Was it or was it not an especially lovely long weekend, weatherwise? I worked Saturday, but the Benevolent L and I managed to get away for a little mini (very mini) vacay and I promised to mention to you, my blog readers, that she forced me to go to the country, even though she knows it traumatizes me. Ahem. Actually, though, we didn't so much go to the country, as drive through a buttload of it. As a matter of fact, we stayed in Brattleboro. And since Brattleboro is one of those hippy dippy crunchy boho towns that I both love so much and love to make fun of, all was well.
Plus Ubaldo 10, baby. The rest of my baseball players were sucking while I left them unattended, but Ubaldo 10!
Hope you all enjoyed yourselves too.
xoxo
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
it's a fine vintage
I'm going to talk about clothes and some of the memories attached there to, so you all might wanna check out, especially the guys. I don't mind babbling to myself on this one. But before you go? Can I just say that I got an email today for a film about fascia with live narration/commentary by Tom Myers. Two hours long. $50. Are you kidding me? The day I pay $50 to listen to a two hour lecture (even by the god of fascia) that doesn't even provide CEUs is the day I have more money to waste than I have now, that's for sure.
So what else was I doing this morning besides sputtering over Tom Myers gouging the massage therapists of the world? Spending hours looking at 70s era vintage clothing on Etsy. (It's dead at work; only Led Zep Girl, my boss, and I are even here and I am just biding time before I can leave to go get my nails done.) This whole enterprise brought up a lot of thoughts. First of all, there are apparently a fair number of people like me who are fans of the vintage Gunne Sax dresses, because people who have them to sell make it abundantly clear in the listing, so you'll look. And people with knockoffs say "Gunne Sax style" which, pshaw.
Secondly, I was thinking about how incredibly well-made those dresses are. The fabric and stitching and workmanship in the one I have is fabulous, which is why it can be worn 32 years after it was first sold. I'm thinking that 30 years from now, there's not going to be any 00s vintage, except maybe wedding gowns and the like, 'cause all this fucking cheap Chinese-made crap we have now, even at expensive price points, is gonna fall apart by then.
Thirdly, I was thinking that I really wish I had saved all my clothes from the 80s, because I could have sold it now, no question about it. I had two pairs of skinny jeans, sorta acid-washed but not *so* extreme, with zippers in the ankles, from winter 1987 that I can guarantee I could get about $50 for now if only I hadn't gotten rid of them. Also, shoes. I had shoes people would pay good money for now. I guess those people on Hoarders know something after all.
Fourth. All the listings of size seven Gunne Sax dresses on Etsy are very clear that these are tiny little dresses equivalent to about a modern size 2. I wore a size seven in 1978 and I was convinced I was too fat. Oh, yeah.
Finally, all those Gunne Sax dresses remind me of the time in the summer after 8th grade when my two best girlfriends and I took the T into downtown Boston for the first time without our parents to go shopping at Jordan Marsh and Filenes. We didn't *tell* our parents until after the fact, of course, because it's easier to do it and then get in big trouble than to ask permission and be denied. I remember seeing the displays of all those dark cotton floral day dresses, racks and racks, and thinking they were the most beautiful garments ever. And in my rich and full fantasy life, in which I was going to grow up, move to NYC, and write for Glamour magazine, I would wear one of those beautiful dresses to work every single day. Real life adulthood has been a comedown, lemme tell you.
xoxo
So what else was I doing this morning besides sputtering over Tom Myers gouging the massage therapists of the world? Spending hours looking at 70s era vintage clothing on Etsy. (It's dead at work; only Led Zep Girl, my boss, and I are even here and I am just biding time before I can leave to go get my nails done.) This whole enterprise brought up a lot of thoughts. First of all, there are apparently a fair number of people like me who are fans of the vintage Gunne Sax dresses, because people who have them to sell make it abundantly clear in the listing, so you'll look. And people with knockoffs say "Gunne Sax style" which, pshaw.
