Renee got in my car and asked me:
"Yoda or The Incredible Hulk?"
"Yoda!" I replied.
Then she handed me a Yoda Pez dispenser but that's beside the point. I just think her question is a good way to say hello.
3.10.2010
3.09.2010
how to get on my bad side
Yep, people I don't know telling me to smile - especially men, oh wait, it's always men - infuriates me as much now as it did when I was a teenager. Today I was crossing a street and he was in a pickup truck waiting for the light. I wished I carried a knife like my husband. I wanted to slash his...tires.
3.08.2010
I take photos in bathrooms
Usually the photos just make me laugh. I am - sometimes - very easily amused.
I originally snapped this for the Archaeologists Rule! part but then I was like Aimee? What the hell is up with your handwriting? I am convinced that Aimee wrote that about her own ass, is living in an 80s teenage movie, and has big, permed, hard-as-a-rock hairsprayed hair. The bangs are especially huge.
I like the bag of dicks expression. It has not yet reached the threshold of overuse that makes me crazy.
This one sums it up. Someone thinks the bathroom stall is a great place to be clever - YOU SAT ON MY CLYMIDIA - but they misspell chlamydia and thus don't seem as clever as intended. That, however, makes for a fantastic opportunity for someone else to be mean - TOO BAD YOUR DR. DIDN'T TELL YOU HOW TO SPELL IT DUMB ASS.
On a gentler note, I was at the Cincinnati Playhouse in the Park yesterday and I used the bathroom. I was thinking when I walked in, "This is a great bathroom. So huge. And clean. With dressing room lights, nice." Then I looked up from the confines of my stall and saw these strange yellow trees, which I would call art:
I originally snapped this for the Archaeologists Rule! part but then I was like Aimee? What the hell is up with your handwriting? I am convinced that Aimee wrote that about her own ass, is living in an 80s teenage movie, and has big, permed, hard-as-a-rock hairsprayed hair. The bangs are especially huge.
I like the bag of dicks expression. It has not yet reached the threshold of overuse that makes me crazy.
This one sums it up. Someone thinks the bathroom stall is a great place to be clever - YOU SAT ON MY CLYMIDIA - but they misspell chlamydia and thus don't seem as clever as intended. That, however, makes for a fantastic opportunity for someone else to be mean - TOO BAD YOUR DR. DIDN'T TELL YOU HOW TO SPELL IT DUMB ASS.
On a gentler note, I was at the Cincinnati Playhouse in the Park yesterday and I used the bathroom. I was thinking when I walked in, "This is a great bathroom. So huge. And clean. With dressing room lights, nice." Then I looked up from the confines of my stall and saw these strange yellow trees, which I would call art:
3.05.2010
dog etiquette
The face of a ho?
I was at the dog park with Patsy. There was only one other dog there - Rufus - and the two of them played hard, roughhousing, chasing, and rolling around in the dirt. Right at the end, just before we left, Rufus jumped on her back end and tried to hump her for all he was worth.
Patsy didn't go for it and snapped him off. She isn't into ass play unless it's herself licking herself for A REALLY LONG TIME, JESUS. No one else is allowed to go there, not the veterinary assistant with a thermometer, not Rufus, no one. But when Rufus chased our car and barked at Patsy through the window, she whined and barked for him inside and I commented that they seemed into each other. Does one attempted hump in dog language equal love?
Two days later Patsy's eye was pink on the inner rim and goop was seeping out. We took her to the vet and she was diagnosed with pink eye.
"That slut Rufus!" I said. "He totally gave her pink eye!"
I took her back to the vet a few days ago because we were out of antibiotics and while the eye is no longer gooey, it still seemed too pink on that one edge. Dr. Baker checked it out and told me that she didn't think it had been contagious in the first place, just an irritation, that pink eye is rare for dogs and that it would have spread to her other eye.
Apparently Patsy's third eyelid - Dogs have three, I did not know that - is just plain pinker than the other one. Fine. The other vet must have called it pink eye so we'd wash our hands 3,000 times more daily than usual, it's cool. Perhaps we inadvertently escaped succumbing to H1N1, I don't know.
ANYWAY, with the new non-contagious bill of health we were finally allowed to go to the dog park again and the last two days were sunny and warmer so all humans and dogs were happy. I was standing in the grass yesterday watching the dogs when I recognized Rufus' pizza delivery guy owner on the other side.
"Rufus has arrived," I texted Matthew.
And 30 seconds later, "And he's eating Patsy out."
She didn't put up a fight.
I was at the dog park with Patsy. There was only one other dog there - Rufus - and the two of them played hard, roughhousing, chasing, and rolling around in the dirt. Right at the end, just before we left, Rufus jumped on her back end and tried to hump her for all he was worth.
