Friday, February 27, 2009
Spinach with avocado and yellow tomatoes. Green and fatty. I like it, I like it!
Caramelized onion, butternut squash, sage and goat cheese galette. F*ck.
Mushrooms sauteed in sweet vermouth. I die.
Afterward, everything seems bathed in lovely. Even Geodesic Gnomes.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
"On one occasion, they got in a wrestling match, and Higgins put one of his “steel-like fingernails” through Bob’s scrotum. "
But it's developing nubbins that look suspiciously like pollen:
Is that what's happening? Is my dining room table about to be covered in pussy willow pollen? I was led to believe that these pussies would behave until I was ready to dry them. Any suggestions from you florists out there?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
First off, I think you should know that my gym locker room always smells of babies and formaldehyde, like some macabre perfume made from the fetal pigs I dissected in high school, a hint of powder, and a touch of something spicy, like cinnamon. And yet I still go, because I am dedicated.
The locker room has several mirrored walls, and since we don't have a full-length mirror in our apartment, I often begin my time in said locker room with an inspection of the day's outfit. Note: it is a terrible f*cking idea to inspect an outfit after you have spent the whole f*cking day wearing it. For example, today I wore a pair of pants that I thought were serviceable, if not exactly chic. According to the mirror, however, the fabric sags in the ass and billows oddly around my thighs, so it looks like I'm wearing a filled diaper beneath an ugly pair of jodhpurs. This makes me very sad, since the only thing I strive for professionally is to have a coveted wardrobe.
I spend much of my gym time avoiding people. I am horrified at the thought of encountering one of my students while I'm in a state of dishabille, so I generally try to put on my workout attire without getting undressed. This often begins with my shoe-shod foot becoming tangled in my workout pants and ends with my arm trapped inside my sports bra. Occasionally a tumble is involved.
I also avoid other teachers. I once made the mistake of speaking to a colleague of mine (who is bat-shit crazy) while she was lolling along on a stationary bicycle, and now she stares scarily at me from beneath her electric blue eyelids and sparse, mascara-caked lashes and asks if I'll be at our place later. For some reason, she feels compelled to keep her "exercise" habit a secret, so she usually asks me this through clenched teeth in the manner of some inept secret agent.
But I digress. After exiting the locker room, I search for celebrity gossip magazines, since I can imagine no worse fate than an hour with only my thoughts to entertain me. Magazines procured, I choose a treadmill, avoiding those sandwiched between stinky people, fit people, or people who grunt unnecessarily while running.
Then I run. I flip through my magazines. I think about dinner. I think about having a cocktail. I think about how, according to some very unflattering photos, I appear to be thinner than Jessica Simpson; I think about this because I am shallow and an ass. Then I think about how happy Paula Deen looks and wonder if I should just step off the treadmill, eat some delicious deep-fried butter, and call it a f*cking day.
I'll let you know.
Monday, February 23, 2009
You are not going to win. You may heckle the victor:
You may throw fancy chocolates into the cocktails of your opponents:
You may pursue any number of fulfilling, creative alternatives, but you are not going to win.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
First off, the message seems far too too for me, if you know what I mean. I'm just not into that sort of heal yourself bullshit. Secondly, it has been featured in every home magazine and on every design blog, and I'm sure that it's already gathering dust in perkily decorated apartments the world over. And yet... There's just something about it that I love.
Here's a bit on the poster's history, from http://www.barterbooks.co.uk:
"In the Spring of 1939, with war against Germany all but inevitable, the British Government's Ministry of Information commissioned a series of propaganda posters to be distributed throughout the country at the onset of hostilities. It was feared that in the early months of the war Britain would be subjected to gas attacks, heavy bombing raids and even invasion... The intent of the poster was to convey a message from the King to his people, to assure them that 'all necessary measures to defend the nation were being taken', and to stress an 'attitude of mind' rather than a specific aim."
Let's get this straight. The Nazis are gearing up to f*ck the British eight ways to Sunday, and the King comforts his citizens thus: "Right-o! We may be facing a spot of bother with some bloody rude Germans, but the important thing to remember is not to get too chuffed. Chin up!"