Secondly, I was thinking about how incredibly well-made those dresses are. The fabric and stitching and workmanship in the one I have is fabulous, which is why it can be worn 32 years after it was first sold. I'm thinking that 30 years from now, there's not going to be any 00s vintage, except maybe wedding gowns and the like, 'cause all this fucking cheap Chinese-made crap we have now, even at expensive price points, is gonna fall apart by then.
Thirdly, I was thinking that I really wish I had saved all my clothes from the 80s, because I could have sold it now, no question about it. I had two pairs of skinny jeans, sorta acid-washed but not *so* extreme, with zippers in the ankles, from winter 1987 that I can guarantee I could get about $50 for now if only I hadn't gotten rid of them. Also, shoes. I had shoes people would pay good money for now. I guess those people on Hoarders know something after all.
Fourth. All the listings of size seven Gunne Sax dresses on Etsy are very clear that these are tiny little dresses equivalent to about a modern size 2. I wore a size seven in 1978 and I was convinced I was too fat. Oh, yeah.
Finally, all those Gunne Sax dresses remind me of the time in the summer after 8th grade when my two best girlfriends and I took the T into downtown Boston for the first time without our parents to go shopping at Jordan Marsh and Filenes. We didn't *tell* our parents until after the fact, of course, because it's easier to do it and then get in big trouble than to ask permission and be denied. I remember seeing the displays of all those dark cotton floral day dresses, racks and racks, and thinking they were the most beautiful garments ever. And in my rich and full fantasy life, in which I was going to grow up, move to NYC, and write for Glamour magazine, I would wear one of those beautiful dresses to work every single day. Real life adulthood has been a comedown, lemme tell you.
xoxo
Thursday, May 27, 2010
but it's not all rainbows and kitten orgasms
While, yes, I was awash in positive vibes today, I also had an experience this afternoon which bears talking about, and which reminded me that I've had a few experiences this week that screamed OMG! this culture is full of poisonous messages! So let's examine them in reverse chronological order, shall we?
This afternoon I had a little six year old patient. She was an adorable little girl--I mean TV-commercial level adorable, and the fact that she was missing her two front teeth only added to it. She happened to be Dominican. Her slightly older brother was with her, and he was a complete chatterbox, watching everything I was doing and peppering me with questions and commentary until his father forcibly removed him to the waiting room saying, "Will you let her work?!" (He really wasn't bothering me, honestly.) But in the course of his chatter, he told me he wanted to have blond hair, and his little sister said she did too. The little girl's hair was long, very very loosely curly, and absolutely gorgeous. "Why do you want it blond?" I asked her. "It's better!" she said. "No!" I said, "Your hair is beautiful!" Her brother picked up a strand of her hair and demurred. "Her hair is wrinkly!" I told them, again, no, that her hair was wavy and that it was so, so pretty, but I don't think I sold it. But how sad is that? At their tender ages they already had soaked up some kind of message that one kind of hair was the best, and furthermore, that kind of hair--blond and straight--is one that no one of their ethnicity was gonna come by naturally. Now, I know little kids get all kinds of strange ideas that hopefully they grow out of. At her age, as we've already established, I thought my name should be Isobel Rose and that if my mother wasn't so mean, she'd let me wear my orange and purple paisley dress every day, and I grew out of that. Though, frankly, if I had an orange and purple paisley dress now, I'd rock the hell out of it. But, yeah, sad anyway. This absolutely beautiful little six year old has already internalized that there's something about her appearance that's "wrong."
Next. The other day on the bus there was a woman with a toddler in a stroller, and the baby kept throwing its bottle onto the floor. The mother's reaction was, and I quote, "You better stop that! You're fucking embarrassing me!" I would have pointed out that, no, she was embarrassing herself by swearing at a baby, but honestly? She looked like she would probably cut a bitch. Y'all seen Precious? Um, yeah. I guess we can all just hope that life follows fiction and that that baby will miraculously grow up able to actually love someone.
