a font direction. 'These are all the fonts--just go through all of them, see what they look like, and choose your very favorite.' For a font snob like me, I was excited--what kind of font would my own offspring come to love? Is good taste really inherited? We were about to find out.
He scrolled through a bunch of them, predictably liking what I call 'boy fonts'--Magneto, Chiller, Elephant, Showcard Gothic--but they wouldn't make the cut. He looked at each one thoughtfully, laughing at some, pointing at others. He stopped on one, but for some reason, shrugged and kept moving down the list. He clicked on one, enlarged and emboldened it, and turned to us, a beaming little face filled with happiness. "This is it! I like THIS ONE." I peered over his shoulder, just as he was announcing his decision:
Times. New. Roman.
That's when I pushed him off the cliff. It's better this way. Despite his totally average taste in fonts, Oren was awarded the Exemplary Ribbon in the Science Fair last night--the highest ribbon given out--which I accepted on his behalf, since he couldn't be there due to his unfortunate accident. Times New Roman. You know, it's true what they say: kids can kill you. Unless you get to them first.
Everything looks better with Dolce & Gabbana; it's a proven fact. 5-7 days and these newbies are MINE ALL MINE. (Thanks to my parents for the Christmas gift!)
1. Who cares about the Native Americans? The Esq and I had a long conversation about this the other day, and if a Native American tribe dwindled down to nothing (as so many of them do), would you even know? Would you care? There's a major conundrum around how they live versus how the world works. Where are the role models? Sherman Alexie can't be the only one. I'm slightly concerned and very befuddled. Manthony should have something good to say about this. (I care!)
2. If a person wants or files for divorce, why are they automatically at fault? I lucked out, because both my ex-husband and I wanted out at the same time, but I have two separate friends going through the divorce process, and it's really fucked up. Both of them were in unhealthy, unhappy relationships, and so they made the decision to separate. And because they raised their hands first, they're the jerky assholes--even though their partners were just as unhappy (it seemed). Here's what I know about relationships: it takes two to make it work, and two to break it. Unfortunately for my buddies, that isn't the case--they're just The Bad Guy/Whorish Gal. Two people who are smart, funny, kind--GOOD PEOPLE--and all of a sudden, they're fuckoffs. People who have known them for years are bagging on them, as though it's any of their business. I feel bad for my friends; it's hard enough getting divorced, so it must be twice as hard having to constantly defend yourself against people who used to be your family or friends--especially when they appoint themselves as your personal Judge and Jury.
***Addendum: Since people seem to think I'm WAY OFF BASE here--thanks for the defensive, finger-pointy comments, Friends & Family of The Opposing Teams (at least, that's what it feels like)--I'm going to reveal that this diatribe of mine came after receiving six emails, eight phone calls, four Facebook messages, three G-Chat instant messages, and two directly-at-my-face interactions (over the space of 48 hours), most of them calling my almost-divorced girlfriend a whore, and my cousin an irresponsible father with an alcohol problem. This last sentence was quoted to me four separate times--with the SAME EXACT WORDING--which makes me wonder where they got their information from. Probably from another 'concerned party.' Right.
These things were said by people who hadn't really spoken to either of my friends--they were just people "concerned" about the welfare of their Other Friends (ie; the spouses of said girlfriend and cousin). So I was feeling a little DEFENSIVE. To which I respond with a fat middle finger. Oh, it's rude and hideous for ME to defend my friends, but when YOU do it, it's NOBLE. When YOU defend your friend, it's because you're right. Because you're just looking out for your friends, but me, I'm just basking in their failures, right? I'm just sticking my nose where it doesn't belong. So I ask you: what the fuck were YOU guys doing? FUCK. YOU. Just because I'm feeling defensive of my long-time friends (family, even), does not make me a bad person, or even misguided in any way. It just makes me a person with an opinion, and a heavy, confused heart. This is where I deal with that stuff. If YOU can't deal, FUCKING LEAVE.
Comment moderation has been turned off--I'm done with this post, completely done, and would like to move forward; I considered taking the post completely down, but this is a good lesson for me. Good luck to the couples in question, I hope you come to a decision with compassion and grace, which is what I've been telling my friends to do thus far. Thank you for your comments. PS: you should really appreciate your thumbs more.
3. Do we really appreciate our thumbs? Discuss.
I'm heading to the Eastside on a quest for new glasses with my mom--yes, I understand that contacts are lighter, easier, cheaper. I just appreciate having facial armor.
I volunteered yesterday at my favorite space travel supply company, and ran into a conundrum: the kid I was working with was totally working me. I've tutored Cameron before, and he's delightfully unfocused due to Asperger's Syndrome. I enjoy talking with him, even if I never get to do any of the talking. Because he doesn't recognize a lot of social cues, he just steamrolls right over anything I might say, and answers his own questions with more questions that he can't wait to answer. This is okay with me; I find him freakishly adorable.
