Girl One: Let's talk about something fun and potentially scandalous. You'll have to start, cause I got nothin'.
Girl Two: Oooh - that's a tough one. My personal excitement device is insanely loud and I wish I lived alone.
Girl One: Ha! My "personal excitement device" fell out of the pillow it was cased in, when I had male company. He picked it up, said, "Whaaa?" and put it right back down.
Girl Two: Oh my god that's way better! Mine live in a makeup bag on my night table that I have instructed the roommate to never open or suffer the consequences. The silent one just isn't as effective as the hammer.
Girl One: It wasn't in a perfect state of cleanliness, either. I mean, it was gross, but it wasn't like, all pristine and sparkly.
Girl Two: We are such liberated little scuzzmonsters.
Girl One: I mean, think of how the male company must have felt. That would be like finding... a crusty tube sock.
Girl Two: Eh. Their entire bed is a scuzzy little gym sock, don't ya think?
Girl One: Point, set and match.
Girl Two: Oooh - that's a tough one. My personal excitement device is insanely loud and I wish I lived alone.
Girl One: Ha! My "personal excitement device" fell out of the pillow it was cased in, when I had male company. He picked it up, said, "Whaaa?" and put it right back down.
Girl Two: Oh my god that's way better! Mine live in a makeup bag on my night table that I have instructed the roommate to never open or suffer the consequences. The silent one just isn't as effective as the hammer.
Girl One: It wasn't in a perfect state of cleanliness, either. I mean, it was gross, but it wasn't like, all pristine and sparkly.
Girl Two: We are such liberated little scuzzmonsters.
Girl One: I mean, think of how the male company must have felt. That would be like finding... a crusty tube sock.
Girl Two: Eh. Their entire bed is a scuzzy little gym sock, don't ya think?
Girl One: Point, set and match.
I had gone to bed for the night, with every intention of staying there. But the second I laid back against the pillows I realized it was not to be.
"Holy sh!t!," I typed into my phone. "There's a gecko in my bedroom!"
There was, in fact, a small, pinkish colored gecko hiding out in the joint between the wall and ceiling of my bedroom, where no respectable gecko ought to be.
Assessing the situation, I decided I had to act fast. The resident feline was asleep on the back of the living room sofa, but like that would last long. The second his mischief radar picked up a small, edible creature in a state of panic, chaos would surely ensue. I guessed that was the gecko's reason for being inside in the first place. Feline persuasion. I snatched a shoe box from the closet and then walked calmly into the dining room to retrieve a chair, all the while sending out extra boring mental vibes. Don't get up. Just um, dusting the ceiling fan. And then maybe reading the Financial Times. Nothing nearly so exciting as catching a lizard. Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Can I just say, before we go any further, that I did not realize geckos can shed their tails when the situation calls for it? Apparently, being tailless helps them to run faster and also, the detached tail then acts as a diversion... because it MOVES ON ITS OWN. Which is, to say the least, disconcerting. And even after you have rescued and secured the poor frightened fellow in order to transport him outside, the detached tail will continue whipping about wildly in an attempt to distract you from the real deal, moving rather frantically himself, inside your cupped hands.
People, it kind of freaked me out.
I wish I could say that things calmed down after I'd delivered the poor lizard (along with his still twitching tail) to his natural habitat (i.e. the patio). But they did not. Back inside, I realized that there was blood - gecko blood! - on my hands. I'd been awfully gentle with the little guy, so I went back outside to investigate the source. On close inspection (now in shock, he was no longer trying to make an escape), I saw that the reason Sir Hal wasn't interested in my lizard dealings was that he'd already had his way with him. A little piece of my heart broke.
Because it's just not something I'm capable of, I couldn't put him out of his misery. So I went back inside, threw some evil glances in the direction my sleeping cat, and prepared myself for nightmares about tailless, suffering lizards.
I'd like to think that the reason he wasn't still in the same spot when I went to check on him the next morning had something to do with magical gecko healing powers... and not the tree full of birds across the way.
I know, I know. What a downer. This is why I don't watch nature shows.
"Holy sh!t!," I typed into my phone. "There's a gecko in my bedroom!"
There was, in fact, a small, pinkish colored gecko hiding out in the joint between the wall and ceiling of my bedroom, where no respectable gecko ought to be.
