Category: Uncategorized

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I got a new baggy long-sleeved white Reebok shirt. I like long-sleeved white Reebok shirts. Actually, they don’t necessarily have to be Reebok. I like those athletic-baggy-breathable-non-100% cotton chingaleros that don’t shrink when you wash them.

Men’s clothes rock. They’re comfortable. An aspect that seems to be unimportant in women’s fashions. Women’s clothes suck. I mean, I own some dresses and skirts and a couple of (gasp!) pink sweaters, but for the most part, when I’m at home, the gym, or going to the grocery store, men’s clothes is where it’s at.

Granted, I do not wear men’s jeans…with my small waist and ample hips, it’s just not a possibility. But I’ll slip on my husband’s sweat pants faster than a mo-fo. Commando. A bit of information he oftentimes is not too happy about. (I mistakenly thought he’d find it sex-aaay. Humph. Men.

Now, I know most men love those chicks who wear the ass-crack jeans and midriff shirts. That’s their prerogative. But seriously, there are so many chicks that wear them who should NOT wear them. I work in a four-star restaurant and you wouldn’t believe how many chicks not only come dressed in jeans, but jeans fitting so that you can see their cellulite peeking through the back of the suede-covered chairs. And I have to walk back-and-forth through the dining room with these chunky little eyesores all over the damn place. Come on, guys…that is SO not hot.

I’m just glad I’m married. When I was 20, jeans still had a waist and you could get a decent bra for $10. Now the jeans hang off yer ass and the bras are $40 apiece and must come from Victoria’s Secret. Fortunately, if I want to make my husband chase me into the bedroom, all I gotta do is strip nekkid, which costs nuthin’. And that’s not to say I let myself go just because I’m married…I mean, I take care of my skin, eat healthily, love the Chappelle show and pro basketball…I just find so many non-superficial aspects of our relationship so much more appealing than thongs and belly-chains.

And honestly, me and women my age (30) are just way too old for that shit. Come on. Grow up already.

Besides…I enjoy the fact that I am 5’11” with cute moderately-sized guns and could bench press two of these uber-waifs then hurl them down a flight of stairs. Chicks with priorities that fucked up need to have their asses kicked.

Of course you primordial catfight-loving men would love to attribute this to jealousy. Bah. I am so much more kick-ass than chicks who invest their time in shopping and tanning salons. Actually, in some miniscule way, I pity them. Being that involved with your appearance has to be exhausting. And the constant competition that ensues in public venues can’t possibly be good for your self-esteem. What is going to happen to these girls in fifteen years? (shudder).

I am fundamentally different than most women even my age. I go to sporting events with my husband and actually watch the game, drink beer and have garlic fries. I kick ass at Grand Theft Auto and Unreal Tournament. I have a table and miter saw in my studio, and handle all the home repairs as my husband isn’t what I’d exactly call tool-savvy. A lot of the women I know that are my age are into velour jogging suits and Tommy Hilfiger tennies for their toddlers, play dates and competing with other soccer moms via their collection of Tiffany jewelry and Louis Vuitton handbags. Not I. I have fun with my life. I carry a CamelBack backpack. I have no Tiffany jewelry. I compete with no one – I don’t need to. I have a fantastic marriage, a great family, awesome dogs, talent, a good, well-paying job, intelligence, and legs that can squat-press 250 lbs. Like I said, I kick ass.

Anyway, that’s enough. This is bordering on being so long as to become boring.

Vouolez-voulez-vous kick-ass

>Ooh la la.

What the hell am I going to write about here? Bollocks.

I suppose I could just do the usual, “so, today I…”

I went to work. I came home. I went to the gym. Came home again. Watched “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” and ate a nectarine. And some sushi. Bryan came home, hugs and kisses. Popped chicken in oven for Bry. Fed and walked the dogs. Took a bath. Now here I sit.

(sigh).

Damn, I suck. This is a “why bother” entry.

Oh! Wine! I cracked open my Syrah! Que Syrah Syrah…

You know what? Screw y’all. I ain’t writing anything today. Whaddya think o’ that?

voulez-voulez-vous why bother.

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I am waiting.

Patiently.

Who am I kidding…I have no patience.

whenever I order anything off the net I find myself going mad waiting for it to arrive. Little Miss Instant Gratification, that’s me.

In this particular instance I ordered three things; two from Amazon.com and one from a site called JetPens.com.