Patsy didn't go for it and snapped him off. She isn't into ass play unless it's herself licking herself for A REALLY LONG TIME, JESUS. No one else is allowed to go there, not the veterinary assistant with a thermometer, not Rufus, no one. But when Rufus chased our car and barked at Patsy through the window, she whined and barked for him inside and I commented that they seemed into each other. Does one attempted hump in dog language equal love?
Two days later Patsy's eye was pink on the inner rim and goop was seeping out. We took her to the vet and she was diagnosed with pink eye.
"That slut Rufus!" I said. "He totally gave her pink eye!"
I took her back to the vet a few days ago because we were out of antibiotics and while the eye is no longer gooey, it still seemed too pink on that one edge. Dr. Baker checked it out and told me that she didn't think it had been contagious in the first place, just an irritation, that pink eye is rare for dogs and that it would have spread to her other eye.
Apparently Patsy's third eyelid - Dogs have three, I did not know that - is just plain pinker than the other one. Fine. The other vet must have called it pink eye so we'd wash our hands 3,000 times more daily than usual, it's cool. Perhaps we inadvertently escaped succumbing to H1N1, I don't know.
ANYWAY, with the new non-contagious bill of health we were finally allowed to go to the dog park again and the last two days were sunny and warmer so all humans and dogs were happy. I was standing in the grass yesterday watching the dogs when I recognized Rufus' pizza delivery guy owner on the other side.
"Rufus has arrived," I texted Matthew.
And 30 seconds later, "And he's eating Patsy out."
She didn't put up a fight.
3.02.2010
laughing quietly to myself
About how we got home from a play on Saturday night and wanted to watch a movie.
"What do we have from Netflix?" I asked.
"Downfall," He said, "It's a 2 hour and 36 minute documentary that adopts Junge's point of view to recreate Hitler's final 12 days in his Berlin bunker."
"Yikes. Anything else?"
"But I'm a Cheerleader..."
"What do we have from Netflix?" I asked.
"Downfall," He said, "It's a 2 hour and 36 minute documentary that adopts Junge's point of view to recreate Hitler's final 12 days in his Berlin bunker."
"Yikes. Anything else?"
"But I'm a Cheerleader..."
3.01.2010
strange apples
I'm turning again to NaBloPoMo because NBPM (abbreviating an abbreviation = awesome) helped me immensely to write more back in November.
The theme for March is STRANGE(R). Who else is liking that theme? Such range and possibility! I'm going to start with apples.
Something has changed with me in the last few months. I've never liked cooking. I always felt clumsy, awkward, and inadequate in kitchens and preferred to stand around drinking wine and clean up afterward. The entire time that I lived with Sunny and Shane in Chicago, I sat on the couch in the kitchen drinking wine before dinner and all the way up until food was on the table and then would try to make up for that by doing dishes.
Since moving out of my parents' home in 1993, I got by on mediocre stir-frys, take out, salads, sandwiches, and things already half made. I tried my hand at a few recipes back in 2007 and made some attempts last year but was always pretty tense, not exactly enjoying the process.
There were a couple of times this year when M and I were cooking together and he would do something - LIKE TRY TO TALK TO ME or worse, KISS ME - and I'd get all anxious and pissy because I was busy counting minutes in my head, trying to make everything hot and ready to serve at the same time and I was sure that something would burn while I was casually and lightheartedly recounting my day.
Then, and not even slowly, it was a super quick process, cooking started to get fun. It became what people always said: just following directions. Which in and of itself was new for me seeing as I never had a use for recipes before. Moreover, it because less of just a lab experiment and more of a relaxation. Little things that used to seem like a mighty big pain in the ass, like washing lettuce or all these fresh herbs that I now like to use - is, dare I say, meditative. I can stop whatever else it is that I'm thinking about and do something physical and tangible and, suddenly, rewarding.
I GET IT. Weird.
The other thing that people always said and I didn't think I agreed with is, "It's no fun to cook just for yourself." Whatever, I thought. I didn't like feeling clumsy and inadequate but figured that it just wasn't my thing because groups of people cooking made me feel less comfortable, not more. If my eggs are going to be runny, I'd rather keep that "fun" to myself and not have to try to covertly drain them in the sink.
Maybe it's because I now have a kitchen that's mine and I'm not borrowing anyone else's, and maybe it's because I don't feel like I have to be some Donna Reed character of perfection just because I get my cook on and I'm married and I own an apron - shut up, it's black and tough looking - and cooking is something that both M and I are into learning more about.
Whatever it is, I took it to a whole new level today.
I was at Kroger and hadn't made a list. I stopped in the magazine aisle and flipped pages until I found something easy to make - chicken with asparagus in pesto cream sauce - in a Paula Dean magazine. It was delicious and heavy and DID I MENTION DELICIOUS and the next morning I read all the recipes. Most of them I wasn't going for, e.g. tater tot casserole, but I saw a photo of a perfectly beautiful apple sliced into four horizontal pieces and cemented back together with slabs of peanut butter.