And earlier in the week. I was behind an older teenage girl in the pharmacy line at CVS the other night. Her boyfriend was waiting with barely disguised--or maybe undisguised--impatience to the side in the "waiting" chairs. As I walked up, she was saying, "WHAT did you just call me?" Apparently he was disagreeing with a cell phone conversation that she'd just had with her mother. Luckily, I missed what it was that he did call her. For the next five minutes I watched as she tried to get him to pay attention to her, almost desperately, as he texted away and answered her in monosyllables and just wouldn't engage. At one point she said, "What is your problem?!? You act like you don't care what I'm saying!" I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and say, "Jesus Christ on a cracker, sweetheart, he doesn't! What the fuck are you doing tap dancing for this idiot's attention? He isn't worth it. You don't sound like you're exactly the next coming of Einstein, but you're seventeen and you're fairly pretty and your body's probably never gonna look this good again, so at this point you could at least get a guy who *pretends* like he gives a fuck. Drop this loser!" I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE DO TO GIRLS, BUT WE DO SOMETHING. Sigh.
Oh, well. I just heard on ESPN that Ubaldo still lives with his mother. I suppose that means he doesn't need me to be his surrogate mom, make him a nice steak and some brownies, and tell him he's a good boy and I'm proud of him, but it makes me love him all the more.
xoxo
This afternoon I had a little six year old patient. She was an adorable little girl--I mean TV-commercial level adorable, and the fact that she was missing her two front teeth only added to it. She happened to be Dominican. Her slightly older brother was with her, and he was a complete chatterbox, watching everything I was doing and peppering me with questions and commentary until his father forcibly removed him to the waiting room saying, "Will you let her work?!" (He really wasn't bothering me, honestly.) But in the course of his chatter, he told me he wanted to have blond hair, and his little sister said she did too. The little girl's hair was long, very very loosely curly, and absolutely gorgeous. "Why do you want it blond?" I asked her. "It's better!" she said. "No!" I said, "Your hair is beautiful!" Her brother picked up a strand of her hair and demurred. "Her hair is wrinkly!" I told them, again, no, that her hair was wavy and that it was so, so pretty, but I don't think I sold it. But how sad is that? At their tender ages they already had soaked up some kind of message that one kind of hair was the best, and furthermore, that kind of hair--blond and straight--is one that no one of their ethnicity was gonna come by naturally. Now, I know little kids get all kinds of strange ideas that hopefully they grow out of. At her age, as we've already established, I thought my name should be Isobel Rose and that if my mother wasn't so mean, she'd let me wear my orange and purple paisley dress every day, and I grew out of that. Though, frankly, if I had an orange and purple paisley dress now, I'd rock the hell out of it. But, yeah, sad anyway. This absolutely beautiful little six year old has already internalized that there's something about her appearance that's "wrong."
Next. The other day on the bus there was a woman with a toddler in a stroller, and the baby kept throwing its bottle onto the floor. The mother's reaction was, and I quote, "You better stop that! You're fucking embarrassing me!" I would have pointed out that, no, she was embarrassing herself by swearing at a baby, but honestly? She looked like she would probably cut a bitch. Y'all seen Precious? Um, yeah. I guess we can all just hope that life follows fiction and that that baby will miraculously grow up able to actually love someone.
And earlier in the week. I was behind an older teenage girl in the pharmacy line at CVS the other night. Her boyfriend was waiting with barely disguised--or maybe undisguised--impatience to the side in the "waiting" chairs. As I walked up, she was saying, "WHAT did you just call me?" Apparently he was disagreeing with a cell phone conversation that she'd just had with her mother. Luckily, I missed what it was that he did call her. For the next five minutes I watched as she tried to get him to pay attention to her, almost desperately, as he texted away and answered her in monosyllables and just wouldn't engage. At one point she said, "What is your problem?!? You act like you don't care what I'm saying!" I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and say, "Jesus Christ on a cracker, sweetheart, he doesn't! What the fuck are you doing tap dancing for this idiot's attention? He isn't worth it. You don't sound like you're exactly the next coming of Einstein, but you're seventeen and you're fairly pretty and your body's probably never gonna look this good again, so at this point you could at least get a guy who *pretends* like he gives a fuck. Drop this loser!" I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE DO TO GIRLS, BUT WE DO SOMETHING. Sigh.
