:: Tuesday, September 30, 2003 ::
"100% Acrylic":: Monday, September 29, 2003 ::
As I sit here pondering not the fact that I haven't seen my cell phone since sometime on Friday but the notion that I seriously have no inclination to care about that, I realize I have referenced a ten-year-old song several times (here and elsewhere), and you can't possibly have ever heard it.
Emily Post is clucking like an exotic chicken right now. (Yes, an exotic chicken; a friend's uncle raises them. Seriously.)
So here for your listening pleasure is Meryn Cadell's classic, The Sweater.
Just be glad it wasn't something from Juice Newton. I really thought about that.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 9:41 PM [+] ::
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They're eating spiders on Fear Factor.:: Sunday, September 28, 2003 ::
Is it any wonder I don't watch much TV?
So all day I was planning this whole blog from Sun Tzu's The Art of War. Senor Tzu was the patriarch of a line of Chinese military leaders some 2,300 years ago, and he and his posse got up this excellent manual on how to approach conflict. What better way to kick off the week than with some pointers on getting our glow back? YAY, US! We kick ass!
But, as often happens with me, by the time I got home and out of my bra I'd pretty much forgotten whatever it is I wanted to say, and figuring it out now would involve getting up to turn on the light so I can read you some excerpts.
As a result I am in the dark, tired, half-dressed, medicated and whiny with a kinked shoulder (still). The message has changed:
To advance so that one cannot be resisted, charge against the empty.
I am the wasteland.
To retreat so that one cannot be stopped, go so far that one cannot be reached.
I can't make it to the nearest wall. Guess from there.
Thus endeth the war lesson.
(What the hell did you expect from a woman so hopped up on painkillers that she spent the entire day calling paper clips bobby pins and not realizing that was wrong?)
Juliet
PS - Did anyone happen to tape Alias last night? I watched it, but a friend of mine set his VCR for the wrong channel and missed it. He's desperate and he's awesome, so if anyone could hook me up I'd be eternally grateful! Please please please?
PPS - After posting this I realized ol' Sun is too dusty for us anyway. Donna Summer is all we really need.
:: happy hour begins at 8:26 PM [+] ::
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I've never been one to be defined by a man...
...but since I was double dog dared I've added a bit to my title. I'll take it down in a day or two, but let this serve as fair warning: Simon's reign has ended. I still love him, I'll still watch him and I'm still half of the HFS/JS team, but this blog isn't about him anymore, even if it seemed to be before. It isn't about Bradley Whitford, either, but since he's my current fave you are going to hear about him. Some of you will disappear now and others will stay, but to all of you, my faithful friends and readers, I give my thanks.
Here's to hoping this week is kinder to all of us! I promise to try and find the funny this week; I'm thinking it may have rolled under the couch and since I haven't cleaned under there in a while...
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 10:22 PM [+] ::
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Seized:: Friday, September 26, 2003 ::
I can't move my head.
I wish I could say this was the result of some life-altering naked sex pretzeling heretofore only witnessed on the sculpted walls of some ancient temple, but the truth is I don't know how it happened. I just sat down to a quick snack of West Wing video and couldn't get back up.
Smashing.
So here's my muscle-relaxer-aided blog entry for today:
Best line of Season Premiere Week, 2003: "I hate this boat," uttered mid-sob by Grace in the teaser for Will and Grace.
Worst line of Season Premiere Week 2003: "Call it a boat show or a beer garden or a bagel," courtesy of Josh Lyman in an admonishment to Dumb & Dumber about never saying the word "recession". Welcome to the new West Wing as written by John Wells (ER, Third Watch). Aaron Sorkin must have pissed himself silly during this hour of abysmal television. I just cried in my drink about the unfairness of my favorite show of all time being hijacked by the king of mediocre melodrama.
Actually, that was the ep I was watching when the neck situation developed. I could probably draw some lines in that. Maybe I should sue Wells for emotional distress leading to physical disability.
I'll ask the physical therapist about it next week. Let you know.
I hope you've all had a better weekend than I!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 2:45 PM [+] ::
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Mock and Suffer:: Thursday, September 25, 2003 ::
I suppose that's the look you all deserve. Oh, and me, too, after pulling my car to the side of the highway at lunch today and using a neon yellow ice scraper to battle a spider stuck in my exterior mirror.
Like I was going to drive with it in there.