I read the ingredients: two types of peanut butter, creamy and crunchy, honey, granola. Paula Dean wouldn't need to know that I'd buy organic apples, peanut butter with flaxseed, and gluten free pretzel rods to stick down the cored middles of the apples. It would look just as trashy and/or like a kid's after-school snack as the photo.
Today I made those apples and I made them with a reason. Matthew and I have been both a little worried and a little tired from things we can't control. We're letting go and chinning up but today had its suck and I thought those apple stacks in the photos looked HAPPY. I decided those apples would be sitting on the kitchen counter when M got home from work. Then I realized that wow, I'm feeding an emotion. I've eaten plenty of emotions, oh have I, but I've never ever wanted to make someone feel better by feeding them.
Guess I'll add that to the long list of things I never understood until now.
From the top they look like boobs.
I like how the one on the right is so crooked. I put the apples slices back together wrong. Paula Dean's were not crooked.
The theme for March is STRANGE(R). Who else is liking that theme? Such range and possibility! I'm going to start with apples.
Something has changed with me in the last few months. I've never liked cooking. I always felt clumsy, awkward, and inadequate in kitchens and preferred to stand around drinking wine and clean up afterward. The entire time that I lived with Sunny and Shane in Chicago, I sat on the couch in the kitchen drinking wine before dinner and all the way up until food was on the table and then would try to make up for that by doing dishes.
Since moving out of my parents' home in 1993, I got by on mediocre stir-frys, take out, salads, sandwiches, and things already half made. I tried my hand at a few recipes back in 2007 and made some attempts last year but was always pretty tense, not exactly enjoying the process.
There were a couple of times this year when M and I were cooking together and he would do something - LIKE TRY TO TALK TO ME or worse, KISS ME - and I'd get all anxious and pissy because I was busy counting minutes in my head, trying to make everything hot and ready to serve at the same time and I was sure that something would burn while I was casually and lightheartedly recounting my day.
Then, and not even slowly, it was a super quick process, cooking started to get fun. It became what people always said: just following directions. Which in and of itself was new for me seeing as I never had a use for recipes before. Moreover, it because less of just a lab experiment and more of a relaxation. Little things that used to seem like a mighty big pain in the ass, like washing lettuce or all these fresh herbs that I now like to use - is, dare I say, meditative. I can stop whatever else it is that I'm thinking about and do something physical and tangible and, suddenly, rewarding.
I GET IT. Weird.
The other thing that people always said and I didn't think I agreed with is, "It's no fun to cook just for yourself." Whatever, I thought. I didn't like feeling clumsy and inadequate but figured that it just wasn't my thing because groups of people cooking made me feel less comfortable, not more. If my eggs are going to be runny, I'd rather keep that "fun" to myself and not have to try to covertly drain them in the sink.
Maybe it's because I now have a kitchen that's mine and I'm not borrowing anyone else's, and maybe it's because I don't feel like I have to be some Donna Reed character of perfection just because I get my cook on and I'm married and I own an apron - shut up, it's black and tough looking - and cooking is something that both M and I are into learning more about.
Whatever it is, I took it to a whole new level today.
I was at Kroger and hadn't made a list. I stopped in the magazine aisle and flipped pages until I found something easy to make - chicken with asparagus in pesto cream sauce - in a Paula Dean magazine. It was delicious and heavy and DID I MENTION DELICIOUS and the next morning I read all the recipes. Most of them I wasn't going for, e.g. tater tot casserole, but I saw a photo of a perfectly beautiful apple sliced into four horizontal pieces and cemented back together with slabs of peanut butter.
I read the ingredients: two types of peanut butter, creamy and crunchy, honey, granola. Paula Dean wouldn't need to know that I'd buy organic apples, peanut butter with flaxseed, and gluten free pretzel rods to stick down the cored middles of the apples. It would look just as trashy and/or like a kid's after-school snack as the photo.
Today I made those apples and I made them with a reason. Matthew and I have been both a little worried and a little tired from things we can't control. We're letting go and chinning up but today had its suck and I thought those apple stacks in the photos looked HAPPY. I decided those apples would be sitting on the kitchen counter when M got home from work. Then I realized that wow, I'm feeding an emotion. I've eaten plenty of emotions, oh have I, but I've never ever wanted to make someone feel better by feeding them.
Guess I'll add that to the long list of things I never understood until now.
From the top they look like boobs.
I like how the one on the right is so crooked. I put the apples slices back together wrong. Paula Dean's were not crooked.
2.26.2010
quick question
Since when do reporters on the radio describe traffic on the interstate as a HOT MESS??
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