Sometimes, though, kids can get borderline unhealthy attachments--or they start seeing you as more of a peer. After we finished his homework, Cameron began drawing a picture of a King and Queen, ruling over a Lord of the Rings-type country. QUITE INNOCENTLY, I asked him what the picture was for; apparently, it was for me.
Snotty: So tell me about this picture you're drawing. Cam: Well, it's a King and Queen, and they live in a warring country, but they're good rulers. Snotty: And what are their names? Cam: It's you and me! Snotty: ....really? Cam: Yeah! We RULE. Get it? WE RULE, like royalty rules. Snotty: Riiiiiight. Gotcha. Cam: So do you still have a boyfriend? Snotty: YEP. Cam: And do you still like people who play video games? Snotty: Um. Yes? Cam: What's your last name? Snotty: W-why? Cam: So I can friend you on Facebook! Snotty: Oh, ah... well, see--I only use Facebook... professionally. Cam: What's your profession? Snotty: Um.... commercial real estate.
Yeah. Commercial real estate. I can help you with all of your commercial real estate needs. Whatever those may entail. I can also help you tell outrageous lies to the youth of tomorrow, if that's in any way helpful. What, I panicked; I don't need any Mary Kay Letourneau parallels. I'm cool with the status quo.
Cameron continued to ramble on, and I was thankful he never asked for my last name again; it would be too weirdly inappropriate to ever have him as a Facebook friend, especially since he's approaching 'young man' territory (I think he's 13). He talked and talked and talked and talked, stopping only once to say, "Ewwwwww--there's a hair in my mouth." Fascinating.
Cam: Remember me talking about Dungeons & Dragons a lot? Snotty: So much that I don't remember a time before it, actually.
The only thing he talked about more than Dungeons & Dragons was the Charlie Sheen sitcom, Two and a Half Men. Normally, when someone says "Oh, I've never seen that show," what they really mean is THERE IS NO WAY IN HELL I'M EVER WATCHING THAT CRAP. When I told Cameron that I'd never seen it--in a snooty voice that more-than-implied my disdain for situational comedies starring a dud like Charlie Sheen--he took it upon himself to act out every scene he could possibly remember. Then he quizzed me: What was Charlie Sheen's character name on the show? DUH--CHARLIE!!! What was Charlie's most unlikable trait to women? OH, C'MON--he never remembers their names!!! This kid is going to be writing terrible fanfic about Charlie Sheen one day... which is probably the saddest sentence I have ever written.
This blurry photo has been brought to you by the letterB (for bangs!), and my happy new hair.
KJ and I headed out to West Seattle to get our hair done by my friend, Michele, pictured here. She and I used to work together at another West Seattle salon that shall remain nameless (sorry, I'm only plugging Michele today), but only for a week. We stayed in touch off and on, and finally hung out last month, which served to remind me how sweet and completely awesome she is: positive without being too cheesy, energetic without tiring me out, smart, funny, laid-back, responsible. I don't normally care about how responsible my hairstylist is, but I've had stylists who call in sick a lot, or who partied too much to make it into work. I need someone reliable, not a coked-up, 22-year old boob-job-waiting-to-happen.
Michele inverted my hairstyle so that it was longer in the front, and fixed my forehead clusterfuck so I have... I dunno, sortof-sideswept bangs. Of course, right now they're pulled back and nowhere to be found, but that's because I'm still in my pajamas. Pajamas do not warrant flat-ironing the hair; only a trip to the outside world does.
[Michele and KJ, the Esq's seester, with her new 'do.]
Go see Michele because:
1. You live in West Seattle, or have a car that will take you there. It's worth the drive (and the drive is nice).
2. She listens. So many stylists do not. I think (and KJ can pipe in her opinion, too) that she listened to what we both wanted, and did exactly that. We were both happy with the end results.
3. The price point is very reasonable, especially since Michelle has been doing hair forever. Also: the hair color line is organic, and doesn't smell AT ALL. That's pretty impressive (and KJ's color still looks good).
4. It's cool to support your local small business owners! Shake your fist at the Gene Juarez Monopoly, no matter how beautiful their bathrooms are--why pay money to go around on the assembly line merry-go-round, when you can have an actual relationship with someone who cares about your hair?
5. I said so. And when it comes to the salon/spa industry (and its' professionals), I have excessively high standards and expectations, as my long-time readers know. Michele met every one of them.
My only gripe was that I don't live in West Seattle; I thought it would be a longer drive, but we left with twenty minutes to get there, and made it in time. It's a sweet little salon, nicely decorated, clean--if you're looking for a nice space, an awesome stylist, a GREAT haircut, look no further. For reals.