THAT is what I love about this poster. It is not the breathe-deeply-and-respect-your-inner-boundaries tripe of modernity; rather, it is a testament to all things completely, ridiculously, and fabulously inadequate. The next time something horrendous happens - say, for instance, you are being crushed by your ceiling and your giant, naked upstairs neighbors, and you're trying to dial 911 with your single unbroken tooth - take heart! Triumph over any situation simply requires your placid perseverance. At least you've finally gotten to meet the neighbors! Stop sniveling and buck up, sport-o!
My copy should arrive next week. I can't wait.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
That's right, it says, "Bacon is like a little hug from God." I think the print is quite fetching, but I do wonder if it might be a portent of things to come. What do you call a diet-inspired impulse buy? Can anyone think of a good Sniglet?
Speaking of Sniglets, we played a rousing round the other evening. We'd all had one of these - a rosemary manhattan:
So we may not have been our cleverest. But what we lacked in wit, we made up in artistry:
Friday, February 20, 2009
I think of this because I've just returned from a wine shop here. The sales boy - I say "boy" because he could not have been more than twentyf*ckingtwo - managed to be simultaneously obsequious and condescending, which made me want to do violent things. Here's a snippet of our conversation:
Him: You look like a lady in need of my assistance! Choosing a good wine can be overwhelming, and, since we don't sell anything that comes in a box or with a handle, I can understand that you might be confused.
Me: Well, I'm looking for a wine we had last night... It was French. A grenache something or other."
Him: It was probably a grenache-shiraz from Australia.
Me: No, it definitely wasn't from Australia, and I don't really care for shiraz.
Him: Right. Why don't you taste this Australian grenache-shiraz. I'm sure it's very similar to the one you enjoyed.
Me: Keri likes free booze.
(He pours a glass for me and one for himself)
Him: slurrrrrrp. ftttt-ftttt-ftttt. garglegarglegargle. Mmmmm, this wine really features the softness of the grape. Very nice body.
Me: Bleech! Yack! Plah! This bilge tastes like batteries! It just burned off my taste buds!
Him: You've got quite the palate! You're referring to what we call the acid of the wine - technical term. Is this not just what you enjoyed last night?!
Me: This is urine.
Him: Aren't you funny! It's ninety percent shiraz, so the acid is very bright. Can I interest you in a case?
In an effort to make myself feel more sophisticated, I may have gone overboard with my purchase of forty-seven stems of pussy willow. Now the apartment is simply rife with double entendre.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
In other news, we had a little bit of wine and a litte bit of rye this evening. Yaymen.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Mali - 5-6 yr old, BST, female, altered. Growls at all other animals, will chase and fight with those that she sees as passives. Talks a lot. Hides for up to 4 months when introduced to a new home. We would recommend you keep her isolated for at least a week.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Rog-isms, part II. Sorted thematically for your convenience.
Having to do with hair or fur
- Like a hair in a biscuit. (Apply to anything unwanted.)
- Fine as fur on a frog's butt. (Very fine. Sometimes foot is substituted for butt. Depends on the company and your fondness for alliteration.)
- You'd rather sandpaper a wildcat's ass in a telephone booth than mess with me. (An obvious reference to physical prowess.)
- I'll slap the taste out of his mouth. (Never seen this done, but does the threat not terrify you?)
- I'll kick his ass 'til his nose bleeds. (A vivid mental image.)
- I'll stomp a mud hole in his ass the size of Texas and walk it dry. (This denotes a serious and prolonged ass-kicking.)
- My mama's biscuits are so good, if you put one on top of your head you'd beat your brains out with your tongue trying to get to it. (Clearly, very tasty.)
- Aw, man. It was killer. (Not one of the most clever, but useful in innumerable situations.)
Monday, February 16, 2009
He's a changed man. Two weeks ago, he wanted to eat a deep-fried, cheese-stuffed, bacon-topped hamburger; this week, I had to pull him away from the diet drugs at CVS. "It's just caffeine," he mumbled sadly.
Our strategy is simple, if sad and boring. We will only drink three nights a week. (It pains me to write that.) We will eat less cheese and bacon. (Pains me even more to write that.) We will continue our gym regimen, and, with luck, we will be more attractive than Our Favorite New Englanders by the time we go to the beach with them in April. The goal is not simply to look good; the goal is to look better than our friends. (That would be the gauntlet.)