Yes, I took a couple of hours off work today. Put down sick hours and called it a mental health break. One of these days they're going to use my timesheets as evidence in my inevitable sanity hearing. I'm going to get a nice white room.
I'm kind of looking forward to that.
Hugs!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 4:40 PM [+] ::
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Hey JackieLynn
:: happy hour begins at 10:06 PM [+] ::
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I didn't need a handbasket; Hell just appeared.:: Tuesday, September 23, 2003 ::
7:09am Get up late.
7:15am Discover small gap between shower top and wall, leading me to believe the back of my 200-year-old house might be sinking. Again.
7:22am Find skirt, once lovingly steamed and hung in laundry room, has been transformed into a feline entertainment center.
8:02am Emerge at back of house into gravel parking lot full of cars which do not belong there. Yell - seriously, out loud - about it. Expertly shimmy car (with still-fogged-up windows) out of space into lot. Pause to watch frumpy woman with camera hoof down the alley.
8:05am Realize I cannot leave the alley for the crime scene tape AFFIXED TO MY HOUSE and gaggle of officers clogging the intersection.
8:07am Am told the "stand-off" - the stand off? - between police and my neighbors has ended! Hallelujah! Several squad cars and a murder of snipers disperse so I can proceed to work.
And would you believe that the day actually got worse from there? I must have quit my job four times before lunch; at one point my boss offered me his bottle of water and asked if I'd feel better if I squirted him with it. When I leaned toward the bottle but didn't take it, he expressed surprise that I actually considered dousing him. Imagine his shock when I told him the reason I hesitated was I was thinking of all the WORSE things I'd rather do.
I mean, really.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 6:26 PM [+] ::
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What glass?:: Monday, September 22, 2003 ::
ACK!! I've turned into one of those pathetic emo bloggers with shitty lives! NOOOO! I've spent the entire evening listening to Alanis Morissette, playing spider solitaire and wallowing in my pissoffedness. This is just so wrong!
Hmmm. This purchase might help cheer me up. Maybe something from the Dirty Girl collection at blueq.com instead? Or maybe just quitting my job and surfing the web full time, pantless, is the way to go. What's your poison?
For now I'm going to settle for these beautiful Junior Mints and a Diet Coke. Mmmmhhh...
Those people who say food and shopping are only fake happiness are fucking stupid.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 10:29 PM [+] ::
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Oh My God:: Sunday, September 21, 2003 ::
I am so pissed off right now for absolutely no reason. Does that ever happen to you? I even put on some Chaka Khan, the universal mood booster, but fifteen seconds into "I'm Every Woman" I got stressed out. I have enough trouble keeping my own shit together without trying to embody an entire gender.
I have split ends and I'm going to bed. Later.
J
:: happy hour begins at 10:08 PM [+] ::
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The Emmys: Not Just Another Distraction from Football
Or maybe it is. But I just know I'm going to win an Emmy someday! I'm probably going to get on the contortionist thing first, but you know. Of course, there would have to be some actual, like, work 'n stuff before that, but I can handle it. Or hire it out. Whatever.
What else do I know? Well, I know Bradley Whitford lost the Best Supporting Actor/Drama caption to some no-name with a hat from the Paula Hates Us Collection. No-name did cry on cue, though. I wonder if they make you audition that before they give you the statue.
Oh, and Debra Messing caught Best Lead Actress/Comedy away from Patricia Heaton, who is Speaksy's lust bunny. (Sorry, Jane. I was rooting for you, if only to get more screen time with your husband.) (I'm pretty shallow.)
Also, The Amazing Race? I guess the four people who watch that must be pretty loud. American Idol will just have to be happy with their bazillions of dollars and viewers. What a blow for them.
Tsks all around, but especially for Simon. NOT GAY in his four-in-a-row tuxedo and the nice ass-grope he got in on Paula. I didn't witness the latter first-hand (I'm also punny) but it's all anyone's talking about so it must be true. Isn't everything we see on television?
So I stayed up too late to witness a string of "what the hell"s and an insultingly pathetic tribute to the incredible Bob Hope. Bradley, I'm still with you, honey, and I'd like to thank the Academy for seating you in the front row where I could keep my adoring eye on you.
Things Bradley and Simon have in common:
Me
An oh for the love of God inability to sit the fuck still
All good. 'Night!