***Update: Maybe I should have mentioned the freaking salon name, durrr.
Salon Julian 7357 35th Ave SW Seattle, WA 98126 (206) 937-5678
Miss America 2009 was on a couple of nights ago; we stopped to watch a couple of the girls do their 'thing', whatever that entailed. None of them impressed me (I say that like any of them ever have), and during the Evening Gown competition - also known as THE GLITTERY TRAIN TO NOWHERE - one fun-lovin' contestant said something like:
Blah blah blah beauty - skin deep - blah blah what's in your heart that matters - blah blah chance of a lifetime - blahdy blah blah "because beauty and happiness should come from the inside and just OOZE out of you!"
AND SCENE.
Snotty: Oh my GOD. Esq: Yes, Miss America should be more OOZING. Snotty: (laughing) Esq: That's the best word you could come up with? How about 'ejaculate'? How about you VOMIT happiness all over America? Snotty: *dies*
So that's what beauty pageants are all about: vomiting beauty and ejaculating happiness. I always wondered. Now it all makes sense.
Last year's Miss America was from Farmington Hills, Michigan, and her platform issue was, ironically, vomiting. Or rather, raising awareness of eating disorders. She was also a teenager, had nothing listed under "Talent" on the official Miss America website, and apparently 'can't live without Vitamin B!!!' This year's winner was Katie Stam, who inspired nothing in me except the strong desire to punch a midwestern beauty queen. God Bless America.
Inauguration Day was inspiring, yet underwhelming. I'm sure the people in Washington D.C. were pooping their pants with political joy, but television and online coverage was boring, not to mention faulty. Not once did CNN's 'live feed' actually work, so I missed most of the speech, but I'm sure my neighbors were equally entertained by my gratuitous use of the word 'fuck' and the inevitable sobfest that followed.
I'm glad I missed the speech: it was easier for me to read first, then watch. I have enjoyed Jon Favreau's speechwriting immensely, however resentful I am of his young age and high stature. So many people said they didn't like the speech yesterday, claiming it didn't WOW them enough, it was too simple, too boring, too broad. After reading it, I felt it was appropriate; I also thought it was very well-written. Listening to it--well, it was a little slow and measured, but a solid delivery, nonetheless. One challenging part about speechwriting is that you write these speeches for the government and for the people, but a sixth-grader has to understand it. It's not like a large number of sixth graders are clamoring for more political knowledge, but speechwriters have to aim low (sorry, sixth graders) for a collective national understanding.
My ten-year old would have understood some of it, had he been remotely interested; on Election Day, when I asked him what he thought of Obama being the President-Elect, he rolled his eyes as hard as possible and said in a very put-upon voice, "HE'S BLACK. HE'S THE PRESIDENT. I GET IT." Eyeroll, eyeroll. What a bizarre luxury it must be to not even blink at Barack Obama's skin color; I envy his color-blindness. My son remembers Bush through weird snippets he's seen on TV or in real life: I remember a time, when he was three or four, that he marched around the room, chanting "No blood for oil! No blood for oil!" because an Iraq War protest went right past his daycare. He also said, this past year, "President Bush is kind of dumb--he can't even say the word NUCLEAR right." With Herculean effort, I kept a straight face and did not do any happy jigs or shoot fireworks into the sky. I just shrugged and said, "Well, YOU know how to say it, and that's all that matters." The wunderkind.
KJ and I walked into Lucid after a ride-along with Whoreleen, and my friend Melanie was sitting with a perfectly nice, very inebriated fellow. This is the conversation that followed:
Guy: (pointing) I love her! Mel: (points at me) You love who--her? Guy: NO! HER. (points to KJ) Snotty: Thanks. Guy: I love you! KJ: Hey, it's a day for Change--Change is coming! Guy: So... can I holla at you? KJ: (politely sidesteps the question) Snotty: Ironically, it's not a day for Hope.
At least not for him. We, however, were dipped in Hope and rolled in Change. Journalists, friends, bloggers, and politicians keep asking the question, 'When will the honeymoon end?' For me, the honeymoon began when the Bush regime ended, leaving us with little more than his thumb in our asses. And so I say to George W. Bush, with all the unearned respect I can possibly muster up: take your thumb backimmediately, please. There's a new thumb in town.
In other politically-relevant news, remember that whole 'cutting my own hair is a good idea' debacle? WELL KNEEL BEFORE ZUUL, FOR I AM HEALED. My friend, Michelle, was nice enough to fix my clusterfuck of bangs at her new space in West Seattle, Salon Julian. My new slogan for her is, of course: YES SHE CAN. I will post all the dirty deets once I'm home and can upload our hair photos--I have for-real bangs now, whether I like it or not. (I like.) Barack Obama deserves a country filled with hard-working people, and also people with good hair. I aim to be one of those people, minus the hard work.
What's going to matter is not the past, but the future when it comes to campaigns and if the Democrat Party feels like they can win an election by focusing on me, I think they'll be making a huge tactical mistake.