Oh, well. I just heard on ESPN that Ubaldo still lives with his mother. I suppose that means he doesn't need me to be his surrogate mom, make him a nice steak and some brownies, and tell him he's a good boy and I'm proud of him, but it makes me love him all the more.
xoxo
(mostly) everything's right in the world
Here's my evidence.
Ubaldo *9*, baby. 9-1. It's not even June. Think of the possibilities. He could conceivably win 25 games. I know he probably won't, but it's in the realm of the possible. Oh, my favorite Dominican.
You know who else won yesterday? That would be me. We kicked ass at trivia. Now I know every time I brag about that, we then are thoroughly humiliated the next week, but I thought you should all know anyway. And in further bragging, I wore my vintage dress out last night, which you may or may not remember the story of, and it fits so nice now and I looked so cute. If I do say so. Leading to further proof that, yes, this peeing on an effin stick thing is working.
Various friends and acquaintances are having important and exciting things happening in their lives tomorrow, like birthing babies and playing gigs and so on and so forth, and I am full of vicarious pleasure at their getting what they really want.
And there's no work on Monday.
And I started the day out just right today.
The only*** chink in this sea of positivity? As you may have remembered, I have That Asshole Lackey on my fantasy team and I sat him last night (after *not* sitting him against Philly because D convinced me I should give him a shot) and the fucker suddenly remembered how to pitch. Or the (they'll always be Devil) Rays forgot how to hit. Whatever. Oh well.
xoxo
***Second chink? The cat killed another chipmunk (but thankfully did not dismember or eat it) yesterday morning. Apparently she knows where the nest is this year and will keep bringing us one every few days till the genocide is complete. This is not good news if you are a chipmunk. Also, they're pretty damn cute. But circle o' life and all that bullshit.
Ubaldo *9*, baby. 9-1. It's not even June. Think of the possibilities. He could conceivably win 25 games. I know he probably won't, but it's in the realm of the possible. Oh, my favorite Dominican.
You know who else won yesterday? That would be me. We kicked ass at trivia. Now I know every time I brag about that, we then are thoroughly humiliated the next week, but I thought you should all know anyway. And in further bragging, I wore my vintage dress out last night, which you may or may not remember the story of, and it fits so nice now and I looked so cute. If I do say so. Leading to further proof that, yes, this peeing on an effin stick thing is working.
Various friends and acquaintances are having important and exciting things happening in their lives tomorrow, like birthing babies and playing gigs and so on and so forth, and I am full of vicarious pleasure at their getting what they really want.
And there's no work on Monday.
And I started the day out just right today.
The only*** chink in this sea of positivity? As you may have remembered, I have That Asshole Lackey on my fantasy team and I sat him last night (after *not* sitting him against Philly because D convinced me I should give him a shot) and the fucker suddenly remembered how to pitch. Or the (they'll always be Devil) Rays forgot how to hit. Whatever. Oh well.
xoxo
***Second chink? The cat killed another chipmunk (but thankfully did not dismember or eat it) yesterday morning. Apparently she knows where the nest is this year and will keep bringing us one every few days till the genocide is complete. This is not good news if you are a chipmunk. Also, they're pretty damn cute. But circle o' life and all that bullshit.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
my fabulous business idea
When I was walking into work yesterday, my boss was at his computer. "Andrea! C'mere!" He was trying to find contact info for a another doctor whose last name he had absolutely no idea to spell, and he thought maybe I knew. Well, no, I did not, *but* I showed him how to look it up on the Board of Registration website even if you don't know the spelling. He was wicked impressed.