Juliet
PS - The West Wing won Best Drama! WOOHOO!!! (I wrote the rest of this entry during the Who Cares awards and, since I'm still a few backbends from starting on that Emmy project, I'm not going to bother to rewrite the damned thing to fit this in. Still, YAY!)
:: happy hour begins at 11:20 PM [+] ::
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Ignore. To be ignored. Flying ignoramus. Yes.:: Friday, September 19, 2003 ::
Happy Sunday, everyone! I am back from a wonderful weekend with a house full of amazing women (including HFS, HFS Jr and Wicked H), and one enigmatic man whom we'll call M.
"It's nice to meet you."
That's all it took for M to hate my everliving guts. Maybe it was my pink flip-flops with tiny rosettes that turned him off. Maybe he doesn't like people under 5'3". Whatever the cause, the instant "get the hell away from me" vibe washed over me like little Carole Ann's spirit whooshing down the staircase.
"I was asked to ask you, could you please turn the breasts and thighs?"
I got to use the words "breasts" and "thighs" in a sentence to a boy, which should always be a good experience or at least a wry icebreaker. Not with M, though; M raised his eyebrows and bolted for the grill. Buh bye. Twelve hours later...
"It was nice to meet you."
I don't think he was looking at me when I said it.
I will admit, once the first shot of venom grazed the bow I pretty much wrote him off. Yes, I could have tried harder; attempting (and failing) to make eye contact over two meals was pretty much the extent of my effort. But since I'm not likely to meet him again in this lifetime (or at least this year) I thought it best to let him wallow in whatever animosity cocktail he was drinking and move on to a happier corner of the party.
That corner featured Cosmopolitans, Barry Manilow, Sex for Dummies by Dr. Ruth and an invisible tiara.
Hell yeah.
Thanks again to our beautiful hostess, H! And M? I have no frame of reference for your ilk. I'll work on that.
Hugs!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 3:03 PM [+] ::
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Well Whaddya Know:: Thursday, September 18, 2003 ::
Yes, I regret to inform you that The World According to Juliet is alive and well, and that bitch Isabel has been sent back to hell! (I couldn't resist. My apologies.)
The truth is, I slept right through it. Ta da! Our house never lost power, water, anything important. Our internet was out for a while this afternoon, but that didn't start until late in the day so I'm not sure how related it was.
We were lucky, except for the fact that I had to work today. It was, however, highly amusing to watch the parking lot slowly fill up throughout the morning and the streams of young women in hats who toted their duffel bags straight into the bathrooms. Not everyone in town had lights today.
(I have to wonder: what the hell kinds of sins were they committing that I was spared?)
I hope the rest of you fared as well as we did. Pipe up and let us know!
Have a wonderful weekend, everyone. See you Monday!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 10:12 PM [+] ::
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And So It Begins:: Wednesday, September 17, 2003 ::
They sent us home from work at noon. We have our nice Tropical Storm Wind Warnings up and it's raining a bit, but we're still a few hours out from the storm.
HFS, however, has already lost power in North Carolina. She says it isn't too bad down there, though, so hopefully she'll be back online soon!
I have opened my Chips Ahoy emergency pack in your honor, Sweetie. Cheers!
J
:: happy hour begins at 3:54 PM [+] ::
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It's Henny Penny Week over here...:: Tuesday, September 16, 2003 ::
...and I'm already kind of bored with Isabel. She's been on our Armageddon radar for days now, and I'm thinking it's time for her to fish or cut bait.
Speaking of bait, I bought my first Starkist Tuna Lunch Pak today after a spirited discussion with a complete stranger about the lack of single-serving packets of mayonnaise at the store. I also bought canned fruit, applesauce in single-serving containers, rice cakes and granola bars. Oh, and Fritos and a tub of chocolate icing. (What food pyramid? It's only a couple of days, and if random junk food helps keep down the whining factor I'm going with it.)
I also tested our radio out; it's fantastic that after the batteries die I can just wind it up, but not so wonderful that the only station I could get without the batteries was playing Feliz Navidad in September.
Great job: meteorologist. "Well. It might rain and it could get windy. Might not, though. And if it does I'm not sure when. But I make a lot of money and work in a shelter with a generator so I don't much care what happens to you."
Bad job: on-air reporter. "This is Dumb Fuck, reporting live from Deathtrap, North Carolina, where thousands of citizens are boarding up their homes and evacuating to safety. I, however, will be standing here on the beach bringing you hourly updates and interviews in which I'll mock locals who refuse to leave...um, town...uh, unlike professionals like me who are paid to be here...well...we don't get paid all that - Hey, Fitz? Where'd the van go?"