From Amazon I ordered two books: one called ‘Generations’ and the other is ‘Piece by Piece’, a biography of Tori Amos. The second is pretty self-explanatory, the first, I thought it best to do a little ‘cut and paste’ summary:

Book Description
William Strauss and Neil Howe posit the history of America as a succession of generational biographies, beginning in 1584 and encompassing every-one through the children of today. Their bold theory is that each generation belongs to one of four types, and that these types repeat sequentially in a fixed pattern. The vision of Generations allows us to plot a recurring cycle in American history — a cycle of spiritual awakenings and secular crises — from the founding colonists through the present day and well into this millennium.

There.

So, the third item, the one from the JetPens site, is a set of 8 pens with the finest point to date: 0.18mm. About the width of two human hairs. Came out in Japan…apparently the Japanese have an even larger affinity for fine point pens than I do. I am a self-confessed card-carrying pen junkie. I do not wish to calculate the dollar amount of the pens I’ve had in my possession, past or present. Rapidoliner, Koh-i-noor, Staedtler, Rotring, et-ce-te-ra et-ce-te-ra. I love drawing in ink, hate drawing in pencil. Too fuzzy. For all my pen and ink drawings I do the preliminary sketch ONLY with my Koh-i-noor Rapidomatic mechanical drafting pencil, 0.5mm.

(I just had a flash to Forrest Gump giving his narrative about how much he “loved using his Flex-o-Lite ping pong paddle”).

I find it ironic that I can spend hours with a 0.25mm pen drawing a cathedral in minute detail yet find it insufferable to wait 3 bloody days for my packages to arrive. As does my husband. I puzzle him on many levels. I think I provide interest and amusement in an institution (marriage) which is typically stereotyped by monotony. So he giggles and goes on.

My attention to detail makes it difficult for me to be expressive in my painting. I’m so busy trying to be meticulous that all emotion and expression is lost via a template and ruler. And a small-ass paintbrush. That’s why I like painting so much with filberts, flats and brights; painting on the edge gives much more precision than the tip of a round. (My apologies to those who passed up art class in high school and have no idea what I’m talking about. Too bad for you).

Stop, children…what’s that sound…everybody look what’s goin’ down…

Voulez-voulez-vous goin’ down.

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24 hours later and I’m still reeling. I got to see Tori Amos. Live. In concert. Last night. She was phenomenal, as I knew she would be. It was surreal; listening to someone’s music for years and watching every TV appearance does not even hold a candle to seeing them in person. It was overwhelming. (To understand why I sound so creepy at this point, please see post from Thursday, 09/01). She started out with a couple songs from her latest album, and my composure remained intact. But when I heard the opening notes for “Crucify”, it was all over. I lost it. I was sobbing like a 2 year-old girl. (sigh). I was one of those lunatic fans you see at concerts and you do the “cocked-eyebrow-out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye-look” and inch a little closer to your companion as you believe in safety in numbers. Her piano playing was brilliant; she would have one hand on her Bosendorfer piano and the other on a Hammond organ and sitting betwixt them would belt out her amazing lyrics with nary a falter. The girl can multitask. The most humorous part of the show was when she did a Tori-esque rendition of Anita Ward’s “Ring my Bell”. Even my husband (such a good sport! I love him for that…) couldn’t help but smile at that one. So amidst glasses of Riesling and Naiah and I melting into big puddles of fan-goo the night was absolutely fantastic. The men-folk did very well and enjoyed their merlot and shop-talk, though Bryan was more than a tad disappointed that Cornflake Girl was not in the lineup. So since I am a kick-ass wife I played it for him on the car ride home.

I think he is now officially Tori-ed out.

I will now sign off as I only got 4 hours of sleep last night and had to go into work at 6 am this morning with a minor hangover. I hereby call dibs on tickets for the next tour. (yet another sigh). Ah, she is my goddess.

Voulez-voulez-vous goddess.

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In the process of cleaning my house I have come to realize that I am something of a pack-rat. This arose thanks to my recent post about nostalgia and I recalled that in my bedroom closet resides a Pound Puppy, a butt-nekkid Cabbage Patch Kid by the name of Marceline Eda, and a set of handmade Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. I have a pair of buckle-shoes that can now house my large toe, and principal awards from the first grade. I have random boxes in closets and cupboards containing report cards, homecoming ribbons, pressed flowers, photographs, birthday cards, school announcements, pictures, and various construction-paper cutouts. All four of my yearbooks and one of my husband’s rest on the bookcase.

I keep these things to remind myself that I am a being of substance, that I have a past that includes elementary school, art classes, playing the recorder, my first boyfriend, Madonna. I have this unfortunate problem which prevents me from remembering events in my life. So many times my husband will ask me, “Remember when I introduced you to…?”

I do not.

I never remember. What I do know is that my first address, which I had until I was 10, was 16025 SE 134th St. Renton, Wa. 98056. I know that when I was 8 my phone number was (206) 255-7057. I do not know who has that number now. Perhaps I should call it and see.