It's here! It's here! It's here! It's here! Today, Dubya is gone, baby, gone. I can't believe today is today--and I can't believe my level of excitement propelled me out of bed at the crack of dawnthis morning, just so I could do a happy little jig in my underwear and shoot ten thousand professional fireworks into the sky.
Josh came over this weekend, and brought his new Acer Netbookwith him, the newest little laptop to sweep our nation. Weighing in at 2.2 pounds, this laptop is Lilliputian in size,and in price: compared to the $2,000 Macbook Pro (which every blogger seems to covet), the Netbook's $300 price tag is closer to my price range... although right now, my savings consist of about three dollars in bus change and a $2 bill my grandma gave me, twenty years ago.That being said, I am woefully without a laptop, so I won't be posting any inauguration stories until tomorrow--sorry. I'll be too busy dancing with the crazy idea of living in a country I like again. What a strange concept.
Still: Inauguration Day + Dubya's Final Exit = a giddy and invigorated Snotty McSnotterson. Oh, I am going to celebrate SO FREAKING HARD today; I am going to enjoy this historical moment. But, as the picture above implies, it's not going to be a cake walk. There's a lot of work to be done, and nothing worth having has ever been achieved easily.
I woke up with a bright, annoying light in my eye this morning; I dove under the covers for another hour or so, hoping it would go away. When I finally emerged, I realized the annoying light was the sun, and that it was--OH MY GOD--shining. Through my bedroom window. In the middle of winter. I don't exactly know where these warm rays of happiness came from, but I assume they're shining directly out of Barack Obama's ass.
The reign of terror is coming to an end, and blah blah blah; I'm just ready for something that looks, sounds, and acts nothing like George W. Bush. The HOPE- CHANGE-PROGRESS parade will be dancing on our faces tomorrow, but today is for Martin Luther King, Jr. Today is not just a day to sleep in, but a day off so you can help others. 'Others?' you ask, cocking your head to the side as though the concept sounded vaguely familiar. YES, OTHERS--as in other people. I know it's hard to imagine when you're still drunk at 10 A.M., but three-day weekends aren't just for sleeping off your hangover. I know, I know--tell that to your hangover.
There are more than 12,000 official community projects being served today, which is truly amazing. My community service project is dedicated to The Esquire, and involves finishing this huge home project so we can have a nicer existence--I've never worked so diligently in my life, I'm not kidding. This place is getting organized in a major way. I'll also be volunteering tomorrow at my regular gig (826seattle.org) and hanging at Lucid in the U-District; they're an official party spot for moveon.org, of which I am also a member. If you're seeking an inauguration venue, come hang with me! The Esq is ditching me (boo!) to go make money (yay!), so I'll be there with my buddies instead. I've never watched an inauguration, so it should be interesting; come watch me implode when Rick Warren gives his moving GAYS ARE EVIL invocation. I might bring a shotgun and shoot up some flatscreen TVs, but Martin Luther King, Jr. was all about peaceful resolutions. Maybe I'll throw my shoes at him, and become a national hero.
"The battle is in our hands. And we can answer with creative nonviolence the call to higher ground to which the new directions of our struggle summons us. The road ahead is not altogether a smooth one. There are no broad highways that lead us easily and inevitably to quick solutions. But we must keep going."
Photo: This is the shoe section of Mariah Carey's gratuitous closet; I can only imagine how many rooms she has for her teeny-tiny whoreshorts and her itsy-bitsy hookertops. This is not the closet of my dreams, but at least it's organized (BY HER STAFF).
The word 'negro' was hurled at me in one of the comments I deleted; my neighbor and I laughed about that for a long time. Well, he was horrified at first, but then--in a moment of clarity--he said, "I guess you can't write about skull-fucking and how God is dead and expect a key to the city." I had to agree. That was probably one of the most insightful things he's ever said, but even so: negro?! RUDE. If you're going to be racist, at least be accurate about where I'm from. Samoan people are generally known for giving birth, playing football, and converting to Mormonism, so you can start with those juicy details and insult me with puissance from now on--instead of sounding like an uneducated honky with no working teeth.
Remember when I tried organizing my home, only to decide that arson might be more effective? Well, it's time to organize FOR REALS now. My parents are systematically doing their home, and the Esq's parents are cleaning out their garage after a hundred years, which is truly inspiring; getting rid of unnecessary *stuff* is so RELIEVING (see also: hard work and boring). I would just like to know where my socks are, or where my life is hiding. Allison, of www.simplifyorganization.com, is my professional motivator in this endeavor. She came over and had a pow-wow with my closets, getting me all pumped up to seize the moment and simplify my life--and then she left, leaving me to open a bag of Doritos and fall down a time warp on Facebook. Now I'm hitting it hard today, since it's a beautiful day out, and my apartment is too nice to look like utter shite.
It saddens me to say this; I never thought I would live to see this day. But Jon Stewart, America's most beloved Jew, has officially run out of jokes.