In closing, I'd like to say it was nice knowing you all. According to Fred in Accounting the wind will start here tomorrow afternoon, and the rain will follow tomorrow night. Fred sounded pretty confident about that prediction, and Roscoe was backing him up with hearty nods, whistles and hand gestures so I suppose that's the best information I'm likely to get.
All Hail Isabel,
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 5:29 PM [+] ::
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You know what they say...:: Monday, September 15, 2003 ::
One of the perks of living near the nation's capital has been hearing the firsthand accounts of Presidential hijinks through the years (as opposed to the con column, which sports items like, oh, I don't know...HURRICANES, maybe). Sometimes I don't need a Ouija board to commune with our great leaders; sometimes they speak directly to me, all on their own.
Lyndon B. Johnson, while President of the United States of America, once got smashed, stripped down to his white dress shirt and underpants, piled his rowdy beagles into the back seat of a car, crashed through the gates at Camp David and took a slow-mo, weaving tour of Catoctin Mountain Park. Park rangers tried to block his path with their cars (it's a mite dangerous to drive those hairpin turns up there under the influence) but the President persevered, simply turning the car around and going on his merry way. Eventually the secret service showed up and shooed the rangers off, but at least one of them never forgot the incident. He told it to Speaksy a few years ago, and now I'm telling it to you.
You're smart; you know not to drink and drive. But I'm not sure I'm above rolling around the hillside in my underwear with three barking beagles in the back of my Chrysler 300M.
If only they didn't get so damned carsick...
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 8:57 PM [+] ::
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Well, what did you think I was going to blog about?:: Sunday, September 14, 2003 ::
Geography check: look at the projection maps and draw a line straight up the middle of Isabel's parade route into Maryland. Squint your eyes and concentrate, and you'll see a sign:
Welcome to the World of Juliet!
I've never done the hurricane thing before. Tornados, yes; blizzards, sure. A hurricane barreling straight for me? Not so much. And since the best anyone can do is, "buy water and tie any stray trampolines to the nearest swingset" I'm not sure we deserve to survive.
I'm pretty worried about the power, I suppose. I want a full, hot shower. Air conditioning. Decent satellite reception. The internet. And since our government can toss a hunk of metal into space and get back Polaroids of the "I Love Momma" tattoo on some guy sipping Pina Coladas in fucking Tunisia, I don't think a little thing like electricity is too much to ask.
I'm also concerned about the dogs. Don't worry, they live in the house with us, but Jake doesn't like to pee outside if it's at all misty. Read between the lines here.
But mostly I'm worried about Lola. LOLA! GET THE HELL OUT OF NORFOLK! And leave that damned computer at work! That's company property. If they don't have insurance they deserve what they get.
Oh, back to the Weather Channel I go. Hopefully this will turn out like the Great Stealth Snow of 1997: they closed the schools in anticipation of 12+ inches overnight, and we woke up to flake-free sunshine.
Classic.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 8:47 PM [+] ::
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I'm Too Stupid to Live
Reposted from the original blog, January 18, 2003. I'm 31 now and it was Feria this time, but not much else has changed.
***********
I should have gone to bed. Maybe started drinking or something, but did I? Of course not. No, I broke the cardinal rule. I'm 30 years old for God's sake. What was I thinking?
Here's how it started: I balanced the checkbook this morning. Well, there was that Ralph Lauren shopping spree in there plus some birthday stuff for family, and then there were all those dinners out because it's been such a stressful week. I changed the batteries in my calculator and tried it again.
Huh.
Fast forward to lunch and I'm in my local Wal-Mart shopping for a new stapler and right before me is the L'Oreal display. $7.87 for hair color, including a highlighting kit? A few brain cells rub together and cause a spark. It can't be that difficult, right? Lots of people do it every day and they don't complain, right? Hmmm. $7.87 v. $165 for Charles to do it. Yes, Charles gives me water with lemon in it and tells me funny stories, but still. $7.87 v. $165.
I have a bachelor's degree and some grad school. I can do this. Yes!
No. No no no no no no no. NO. JUST SAY NO.
In the basket it goes.
The adventure resumes somewhere around 10:15pm. Two easy steps, it says. Excellent! The instructions are in English and everything!