I remember the four base pairs of DNA are adenine, guanine, thymine, and cytosine. I know the quadratic formula, Pythagorean theorem, Kingdom-phylum-class-order-family-genus-species, a cornucopia of architectural terms, French. I know the lyrics to hundreds of songs.

But I cannot recall the inside of the church where I was married, visiting Mount Rushmore, what me and Bryan’s first apartment looked like. Unless I have studied it, committed it to memory, or have a photograph of it, in my brain, it doesn’t exist.

A study concluded that most people with temporal lobe epilepsy (like myself) have memory problems. This fact has helped me in a small way, convincing me that I am not insane. When I was a teenager my parents used to get angry at me when I would forget things, saying that I just didn’t think they were important enough to remember.

They are important. I have boxes and boxes to prove it.

So though I may be the subject of mockery for my sentimental attachments to goofy pieces of my long-ago past, these relics help me to understand that I am not just now; this moment. There were events and happenings before now that were also “me”. I have a tendency to look at my past in the third-person, as if I’m remembering someone else. Despite the mementos, I still have this problem. This makes me feel damaged; I am missing out on my own life.

But through my photos and dozens of journals I have kept since I was 11, I can piece together a life past that helps me understand my life now. My journals help me realize that it is not lost; the words in my own writing help me understand that it is indeed me who is telling the story, and it feels safe. Another reason why family is so important. They are my connection to my past; witnesses to a life that I may not be able to remember.

So now that I realize that I have strayed from a funny story about my butt-nekkid Cabbage Patch and into a reflective insight into my own mental infirmary, I think I shall get back to my cathedral painting and say enough of all this sentimental babble.

Am I not merciful?

Voulez-voulez-vouz merciful.

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Thanks to the most recent episode of 60 Minutes I have come face to face with the reality that I am indeed older. Older than what?

Myself, I suppose.

The topic this particular Sunday evening involved the “Echo Boomers”, or, those born between 1982-1995. This, quite naturally, does not include myself. I, in fact, was born in 1975. I will be 30 in November. Until recently this dreaded fact was painfully unavoidable. Although, after giving it some serious thought, I have come to understand the secret joy in the concept of nostalgia. I used to mock my parents for their refusal to let go of the Moody Blues and CCR. I now realize that at some point in my life, I myself will be mocked as well.

You know you’re not the “now” generation anymore when all the songs you love from your junior high years are on a compilation album.

What I remember can pretty much be summed up on every episode of VH-1’s “I Love the 80’s”. The Muppet Show, Electric Company, Garbage Pail Kids, Jelly Shoes.

Those damn shoes. Plastic uncomfortable-as-hell cheap-ass but gotta-have-’em-oh-mom-please-everyone-at-school-has-them foot torture devices of my youth. Wish I had some now. I would rock.

And MTV. Good God, if ever there were a defining aspect of my youth, it would be MTV. I remember spending my entire summer after 8th grade zoned out in front of the TV with my cousin Jay, hypnotized by Martha Quinn and Adam Curry wishing upon wish that Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” was on next. Aside from “Remote Control”, “Just Say Julie” with Julie Brown was the coolest show on MTV as I had no taste and just didn’t know any better.

Society seems determined to pigeonhole my breed as “Generation X”, stereotyping us as an entire generation of flannel-shirted coffeeshop denizens with no goals or aspirations. It seems unfair to categorize an entire generation based upon the trends and priorities of their youth. Who we were is only a template for who we are. The trademarks of my youth: my art, my love of reading, writing…the parts of ourselves that matter, are carried with us, to mature and ripen alongside us as we grow as people, becoming the “we” we were meant to be.

Of course, with the skyrocketing popularity of Starbucks in the last 10 years, it makes me wonder.

But as I sit here listening to Erasure’s “A Little Respect” and thinking about years gone by, I wish I had observed and enjoyed them more when I had them. ‘Tis the lament of all 30-somethings past, present and future.

But I also see it as a commonality with my “Child of the 80’s” comrades…we speak fondly of Cabbage Patch Kids and Transformers in conversations punctuated by “Oh, that’s right!!! I so remember those!! Did you have Optimus Prime too??”

Here’s to Generation X. Rock Me Amadeus indeed.

Voulez-voulez-vous Amadeus.

>Yup. This pretty much sums it up.

Women are absolutely neurotic. Especially the ones under whom I am subordinate. Everything is potential cause for drama. But I won’t be discussing that. Everyone knows that. I just had to include one little vent about my day. Shall we continue?

Sure.