Assessing the situation, I decided I had to act fast. The resident feline was asleep on the back of the living room sofa, but like that would last long. The second his mischief radar picked up a small, edible creature in a state of panic, chaos would surely ensue. I guessed that was the gecko's reason for being inside in the first place. Feline persuasion. I snatched a shoe box from the closet and then walked calmly into the dining room to retrieve a chair, all the while sending out extra boring mental vibes. Don't get up. Just um, dusting the ceiling fan. And then maybe reading the Financial Times. Nothing nearly so exciting as catching a lizard. Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Can I just say, before we go any further, that I did not realize geckos can shed their tails when the situation calls for it? Apparently, being tailless helps them to run faster and also, the detached tail then acts as a diversion... because it MOVES ON ITS OWN. Which is, to say the least, disconcerting. And even after you have rescued and secured the poor frightened fellow in order to transport him outside, the detached tail will continue whipping about wildly in an attempt to distract you from the real deal, moving rather frantically himself, inside your cupped hands.
People, it kind of freaked me out.
I wish I could say that things calmed down after I'd delivered the poor lizard (along with his still twitching tail) to his natural habitat (i.e. the patio). But they did not. Back inside, I realized that there was blood - gecko blood! - on my hands. I'd been awfully gentle with the little guy, so I went back outside to investigate the source. On close inspection (now in shock, he was no longer trying to make an escape), I saw that the reason Sir Hal wasn't interested in my lizard dealings was that he'd already had his way with him. A little piece of my heart broke.
Because it's just not something I'm capable of, I couldn't put him out of his misery. So I went back inside, threw some evil glances in the direction my sleeping cat, and prepared myself for nightmares about tailless, suffering lizards.
I'd like to think that the reason he wasn't still in the same spot when I went to check on him the next morning had something to do with magical gecko healing powers... and not the tree full of birds across the way.
I know, I know. What a downer. This is why I don't watch nature shows.
This morning, I had very serious thoughts about wearing my new Magnum PI t-shirt (with detachable faux fur mustache) to work under a pinstripe blazer. The official reason I will give for not wearing my new Magnum PI t-shirt (with detachable faux fur mustache) to work under a pinstripe blazer is that at 7:40 AM it was already 87 degrees outside, and that's a whole lot of clothing to be wearing on such a ferociously hot day. But because we're close, I'm going to level with you. It's cold in my office. Damn cold. But even sucking in, I couldn't get that blazer to button.
Baby needs to do some sit ups. So, what's new?
If I thought turning thirty was going to flip some cosmic switch and alter my life in some enchanted, mystical way, this weekend's remarkable and not-so-remarkable moments set me straight. My brother and sister-in-law (the givers of such a fine piece of mustachioed clothing) were in town for a few days, and as part of our hangings out, we saw the new Batman flick. It was long. Really long. Turns out, at thirty years old, I am still as impatient and cinematically-ADD as I was at twenty-nine. Go figure.
Waking up on Sunday morning, eyes swollen and sore from the previous night's cry, I also realized that turning thirty did not magically toughen me up. I won't go into what happened (give it three months, eh?) because I believe if you tell someone you forgive them, you should make every effort not to rub their noses in the incident which caused them to need forgiving in the first place. I do wonder, though, when it is I'll finally throw on an idiot-proof vest and stop melting into a snotty heap every time someone hurts my feelings. Probably never. Actually, probably around the same time that I start caring enough about sit-ups to fit back into my pinstripe blazer.
I'm thinking thirty-six sounds like a good goal.
Baby needs to do some sit ups. So, what's new?
If I thought turning thirty was going to flip some cosmic switch and alter my life in some enchanted, mystical way, this weekend's remarkable and not-so-remarkable moments set me straight. My brother and sister-in-law (the givers of such a fine piece of mustachioed clothing) were in town for a few days, and as part of our hangings out, we saw the new Batman flick. It was long. Really long. Turns out, at thirty years old, I am still as impatient and cinematically-ADD as I was at twenty-nine. Go figure.
Waking up on Sunday morning, eyes swollen and sore from the previous night's cry, I also realized that turning thirty did not magically toughen me up. I won't go into what happened (give it three months, eh?) because I believe if you tell someone you forgive them, you should make every effort not to rub their noses in the incident which caused them to need forgiving in the first place. I do wonder, though, when it is I'll finally throw on an idiot-proof vest and stop melting into a snotty heap every time someone hurts my feelings. Probably never. Actually, probably around the same time that I start caring enough about sit-ups to fit back into my pinstripe blazer.
I'm thinking thirty-six sounds like a good goal.