Well, let me enlighten you folks. "Two easy steps" actually means 27 separate issues, most of them concurrent and mistranslated from Japanese or whatever language it is in which these instructions were originally written. In this box are 17 gazillion bottles and two sets of gloves. There is the vile-smelling cream you slather on, hoping against hope you don't get it in your eyes because it "may cause blindness." There is some evil-looking powder you're supposed to mix into something else using a spatula included (which is transparent and disappears into the top of the vanity whenever you put it down). The mixture is supposed to look like frosting when you're done (it does not). There's the conditioner you're supposed to use afterwards, presumably to make your hair feel silky and smell better than whatever it was you just washed out of it, but which actually feels much like snot.
And then there's the color itself.
Oh my.
My adventure will not conclude until sometime tomorrow, once Charles has laughed at me over the telephone and miraculously fit me into his schedule (because I am a VERY good customer, after all). This month my haircare bill will be $165, plus $7.87, plus an exorbitant tip because Charles gives me water with lemon in it, tells me funny stories and fits me in when I screw up.
I go through this about twice a year. Apparently I will never learn.
And you want to know the funniest part of it all? The color Charles will give me is pretty darn close to my natural color anyway. Redheads don't get a choice, apparently. We're doomed to red forever. Fortunately for me and anyone who has to look at me, I am not a slave to the trashcan orange provided by L'Oreal.
***********
Oh yes. Yes I did.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 11:30 PM [+] ::
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Wonder where I've been?:: Friday, September 12, 2003 ::
Click here for Simon Cowell Memorial Hospital.
HFS and I are psycho. Come and visit us!
Love,
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 3:40 PM [+] ::
...
Update
There is now drinking and upbeat 80's music. ALLLLLLL better.
You know who I forgot? Robert Palmer. I love him! And Level 42. And Richard Marx... Happy happy happy.
Great day. Great wine, too. Mmmmhhhhh...
J
:: happy hour begins at 8:53 PM [+] ::
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A Therapist Would Have a Field Day in Here:: Thursday, September 11, 2003 ::
Let's recap my day:
Spend a particularly exasperating morning shuffling projects and being told by a client, "I know you like to play it safe, but let's shake things up a bit." Well, sorry to be a downer, but it's my damn job to tell you all the ways you're about to fuck this up, sweetheart. That's so you can't come back in June and pin the resulting cluster on me.
Say, "Piss off," at noon and come home to a particularly ugly hairball situation. Am once again stymied by the DVD player. Wade around in self-pity until...
5pm, "The Wrath of God" on the History Channel. Find evil pleasure in how accurately massive dam failures mirror my week.
Am now quietly unspooling the rest of the way to a Big Band radio station on RealOnePlayer.
I can reason away the DVD thing; after all, there are about forty contraptions that plug into the damn thing. How can I be expected to remember all that, especially when Speaksy arrives home to tell me he reconfigured it so now I have to be on this channel and this setting to play something? I mean, hell! But there's nothing coming as to why I can't tear back the sipper area on the top of my 7-11 styrofoam coffee cup properly.
Jesus God.
Sincerely,
Lidless in HELL
:: happy hour begins at 6:37 PM [+] ::
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"A clue, a clue, a clue!" - Clue:: Wednesday, September 10, 2003 ::
I know why I'm so tired.
In years past, Speaksy would leave for work about the same time I got up every morning. We'd share a good morning kiss, say our goodbyes and he'd be out the door. My body is used to it; it knows what to do.
But over the past few weeks Speaksy has inexplicably gotten out of bed in the middle of the night, showered, dressed, kissed me and gone to work, like, farmer early. Which leaves me with an hour left to sleep before my alarm goes off, except I can't sleep if he's not with me. (And before you get all "AWWWW!" on me, remember the point - I'M FUCKING TIRED!)
My conscious self knew his school changed their start time, and I knew he'd drawn morning bus duty. What I did not know is that this new schedule would see him up at 5am and out the door by 6. I also did not know anything about those hours, seeing as how they occur IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT when NO LIVING CREATURE should be AWAKE!
So. My husband seems to have gained a third-shift job while I wasn't looking, and my body is in for some serious retraining. Otherwise I'm going to keep having mornings where I run over a mosquito bite with the Daisy, and I'm not so much into that.
Though some might say Speaksy is keeping vampires' hours and I should be on the lookout for bats...