Thank you, Jon, for boring me to tears every single day since November 5, 2008. Two seconds after Barack Obama was elected into office, The Daily Show ran into a problem, and that problem was relevancy. It's easy to make fun of Dubya 'cause he's a rootin'-tootin', high-falutin', flaming ignoramus; it's harder for Jon to take on Obama, a candidate he personally championed. Yes, it's been fun watching the screamy religious news shows struggle for relevancy, but they weren't very relevant to begin with; I challenge anyone to convince me that Fox News is an actual news organization. I think Fox "News"--or shows like Bill O'Reilly--exist to keep your fear, faith, and ignorance fresh, and they're doing a great job. Look at all of the people out there, still flying the retarded flag of Sarah fucking Palin; if she was really that smart, she'd stay in Alaska AND DO HER JOB, proving to the people of our nation that she's ready to be a leader. She can't even lead her own frosty people, she's so busy promoting herself (and defending herself) in the media. I wouldn't like it if our Governor was always out of the state, doing her own personal media tour; I want a Governor who does, you know, gubernatorial-type things, and not just Vanity Fair.
Jon Stewart has touched on this a bit, but in the end, his jokes aren't that funny. His punchlines have fallen way short of what they were a year ago--he's losing his edge. Instead of watching a blisteringly-funny Jew, I'm seeing a sad Canadian clown. Where Stephen Colbert is smart and self-depracating, Jon Stewart is the king of dick and fart jokes. Where did all of the hilarious Daily Show correspondents go? Where are the funny women? What happened to the amazing guests and intellectual discourse? I remember when Lewis Black was a Wednesday regular, Stephen Colbert was a senior correspondent, Samantha Bee did perfect interviews; Steve Carrell, Rob Corddry, Ed Helms--all funny guys. Now they have the half-retarded girl from Flight of the Conchords, a square-jawed meathead, and a self-hating black dude who couldn't find 'funny' if it was dancing on his face. That's quite the line-up on a prime-time show that has won multiple Emmy's; no wonder it feels like I'm stuck in Amateur Hour.
I know Jon Stewart can still pull off a good show, but every time I've downloaded one, I'm severely disappointed. Stephen Colbert is poised to have the most relevant fake-news television show this year, since his character is a gun-toting, faith-having, foreign-fearing Republican; he'll be able to go where Jon Stewart cannot. Some of The Daily Show's skits have actually made us turn the show off, ten minutes in; so much of the writing is desperately un-funny, some of it downright embarrassing. I hope that they re-format or something, because I'm only going to give it so many chances--at some point, I won't go back. Not even for my favorite Jew.
It looks like a well-timed bomb--made of clothes, food wrappers, and dirty dishes--went off in my house. I'm determined to figure out the culprit of this mess, but should get my stuff out of the way first before pointing the finger at the Esq. I need to put clothes on and clean up a little before my friend gets here in two minutes (to help me wade through the mire), so enjoy this video while I am away:
I love Demetri Martin. He's the one who changed my views on competition: I don't compete now, I just buy trophies. Now I look good at everything.
Hard to forget when people keep making shockingly distasteful commemorative cakes about it. I have to admit, I laughed when I saw this photo--a nervous, oh-the-fucking-horror kind of giggle, the one I used upon hearing my first *good* 9/11 joke, which was seen on Arrested Development.
Photo: This photo ganked from Smitten Kitchen; my cakes didn't fall in the oven, but her photos turned out better. Hrmf.
David Beckham* demands, almost on a daily basis, that I bake him delicious treats; he would also like to find the bottom of a whiskey barrel, but that isn't good for his eye-blisteringly hot body. So today, I found the perfect medium: whiskey cake!
Yes, whiskey cake: two items that would please your old Southern grandpappy, a stable of bums, and all the Jews on your mother's side. It's a traditional honey cake--eaten on the Jewish New Year--by God's Supposedly Chosen People. I lifted the recipe from Smitten Kitchen, which can be found here. If you're like me, you can't get enough of those tasty kosher desserts, and I hope you're thinking to yourself, WOW--maybe I can bake stuff without rhyme or reason, too!
I've had honey cake before, and it's a wonderful tease for a foodie; it looks hearty, moist, sticky, flavorful, and sweet. What it usually isn't: hearty, moist, sticky, flavorful, or sweet. It usually tastes like the inside of a vacuum bag that's been dunked in sweet mothballs, or like a spicy cloth bandage still clinging to a dusty scab. I kid, but not really. The potential of honey cake--even the name, honey cake! sounds like sunshine-y sweetness and the promise of a new spring day!--never lives up to the hype, much like me and college, me and weight loss, me and my crappy English. So I was happy when Smitten Kitchen adapted a recipe that would ultimately confound and delight me, while also living up to its sugary namesake.