I want to tell you the story of how Facebook is evil. But there
is no time to do it justice at present. So without proper segue or
entertaining transition (which also require more time than I've got
right now), let me say, I've been getting a lot of junk mail from my
alma mater recently. Like, three letters a week. They want my money.
This simultaneously annoys and amuses me. Obviously, there is a
disconnect between the fundraising folks and the rest of the
university, because somewhere there has to be a record of the fact that
I graduated from their fine institution with a liberal arts
degree. I was a Spanish major, for pete's sake. What kind of financial
success do they think I could have possibly attained with that
extremely useful degree tucked under my belt? Unless we're reaching for
the stars and I became say, a United Nations translator, the most they
could be really be hoping for is high school Spanish teacher. And we
know there's no money there. Grossly underpaid teachers say, Heeeey.
It has just occurred to me that perhaps good old Brigham Young University counted on me staying Mormon all these years and they weren't anticipating that I'd blow my legacy on booze, coffee, and birth control. But, golly, aren't we glad I did?
That's rhetorical, by the way. And now we'll break for an important public service announcement.
Public Service Announcement:
If you're not watching Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, you're doing yourself a giant disservice. Like getting all your major crevices nice and clean, following the adventures of Neil Patrick Harris Evil Genius is just part of being a functioning, likable member of society. Throw in a little booze, coffee and birth control and you just might get to sit at the cool kids' table. I mean, no guarantees, but think about it.
It has just occurred to me that perhaps good old Brigham Young University counted on me staying Mormon all these years and they weren't anticipating that I'd blow my legacy on booze, coffee, and birth control. But, golly, aren't we glad I did?
That's rhetorical, by the way. And now we'll break for an important public service announcement.
Public Service Announcement:
If you're not watching Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, you're doing yourself a giant disservice. Like getting all your major crevices nice and clean, following the adventures of Neil Patrick Harris Evil Genius is just part of being a functioning, likable member of society. Throw in a little booze, coffee and birth control and you just might get to sit at the cool kids' table. I mean, no guarantees, but think about it.
Yesterday was not exactly the best day I've ever had. Among actual real people problems, my thighs were touching a little too much for my happiness, I hadn't gotten enough sleep, my apartment was dirty, and someone in particular was rising so fast to the top of my shit list that I was having fantasies about voodoo practices. Or murder-for-hire. I mean, by now I've watched enough hours of Law & Order to know how not to do it. Surely I'd be able to pull it off. But since I wasn't feeling creative enough for doll-making, and hiring a hit man turned out to way, way unrealistic in terms of my budget this month, I opted for a little friend therapy.
Lucky, lucky Ari got the full whinery tour.
"... and I really freaking hate So-and-So."
"I feel the same, except I hate everyone always."
"Wow. I only hate specific people on some days. But that's just because I have a recessive Mary Tyler Moore gene."
"Well put. So what do you anticipate the highlight of your day being?"
"I got nothin'."
"OK - let's do this together, because I have nothing either. Want to see the boys that broke my heart and then you can mock my hideous taste in utterly unworthy men? There are some gut-busting laughs to be had."
She wasn't kidding. My own list of unworthy men just makes me cringe, but hers - complete with photos of the subjects in what appeared to be the 2008 Mark Paul Gosselar Sportswear Collection - was truly hilarious. And god love her, just what I needed. Is it schadenfreude when you're laughing with love? I hope not. Because knowing that someone else has had it worse than you - man, that's the kind of gift that keeps on giving.
The ice cream cone I scarfed after lunch didn't hurt either. Except, obviously, with the thigh thing.
Lucky, lucky Ari got the full whinery tour.
"... and I really freaking hate So-and-So."
"I feel the same, except I hate everyone always."
"Wow. I only hate specific people on some days. But that's just because I have a recessive Mary Tyler Moore gene."
"Well put. So what do you anticipate the highlight of your day being?"
"I got nothin'."
"OK - let's do this together, because I have nothing either. Want to see the boys that broke my heart and then you can mock my hideous taste in utterly unworthy men? There are some gut-busting laughs to be had."
She wasn't kidding. My own list of unworthy men just makes me cringe, but hers - complete with photos of the subjects in what appeared to be the 2008 Mark Paul Gosselar Sportswear Collection - was truly hilarious. And god love her, just what I needed. Is it schadenfreude when you're laughing with love? I hope not. Because knowing that someone else has had it worse than you - man, that's the kind of gift that keeps on giving.
The ice cream cone I scarfed after lunch didn't hurt either. Except, obviously, with the thigh thing.