But tired or not, today I am celebrating the fact that I am an American. God bless and keep us, Americans and friends all.
Love,
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 7:31 PM [+] ::
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"HA!" - Tom Hanks, The Money Pit:: Monday, September 08, 2003 ::
At around about 2pm, EST, today, I heard a snap, quickly followed by a peal of laughter so uncontrollable they felt the shift in China. The quake lasted approximately one hour and left several people confused and unable to cope with resulting disorder.
Piecing together the events of this afternoon and joining them with recollections of the last few days of my life, I have come to the conclusion that the first noise was the demise of the last tendril of logic holding my sanity together, and the second was simply wish-I-had-some-whiskey fallout.
For the past several days I have been sequestered in my office, technometal music blaring and door closed against the world. Struggling with project after project, details swirling together like 31 flavors of ice cream in a bowl in the Sahara, I was so mired in the chaos that even my dreams were turning red. (YOU try waking up chipper after a night filled with images of clown cars with flat tires chasing you down the streets of Pamplona.)
This morning I started the day with renewed spirit: I am a senior member of my team, dammit! My workload will not escape me! (Translated: just forget it for a day and go read your overflowing email box.) Office hours begin at 8:30.
At 8:35 I was chest-deep in the following argument: Here's the easy way. Here's the medium-easy way. Here's the almost-hard way. And here is the fucking insane way. Which do you want?
Which do you think they wanted? Which do they ALWAYS want?
They want the way that makes me LOSE MY FREAKING MIND the fastest.
So they got what they paid for.
I'm feeling much better now. They say laughter is the best medicine, and I must agree. After laughing my fool head off for an hour I just really didn't care all that much anymore.
Awesome.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 8:38 PM [+] ::
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Let's Talk About Sex, Baby:: Friday, September 05, 2003 ::
Ah, sex. Over the weekend, Speaksy and I had a protracted conversation (bash session, really) about all the nitwits who believe sex ed should not be taught in school, that abstinence is the only responsible thing to teach and gawl ding explaining to teenagers how all their plumbing really works. Yes, let's raise a generation full of Carries, except they'll be pregnant and gonorrhea-ridden before they're 14. How much blood do you think will be spilt at the Prom this year, Buford?
Speaksy and I went through separate school districts, six years apart. Our educations were vastly different, and I'd say his teachers did a better job of it. How?
My education: Exhibit A - female reproductive anatomy. Exhibit B - male reproductive anatomy. “When Your Boobs Bud” filmstrip. Childbirth video.
That was pretty good. Oddly enough they never once said, "Insert Exhibit B into Exhibit A." Better yet, after watching childbirth who in their right mind would do ANYTHING that might lead to that, especially since we didn't really know what ANYTHING might entail? (We did talk about AIDS later - "Sex = Death" - but since A and B never quite got it together we didn't have much of a context for how one ended up with a Sexually Transmitted Disease.)
Speaksy's education: Exhibit A - female reproductive anatomy. Exhibit B - male reproductive anatomy. Touch Exhibit A and you'll get syphilis and go insane, you flea-bitten sack of VD! Beethoven did, and if that dude ended up in an asylum what makes you think you'll do any better? Oh, and sex makes your crotch stink!
"AAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!" screamed the young men. MY CROTCH WILL STINK??? Get away from me, Bitch!
Classic.
So our teachers knew how to teach abstinence without really teaching it. We learned about birth control, learned about condoms. We didn't learn about masturbation in the girls' class, though I think that might have been a good place to start so we'd know we weren't all closet freaks. (The only reassurance I had was my best friend, Debbie, who boldly called me one day to come over and see what she'd found in her mother's closet - the same mother who covertly left a book with a name like, "Storks and Bows," on Debbie's bed one day and that was the end of the sex talk.)
Sex is a beautiful thing. It can be an expression of love, but it is not love itself and it is not a way to make someone love you. It can be a lot of fun and it can be an emotional connection. It can be a lot of wonderful things if one is mature enough to handle it. But if we hide it from children and make them think it's too "dirty" to talk about we're only setting ourselves up for more unplanned pregnancies and higher STD rates.
And really, only Buford could be happy about that.
Agree? Disagree? Talk about it!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 6:19 PM [+] ::
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I can't even cry right.:: Thursday, September 04, 2003 ::
You know how some people maintain their normal facial structure when they cry? Well, I am not one of them.