I was happy until I saw the recipe; I'm not Jewish--although I'm a HUGE fan, HUGE--so the word 'kosher' doesn't really register. Whenever I see KOSHER on a package that isn't Hebrew National Hot Dogs (my fave!), my eyes glaze over like I'm in Sunday schoolHebrew schoolschool. I never understood the whole kashrut (kosher) thing but, in a nutshell, it's a religious rule over the types of food the Jews can or cannot consume. Like they can eat animals, but not ones that are defective, and they have to be happy animals, or get slaughtered in some beautifully-specific way... something weird. I love me some Jews, but thanks for making an already sketchy and barely-understandable subject like religion way more complicated than it needs to be (Mormons should also be sarcastically thanked for this, too, although I'm more concerned about their religious doctrine, and less about their lack of foods--more chocolate for me). This recipe included everything under the sun, except butter. I had a small, butter-manufacturing cow when I saw that--okay yeah, you Jews are laughing at me, BUT I LAUGH AT YOU AND YOUR DAIRY-FREE DESSERTS; YOU'RE THE ONE WITHOUT ANY FUN IN YOUR FOOD. Maybe I like my cows angry, and my cakes moist and bad for me. No butter?! What's the point of making dessert if it's not going to induce heart attacks, or at the very least, dangerously-high cholesterol? I looked at the recipe again, and saw that vegetable oil was in the mix, as was honey, orange juice, warm coffee, vanilla, and that time-honored Kentucky tradition: whiskey. All this crap, each ingredient a strain on the stomach lining, and yet no heffer-loving goodness? What kind of immoral, inhumane eating habits are you teaching your poor starving children? NO FUCKING BUTTER?!?!
Yeah, I freaked out. I felt like I was creating a one-armed person; like, sure you can live without an arm and it's not that gross when compared to something like a flesh-eating virus (or frostbite), but still--I'd feel weird every now and then. Like a starfish reject or something.
Anyways, what was I talking about? Oh, right: whiskey cake. It was good: spicy, sweet, tangy, rich, light, moist, made with love and a quarter-cup of whiskey. It was even good without butter, which was generously slathered on a few slices later--by all of us--in a Gentile act of food defiance.
*David Beckham can be seen in the post before this one.
I'm getting tired of the gray weather, and it's only Day Four out of four fucking thousand, or however many hundreds of days our state is the color of old age. It never used to bother me, because I rather liked being depressed: it always made for better poetry, something reminiscent of that vomiting loved-up word jockey, Danielle Steel. The kind that gets made into a book called The Bridges of Madison County.
I want one of those "commercial days", where the sun is always golden and our teeth are always way too white; I want my scarf to blow in the wind as we drive off in our red convertible. I want commercial weather--I DEMAND IT. There's no way that California is located on the same coast as Washington; where's the weather balance, I ask you? And how!
I heard once that if you give something a name--like an illness or something else that's hard to deal with--you can accept it and move on. I gave my seasonal depression the name 'David Beckham' after hearing that, but it hasn't done much good. I thought if it was named after something really pretty, it might feel better and then fuck off--but that's not how David Beckham operates. I wonder how the Esq will feel about him moving in with us full-time; it's like the best worst threesome. At least *something* named David Beckham will be sleeping in my bed; surely that must be good for self-esteem. I guess it's better than getting a tramp stamp (or, if you prefer, ass antlers).
On the brighter side, I am now the owner of three coats; on the dumber side, I'm the owner of three coats TWO WEEKS AFTER THE SNOW, but whatever. I hit the crazy Target sales and came out a woolly winner. Now I'm off to bake something with dark chocolate and orange zest and you're jealous.
I'm kind of totally lovingMarko's post about boredomtoday; sometimes, I know exactly how he feels. It's like the perfect blog post: sad, self-depracating, honest, funny, short and sweet. Go check it outand cheer him up with a story you heard on Oprah. People love it when you do that; it's heartwarming and educational, which everybody enjoys! I wish people would do it more, actually: I truly appreciate receiving third-party life lessons and depressing book recommendations from Oprah disciples. It's like getting an Oprah-approvedSTD, without the sexual contact.
I pity you Oprah lovers, with your free cars and your abnormally-gifted children and your couch-jumping; you're like the Japanese tourists at Disneyland! You're worse than those zombie Mac lovers I MEAN APPLE WHORES. Worship at the swollen feet of your false gods, but not this one... did you ever think about giving Jesus a chance?!
But what about all of the people she helps, Snotty? What about single-handedly trying to save Africa? WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?! I don't need to warm my heart with Chicken Soup, and bully the children. While you people are sniveling with Oprah about LIVING! LOVING! AND LEARNING! [canned applause], I'm making myself useful on the internet, like playing Scrabble and checking my email. I don't have time for television sobfests; I do have time to sob in the shower over my SECOND ASS, but that's another story. At this point, Oprah herself would have to come to my house and stab me in the face to get my tears. She would have to manually squeeze my eyeballs with her own two fingers just to get one drop.