So I told him my brilliant idea from the other day. Mr Indemnity had been having trouble looking up something on his iPhone--it wasn't behaving--and said something facetious about whether celebs had flunkies to do that kind of thing for them. And I said "That's it! That's what I should be doing for a living. I should be some rich person's personal Google-er." I think both my boss and Mr Indemnity thought it was an amusing idea, but seriously. I am so good at it. Someone should be paying me. (Okay, okay, I realize that what I really should have been was a research librarian, but Google-er to the stars would be much more glamorous. C'mon now.)
Then later, when I was leaving, my boss was again at his computer having trouble. He asked me if I used Skype. No, sorry, can't help you with that. He asked me what good I was. I told him that a.) I'd solved his problem once already that day and that was his quota and b.)sorry, but I didn't know anyone in any foreign countries I needed to talk to. "No," he said, "you can use Skype locally. Then you can see the person you are talking to." I told him I didn't see any benefit in that, and it would seriously cut down on the number of phone conversations I could have in my underwear. So, like, even if I didn't solve his Skype problem, I did make him laugh. I am worth every penny they pay me, yo.
But I still think I could make a fortune being the Google-er in someone's posse. (There is a precedent. I hear that some celebs who tweet, don't actually tweet themselves, they have their assistants do it. I could do that too!)
xoxo
So I told him my brilliant idea from the other day. Mr Indemnity had been having trouble looking up something on his iPhone--it wasn't behaving--and said something facetious about whether celebs had flunkies to do that kind of thing for them. And I said "That's it! That's what I should be doing for a living. I should be some rich person's personal Google-er." I think both my boss and Mr Indemnity thought it was an amusing idea, but seriously. I am so good at it. Someone should be paying me. (Okay, okay, I realize that what I really should have been was a research librarian, but Google-er to the stars would be much more glamorous. C'mon now.)
Then later, when I was leaving, my boss was again at his computer having trouble. He asked me if I used Skype. No, sorry, can't help you with that. He asked me what good I was. I told him that a.) I'd solved his problem once already that day and that was his quota and b.)sorry, but I didn't know anyone in any foreign countries I needed to talk to. "No," he said, "you can use Skype locally. Then you can see the person you are talking to." I told him I didn't see any benefit in that, and it would seriously cut down on the number of phone conversations I could have in my underwear. So, like, even if I didn't solve his Skype problem, I did make him laugh. I am worth every penny they pay me, yo.
But I still think I could make a fortune being the Google-er in someone's posse. (There is a precedent. I hear that some celebs who tweet, don't actually tweet themselves, they have their assistants do it. I could do that too!)
xoxo
Monday, May 24, 2010
a few notes
1.) One great thing about fantasy baseball is that it allows me new targets for my seething hatred and thus I don't have to get so upset about social issues, the media, and politics. Seattle Mariners bullpen? Eat shit and die.
2.) I came home from yoga yesterday morning and my dad says to me, "So what's this yoga supposed to be doing for you anyway?" I said, "It's making me strong and flexible." "Why do you want to be strong and flexible?" Oh, Jesus wept. Do you people see what I put up with? Um, because it's preferable to being weak and inflexible? What I said was, "So when I'm 84, I don't walk like this!" ::demonstrate bent-over shuffling walk:: "I don't walk like that!" Which is true, he really doesn't. It was a kinda mean thing to say. However, my other snarky reply was, "So there are more sexual positions I can get into," and at least I didn't go there.
3.) Here's a link to an article about the health, not weight, benefits of intermittent fasting. I have no idea whether the science in the referenced studies holds up, because, like I said, for every study that says one thing about nutrition and weight loss, there's another one contradicting it. But I think it's interesting. I'm on day 6 and doing great. Yesterday, not only did I do my 75 minutes of yoga, I went on a two hour hike later in the day, and I didn't see any negative impact on my energy or endurance. Felt really good, actually.