Last night I threw myself into the pit of self-loathing for a little while (nothing serious, probably just the changing seasons or something) and had a good sobfest. Unfortunately I don't look like normal people when that happens. Instead, my face starts taking on that puffed-quilt look they teach at JoAnn Fabrics and my neck blotches out. Charming.
Which would be fine, except it takes a while for that stuff to subside. Like, a few days.
So here I am, fresh from a session with my "I SUCK!" mantra, and I look like somebody beat the hell out of me. Wonderful for my self esteem, there, Body. I had to go through (almost) an entire day of work looking like I just finished watching Beaches and threw myself off a building. Fortunately nobody said anything - whether from fear or as a "we don't care" signal I don't know - but I still couldn't open my eyes all the way. Plus the headache. I always get a headache after.
Grrr.
The only person who said anything at all was my boss, who ducked into my office at three to ask why in hell I was still at work. I took the hint.
Have a great weekend, everyone! I'm going to sequester myself in the house with a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough and some fuzzy slippers until the bee-stung look fades out. I'll see you on Monday!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 5:10 PM [+] ::
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They Fuck You at the Drive Through:: Wednesday, September 03, 2003 ::
My husband and I have a long-standing relationship with convenience food. Our first non-date occurred in a Wendy's parking lot; we'd gone in late one night after a rehearsal and ended up talking outside until 3am and started dating not long after. In the early years of our marriage the fast-food tradition lived on through our hellish nighttime schedules; meals were catch-as-catch-can and usually involved something on a bun. Today our lives are much less hectic but no less littered with hamburger wrappers.
It's a nostalgia thing.
But there's nothing like driving away from Wendy's with a bag devoid of french fries for bringing into focus the reason people become violent at the sound of that non-English-speaking voice blaring through the drive-up speaker. There are others.
Like this past weekend, when Speaksy was PASSED in the drive-through lane by a Toyota-protected man with a warped sense of self-preservation. By the time Speaksy got to the window our order had been cancelled because they thought he'd driven off. Driven off, no; driven over the fucking Toyota piece of shit with our Expedition, very, very nearly.
Like last year, when we asked for three plain cheeseburgers as a special (guilt-induced) treat for the dogs. "Plain cheebugey?" "Yes, plain." "So, no chee on the cheebugey?" "No, WITH cheese but nothing else." "Okay, three plain hambugey." "No, CHEESEBURGERS." "You don't want chee on the cheebugey, so that's hambugey." (Another time Speaksy showed remarkable restraint with that truck, honest to God.)
Or how about the time they ran out of hamburger? That's real nice.
Not that it's just Wendy's; our Ground Round ran out of pasta - ALL KINDS - one Friday night, or the exchange through a KFC speaker: "I'd like the eight piece meal." "We don't have a six-piece meal, sir." "No, that was eight piece." "Sir, we do not have a six-piece meal." "Not six, EIGHT." "Sir, we don't - oh. Okay."
It's also not always the establishment's fault. I once drove an elderly Korean man to cursing as he put on his coat and stalked out of his own restaurant because I ordered Be-Bim-Bop with the hot sauce on the side. I suspect Be-Bim-Bop literally translates into "really hot sauce with stuff in it" because that seriously pissed him off.
But there are good memories, too, like the non-date at Wendy's 'til all hours, and our trip through Kentucky last summer that took us to the last Hardee's in America that still allowed smoking. The cashier was smoking, the girl mopping the floor was smoking... It was awesome. We took some of those flimsy aluminum ashtrays home as souvenirs.
Oh, and let's not forget good friends! The people at our favorite Chinese restaurant (who recognize Speaksy's voice and no longer ask our name, what we want, what our debit card number is or our address for delivery) gave us a large bag of frozen catfish for Christmas one year. You just don't find that kind of customer care in medium-sized-city America anymore. It's a wonderful thing.
So think of us next time you're sitting in the drive-through, and know these things: nobody understands the guy through the speaker, you're going to get shorted some fries now and then, and an Expedition up your tailpipe is a very good reason not to act stupid.
Oh, and if you see a tall, handsome man standing next to a white Expedition in a pizzeria parking lot, bending up a wire-handled flyswatter because his wife is out of town with the spare set of keys, that's Speaksy. Stop and say hey.
Love you all!