I think she does help people, but I'm pretty sick of the show being one big infomercial for overpriced products, overhyped celebrities, and Spirituality-in-a-Can; I don't watch it, and yet I am surrounded by Oprah everywhere. I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "...this one time? on Oprah?"--in the same reverential tones people reserve for GOD, or band camp. I'm glad she donates money and feeds the poor and turns ugly bitches into beautiful swan-like bitches, but I still think she's a sanctimonious cow. Freak out if you must, Oprah fans. I'm going to go LIVE MY BEST LIFE!
Skeletor: (drunk) Out of all the abortions I've had, she was my favorite. Snotty: I'm sorry? Skeletor: What are you sorry for? Shit happens. Snotty: I wasn't--did you just say out of all the-- Skeletor: (interrupting)--well yeah! Snotty: Out of all the WHAT you've had? Skeletor: Abor--oh! DIVORCES. Snotty: That was beautiful, what just happened here. Skeletor: Divorce ain't beautiful, girlie. Snotty: You just said out of all the divorces you've had, she was your favorite. Favorite wife? Skeletor: Yup. She was my favorite one to divorce. Man alive, I hated that bitch. Snotty: It's like you're speaking in Martian. Skeletor: Parsnip? Snotty: Exactly.
Manthony and I hung out, and did what we do best: shrug, whatever. I like this about Manthony, because I never know where we'll end up. First we meandered around Seattle: checked out the Frye Museum, insulted some ugly children who were featured in an art installation, and lazily flipped through expensive magazines at the Barnes&Noble downtown. We ended up at Dragonfish for Happy Hour where we inhaled some spring rolls, and washed them down with two orders of sushi. That is the second thing we do best together: eat. The third is probably talking shit, which we always do with excellence.
Once home, we headed back out with friends from the apartment building. We walked to Lucid, the new neighborhood lounge and my new favorite place to hang. Happy Hour is from 6PM-10PM, there's no cover, the music is good, the space is comfortable, and the owner is super cool. I think he said he's Haitian. Our group grabbed a pitcher of the Irish Death (!!!) and kicked back for an hour. I was sorry to leave when the band started playing, because I could have hung out all night; it's a really chill space. Check it out if you're ever in the U-District.
We left and met up with more people at The Little Red Hen, a SERIOUS country bar close to our place. I've been for their popular karaoke night, but last night was dancing only. And wow, did people dance! As usual, I was the only brown person in the joint, because--well, because it's a country bar. It was like a dance camp for honkies. A-Train and I tried dancing--me, a dark, shuffling iceberg of a person, and him, a sprightly stick of a white guy--but we just pissed the natives off by bumping into them an' their kind. My neighbor, Michelle, invited her boss--I now think of him as The Hot Boss--and they were having a VERY. GOOD. TIME. I'm not going to blame all of the crazy shots they were doing, but I'm fairly sure the phrase "I'm never drinking again" is going to come out of her mouth later, when she finally regains consciousness. I met an old timer named Jimmy, who looked like an 80-year old Skeletor with feathered, David Cassidy hair--and talked with the only gay couple in the place. One of them was wearing a hot pink, ruffly tuxedo shirt with diamond-encrusted cuff links (I got the feeling this was an understated look for him), and the other was wearing a turquoise number that can only be described as 'honky chic.' Fun was had by all.
Today I kind of maybe sorta totally pooped my pants when I saw that Heather Armstrong, of dooce.com fame (and flipping you off in the photo above), is coming to Seattle (Bothell, really) on her book tour. POOPED, I tell you. I'm so going.
Also, the big news just broke: I wonder who is going to buy the Seattle P.I. now that it's up for sale. Paul Allen, maybe? And then he'll buy the rest of Seattle, and turn it into Allentown. I'm thinking good thoughts for all of my friends employed by the P.I.--hang in there!
Snotty: Where's Philadelphia? Ohio? Manthony: Pennsylvania? Snotty: What? Manthony: And Pittsburgh. Snotty: I thought Pittsburgh was in Ohio, too? Manthony: Well now we have to look it up.
Answer: they're both in Pennsylvania. Everyone knows that.
My longtime BFF and her family moved to [ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME] Nashville, Tennessee this week; her husband is doing post-doc work at Vanderbilt, which is awesome, but it's in Nashville, which is basically the poopier side of awesome. Oh, I'm down with visiting Tennessee (Dollywood, here I come!), but it's more expensive to get there than if she lived in, say, Seattle. Right next door to me.
I was lucky enough to have some time to say goodbye last Sunday, and spend a little time with her wee one, The Nogg (nicknamed for her ginormous, carrot-y noggin). I made a birthday cookie cupcake for her first birthday, which was on New Year's Eve, but better late than never.
The stupid crappy snow cut our visit short, but it was still nice to see Kim and The Nogg before they left. I miss them already, and think they've been gone long enough, thank you very much.