Damn. Coming up with new ideas and topics are just not possible after a 10-hour server shift. I cannot think clearly. All that is in my head now runs along the lines of ‘Mise en Place’, ‘Bisol Jeio’, ‘Salmon Brioche’, ‘creme fraiche’, ‘will there be anything else I might bring you at the moment?’. Somebody fuckin bring ME something. Someone else is going to come up with a topic for me. Ah! Random Facts. Lets see what we got…

Ah. Here’s one:

Did you know that sex is a natural antihistamine? It can help combat asthma and hay fever.

Atchoo.

(sniff) I should go take care of this. Damn allergies.

Voulez-voulez-vous allergies.

>This is gonna be quick because I am 2 seconds away from lapsing into catatonic schizophrenia. (Long, exhausting day at work…day 4 in a 10-day stretch…sub-standard management, staff shortages…sanity hanging by a thread…). I was so bloody thrashed when I got home I had completely forgotten about my new toy:

It’s so choice. I recommend one if you have the means. With my new mouse I can pop open Safari, switch applications, open Spotlight, switch to the Dashboard, scroll, track the trajectory of the entire nation’s satellite system, trigger Expose of all windows, desktop…it’s fabulous.

(Okay, so maybe it can’t track the trajectory of the entire nation’s satellite system…they’re working on the upgrade.)

My old mouse sits in the corner, rather dejected-looking, seeking consolation. To lessen the trauma of the break-up, I’ve left it plugged in for weekend visits.

It is at this moment that I have decided that it would be best if I simply conceded defeat and slipped into bed. I have to be up at 4:30 in the bloody morning to open at 6. Damned Labor Day Weekend. Why is it we are the only ones who seem to be laboring? I am starting to hate people. With so much going on in the country they’re busy getting angry about the fact that their coffee has gone 2.3 seconds without a refill, when the level of fluid in the cup has only decreased by 4.6 millimeters. I should dump it in their damned laps. Bastards.

I feel I have vented enough rage into the vast technological chasm that is the blog-o-sphere for one day. With any luck it will dissipate before I pass my foul mood off to others. Otherwise they just might designate me the “curmudgeonly old wench who bitches about her damn job too much”.

I don’t think that would fit on my driver’s license.

Voulez-voulez-vous driver’s license.

>Okay, no more sports-related posts. Until basketball season starts; I promise.

I shall instead take a moment to announce that after listening to her music for 15 years, I am finally going to see Tori Amos in concert. HOLLAH!!!!!

I am, to say the least, stoked.

My husband called me today asking me how much I thought I loved him. Lucky for me, I gave the right answer.

My husband kicks ass. He absolutely HATES Tori Amos. Calls it ‘whiny chick music’. But he is going to suffer through it. For me.

Oh yes…he does indeed kick ass.

Dude, and I just found out my new kick-ass rock-on buddy Naiah is going too! Fuckin-A man!!!!!! Bonus!! Our Microsoft hubbies can hang. Misery loves company. They can devise their secret nerd-handshake

Fuckin-A man.

I am in a euphoric state the likes of which I have not seen since I discovered Mac.

Heh heh; I get to see Tori Amos! Did I say I was stoked?

I’m trying to think of something worthwhile to write about….
Not happenin’.

Did I mention the Tori thing? heh heh…I’m gonna see Tori. Hollah!

Voulez-voulez-vous hollah.

So being that it is 4:45 am and I’ve been up a few minutes, I’d better write this down before it flutters away.

So my dream just before my alarm went off was this:

I was to deliver a baby, in a hospital, cesarean section, in five minutes.
Those involved, who insisted on my completing the procedure, refused to accept that I was just a waitress/artist and had no formal surgical training.

And then there’s the upside-down shopkeeper hoarding his own sporting goods and the strange other-worldly beings who collected us from adrift on the sea and deposited us into a cave with rather fast-moving snails.

I went to buy peaches but ended up with grapefruit.

And somewhere down the road I discover that I never really liked pickles and that my whole life had been one big pickle-lie.

Bollocks. I’m trying to get ready for work and I can’t find my bloody mascara. (I take my medicine and vitamins and put on my face and eat my breakfast and charge my cell phone and put on my shoes and fix my hair and pretty much anything except activities that include the messier ones in the bathroom or the kitchen at my desk. I do not like toothpaste on my desk.)

Oh bollocks yet again. I forgot I’m training the new server today. I have to be all professional and shit. I hate training people in French Service (Fine dining; not whatever sexual perversions anyone may be conjuring up in their head…) I feel like its service training once-removed.

But, don’t despair. You can get anything you want at Alice’s restaurant.

Voulez-voulez-vous Alice’s restaurant.