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 8:52 PM [+] ::
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Night Night:: Tuesday, September 02, 2003 ::
So I've finally seen Being Simon Cowell thanks to HFS (!), and here's the thing: is it wrong that the American Idol theme song gets me all hot? God, they're going to take away my degrees, probably my high school diploma...maybe my tiara. SWOON! (Just kidding about the tiara - it's estrogen-driven and I have a LOT of that right about now...)
I have to admit, I had a brain cell ping-ponging around about doing a recap of BSC, but it was just the one and the Lust Cell Sisters were able to subdue it pretty quickly. While they were busy the Drool Patrol went on strike so there was some puddling going on, but it's a fair trade I think. Laundry for sweet Simon time? No contest.
So here's how my evening is shaping up:
5:30 - 6:30pm - Being Simon Cowell
7:00 - 8:00pm - West Wing/Brad Whitford
8:00 - 9:00pm - WWW surfing to Westlife
9:00 - 10:00pm - MORE West Wing/Brad Whitford
10:01pm - EDITED FOR YOUNGER READERS
It's a good day.
Juliet
Psst - I added a section to the sidebar for old posts I liked. What do you think? What should I have left off, and what should be added?
:: happy hour begins at 8:32 PM [+] ::
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Desperation from the Arcade Angle
I don't sleep well. This is true across all time zones and in all manners of speaking. But lately, things have taken a turn for the worse.
Three dogs. Three cats. Two people. One bed.
Jake, beagle the eldest, sleeps on the couch. Sweet. Sadie, beagle the youngest, sleeps in her bed at the foot of ours, which would be fine except she likes to share our covers. She grabs the end, twirls herself up and leaves us uncovered to our waists. Any quick tugs send her airborne, after which she limps around for a few days like we tried to kill her. Baxter, beagle the alpha, is the one dog who wants to sleep in our bed.
At the foot of the bed. On my side. Basically, the entire lower half of my side. Where all the covers are.
Enter Lucy, cat the eldest. Lucy wants to sleep on my pillow - on my hair. She also has the pokiest feet in the pet universe, so just getting her to the pillow involves pain on my end. Next is Skeezix, cat the first, who wants to spoon but is generally too late to get in there. He'll sleep anywhere on my side, as long as I pet him first. And then there's Bean, cat the youngest, the smallest, and the performance artist.
Bean, Step 1: Stare at Mom until she shows she is awake (the big faker)
Bean, Step 2: Once consciousness is confirmed, move in and press head lightly against her shoulder. If that doesn't work...
Bean, Step 3: Shift to press head to her cheek. HARD. If that doesn't work...
Bean, Step 4: Press entire body to her nose and mouth, cutting off oxygen supply. She will move back enough for...
Bean, Step 5: Place one paw into crook of her elbow. Press head into her shoulder.
Bean, Step 6: Place second paw with first and press head into her cheek. HARD.
Bean, Step 7: Chirp. Repeat. Increase volume and pressure until she lifts covers.
Bean, Step 8: Move under blanket, turn around and spoon with Mom. Keep face as close to hers as possible. Knead claws into her arm and/or chest. Purr loudly. Sleep...nah. I sleep all day!
So with three cats and one dog on my side of a queen-sized bed we drift into slumber, until one of them moves. Then they all move. In fact, there is usually hissing and a scrabbling of pokey feet, followed by a gruff beagle bark and a grand exit of all remaining blankets.
And the process starts again.
So finally, at 2am on Sunday, Speaksy came up with a plan. Two plans, actually, broken down by species.
INKY DINKY
Dogs
Theory: Baxter retains a small sliver of space on the bed, between us. He may sleep at the foot, or at the head, but he must remain within his inky dinky sliver.
Baxter: "You've moved me seven times since I got here and THIS is all right?"
Theory: Sadie gets her own little blanket.
Sadie: "Uh, no."
WHACK-A-MOLE
Cats
Theory: No cats on the bed. At all.
Lucy: "If I haven't given up the last twelve times what makes you think I'm going to stop trying?"
Skeezix: "Any and all human body parts that leave the bed immediately become my property."
Bean: "My claws trump your damn plan."
Juliet: "Dammit, Speaksy! That was ME! The cat's over here!"
At 3:30am I finally fell asleep, sans cats and with dog in Inky Dinky.
At 8:00am I woke up with Baxter draped across my legs, Lucy on my hair, Skeezix pressed into my thighs and Bean spooned, half under the blankets, up against my face.
I will never sleep again.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 6:39 PM [+] ::
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