I hope Tennessee is ready for Snotty McSnotterson, because I plan on tearing that place up. Did you know that there are more churches there than actual people? At least that's what I heard (I may be exaggerating). I'm excited to hear Kim's stories about her foray into the religious underbelly of Nashville--it's not really an underbelly, more of an above-board, standardized way of life you must conform to, which I understand. She'd better not come back with big hair and fake boobs, although I think that's a Texas thing, and not Tennessee. Booo, Texass.
Yes, I still hate Myspace, but Facebook does something that I don't particularly enjoy: anytime you comment, it's posted for all of your friends to see. So when I write on someone's Facebook Wall: "THANKS FOR SETTING FIRE TO OUR HOUSE LAST NIGHT AND SLEEPING WITH MY RETARDED BROTHER", all of my friends see it, too--they see everything. The same goes for photos: I can leave a small note of congratulations on the photo of a newborn (IT'S A GIRL! YEAH, GOOD LUCK WITH THAT), and everyone will see it; they're even allowed to comment on my comment, like it isn't hard enough to come up with ONE clever thing to say--now I have to defend its' honor and come back for Round Two. Not my idea of a good time. Sounds more like 'work' (or what others have described to me as work).
Now I may have misled you in saying I don't particularly enjoy this Facebook feature, because that's not entirely true: I enjoy it immensely, when it's other people being monitored. I found a favorite tonight, a comment that popped up on my screen--it was made by an old high school acquaintance on the wedding photo of another high school peep. There were a bunch of people from high school in the actual wedding, and apparently the person commenting wasn't invited. I changed their names, but not because they were innocent; just so I can have a little leverage, should anyone angry come a-callin'. The comment went like this, with nary a linking verb to be found:
Bob and Betty Boop! Congratulateions! I wish i woiuld have been invited! You had the RADDEST Wedding Party Ever! May we can do part two in Frebruary I would love to kick old style with all the fellows! We did have fun adn i was one of the guys. :) Where are you registered? I want to sentd you something. And Grover is still HOT, Brendan looks a little grizzley but hot grrrr. Hoorig. Looking good RED! I am so happy for you...seriouser where aer you registered? Pleasel I love buying weddinhg gifts. I am so happy for you that you have you swan,,, you will be together for every. And Bob is superstar who allowed m to hang out while chaptan churcn would practive in Hoover's basement. I have a pic.
The author appears to have been rendered completely useless by some kind of stroke, which impaired either her typing or spelling skills, possibly both. I also thought she might have unwieldy hooks instead of hands, which would have explained the typos--but I checked her profile, and she has photographic evidence of possessing human hands. This is someone who used to be on the school newspaper. Seriouser. Seriously. It was embarrassing to read the first time around, so I only read it out loud another ten or twenty times--then decided it needed to be featured on the blog. I like to fly under the radar, as you can see.
I know it's a little rude to call out someone so specifically, but this shit was tres gauche, mes petite filles; it had a big scoop of Pathetic with a dollop of Desperate on top. I'm also curious to know what language it's in--Arabic, maybe? Esperanto?--but I'll leave that to the linguistic experts.
I personally hope that the Esq and I will be together for every, because he's a superstar who allowd m to hang otu whewyg nvf387% capn crunch /jkfw78349523-ji opgnmksv&%$jhg!wg8 derka. Gah, I'm being a dick, but I *do* wonder: why is this a necessary feature on Facebook?
I went without a cell phone for over a week, and without the intarwebbs FOR AN ENTIRE DAY... I felt like we were living in the Dark Ages. You know, back before the first iPhone came out (you were but a wee babe, I'm sure).
In happier news, I'm leaving Blogger--so the blog will look completely different in the next couple of weeks. Why am I forsaking them? 1) I've outgrown it, 2) I need more control, 3) Blogger can't make it snow on my blog, 4) I'm tired of all the ERROR ERROR DOES NOT COMPUTE messages, and 5) there's no expandable summary tag, which is redonkulous. So you can suck my expandable summary tag, Blogger; I hope you can keep up with technology in the future. Rick wants me to, I don't know, finish the Esq's degree in Computer Science and start my own web design company, but I'm lazy wary; I look forward to learning more about designing a webpage and customizing the blog, but for now, I'm focused on content. Namely getting some content on here. Once that happens, I'll let you know. (It might not be obvious.)
Now that the internets are back on, I'll be back on tomorrow morning; I need to post on the cake blog, and then catch up with correspondence. Thanks again to Bangs McGee for sending me to Smitten Kitchen; I made the salted white chocolate oatmeal cookies, and they were pretty darn good. Especially since I'm not a fan of white chocolate or oatmeal--that's usually the best test. Do I hate all of the ingredients in this item? Heck yeah! Then it makes sense that I should put all of those ingredients in my mouth! Sounds smart! (Well, it worked out this time.)
Addendum: if you would like to see why I do not want to design my own website, in the words of someone else, go here. She says it better.
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