4.) Mr Indemnity claims he is not going to let me copy his new Exile on Main Street reissue because I will just listen to it on my iPod compressed. I am not totally sure he is joking. I will therefore remind you, and him, about what hipster puppies would say about this:
"barney is more concerned with “dynamic range compression” and “the loudness wars” than the fact that he has shitty taste in music"
5.) And just because I didn't realize I had this downloaded onto my work computer and it is the cuteness, and this is a full-service blog, I give you again:
Happy Monday, bitches!
xoxo
2.) I came home from yoga yesterday morning and my dad says to me, "So what's this yoga supposed to be doing for you anyway?" I said, "It's making me strong and flexible." "Why do you want to be strong and flexible?" Oh, Jesus wept. Do you people see what I put up with? Um, because it's preferable to being weak and inflexible? What I said was, "So when I'm 84, I don't walk like this!" ::demonstrate bent-over shuffling walk:: "I don't walk like that!" Which is true, he really doesn't. It was a kinda mean thing to say. However, my other snarky reply was, "So there are more sexual positions I can get into," and at least I didn't go there.
3.) Here's a link to an article about the health, not weight, benefits of intermittent fasting. I have no idea whether the science in the referenced studies holds up, because, like I said, for every study that says one thing about nutrition and weight loss, there's another one contradicting it. But I think it's interesting. I'm on day 6 and doing great. Yesterday, not only did I do my 75 minutes of yoga, I went on a two hour hike later in the day, and I didn't see any negative impact on my energy or endurance. Felt really good, actually.
4.) Mr Indemnity claims he is not going to let me copy his new Exile on Main Street reissue because I will just listen to it on my iPod compressed. I am not totally sure he is joking. I will therefore remind you, and him, about what hipster puppies would say about this:
"barney is more concerned with “dynamic range compression” and “the loudness wars” than the fact that he has shitty taste in music"
5.) And just because I didn't realize I had this downloaded onto my work computer and it is the cuteness, and this is a full-service blog, I give you again:
Happy Monday, bitches!
xoxo
Sunday, May 23, 2010
killer
Yesterday evening Evil Kitty was being...annoying. Basically, she was walking all over the house meowing as if she wanted/needed something, and nothing anyone did would satisfy. She had food on her dish. I changed her water so it was nice and fresh and cold. My dad tried to let her out the back and she wouldn't go. I tried to let her out the front and she wouldn't go. (Yes, sometimes she prefers one door over another. Yes, we are whipped.) I had just changed her box, so it was completely poop-free. D brushed her. I brushed her. She just would not settle down.
Finally, I went out on the back porch and she followed me out. I was looking down over the railing, perusing my yard to see if all the weeds I had spent hours last weekend pulling out of my patio bricks had grown back yet, and instead of running down into the yard, she was rubbing against my legs and head-butting me. I turned around, back towards the door, and said, y'know, "What the HELL do you want, cat? What is your problem?" And then I noticed. Immediately in front of the door we'd come out there was a tiny little chipmunk head, a tiny little chipmunk tail, and a bloody lump that was some kind of internal organ. (Let's just not speculate what happened to the rest of it, 'k?) I called D and my dad to come see, then I picked it all up with a paper towel and disposed of it. Evil Kitty went back in the house and settled down for the rest of the night.
Moral? Everyone wants their hard work to be appreciated!
xoxo
Finally, I went out on the back porch and she followed me out. I was looking down over the railing, perusing my yard to see if all the weeds I had spent hours last weekend pulling out of my patio bricks had grown back yet, and instead of running down into the yard, she was rubbing against my legs and head-butting me. I turned around, back towards the door, and said, y'know, "What the HELL do you want, cat? What is your problem?" And then I noticed. Immediately in front of the door we'd come out there was a tiny little chipmunk head, a tiny little chipmunk tail, and a bloody lump that was some kind of internal organ. (Let's just not speculate what happened to the rest of it, 'k?) I called D and my dad to come see, then I picked it all up with a paper towel and disposed of it. Evil Kitty went back in the house and settled down for the rest of the night.
Moral? Everyone wants their hard work to be appreciated!
xoxo
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