BUT, before we began in earnest, we decided to have one last hurrah with Our Favorite Baltimorians. Their house (a whole house!) is fabulous, with a much-coveted amount of square footage.
The dining room:
They have the coolest shit. Like urns full of wind instruments:
One of the more colorful instruments:
And collections of heads:
Dinner was slap-your-mother good. Beer-braised brisket, Deborah Madison's leek and goat cheese galette (Make this. Immediately.), and beet salad with tarragon, followed by wine-poached pears in cardamom cream:
After dinner, we bid adieu to the joys of life with a Satie's Gymnopédie No.1. Lovely.
I promise not to bore you with tales of deprivation. Just know that if I seem to have a bit less happy, it's probably because I'm hungry and in need of drink.
On another track entirely, I forgot to mention the best part of my recent Professional Development Bof*ckingnanza. Toward the end of the day, things got touchy-feely, which, as you probably know, makes me want to gouge out my eyes with a dull spoon. The indisputable highlight came when we were asked to reflect on a teacher who "touched our lives," AND THEN THEY PLAYED "UNFORGETTABLE" WHILE WE "REFLECTED." There really are no words.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
I am going to take my tender head out into the world, and I WILL have happy, dammit, but NOT on a going-forward basis.
And happy valentine's day. I'm giving n.o.c. a fistful of Advil.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Two years ago, I acquired Christmas cacti of my own. They were in bloom when I got them, so I can take no credit for that, and I fully expected them to commit suicide after the holidays. Amazingly, they survived the year, and even more amazingly, they bloomed this Christmas. (Sorry about the poor picture quality; these pics were taken pre-blog.)
Now here we are in February, and I'll be damned if the red one isn't having another go.
This flower is practically indecent.
Maybe little dear is being cheeky and blooming on Valentine's Day. Or maybe it's for President's Day. This cactus clearly transcends my arbitrary notions of what a Christmas cactus should do.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Yesterday, I played a game of basketball. That's right, I participated in a team sport that involved catching things, AND I did this in front of an audience. It actually wasn't terrible. I didn't really interact with others; I just pretended that they were little, mobile basketball hoops with agendas. I caught the ball, I bounced it up and down, I threw it at the big hoop. It didn't go in, but it didn't airball, either. All in all, pretty solid, I thought. But today... At least fifteen people have stopped me to comment on my performance. "You were the best!" "You were hilarious!" "SO funny!" "OMG, I was dying!"
Maybe it's to do with this spunky little kick that happens when I throw. Maybe my cuteness was overpowering. Maybe you shouldn't skip down a basketball court. Maybe losing track of the ball while you're dribbling just isn't done. Maybe it was my sleeveless Orange Crush t-shirt that n.o.c. bought off a homeless guy in San Francisco. Maybe it was my argyle knee socks. It's hard to say.
Nonetheless, I think I've been sufficiently adventurous for 2009. If you need me, I'll be alone, surrounded by soft, stationary objects.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I am sorry to encroach into your privacy in this manner, I found your email listed
in the Trade Centre Chambers of Commerce directory here in Japan, I find it
pleasurable to offer you my partnership in business, I only pray at this time
that your address is still valid. I want to solicit your attention to receive
money on my behalf. The purpose of my contacting you is because my status
would not permit me to do this alone.
I only pray at this time that your address is still valid!!??!! This email is one beseeching sentence away from being good dialogue for a Keira Knightly film. I miss the old days, when spam was about p3n1Le 1mpl4ntS and h0t S3x.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The original pair:
One, a gift for myself:
And the other, a gift from the lovely Martini:
Now joined by this pimp ice blue number from Our Favorite New Englanders:
In other news, we recently watched Man on Wire, which was phenomenal. While unbridled enthusiasm generally gives me the whim-whams, Philippe Petit was just impish and ingenuous enough for me not to hate him. Or maybe it was the rarity of his "coup" that saved it for me. I mean, when was the last time you did an almost impossible thing simply because it thrilled you with its beauty? I'm not pointing fingers - I won't even bake cookies if I'm not assured of adoring and wildly appreciative consumers. Just saying.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Thankfully, my weekend was fantastic. For those of you who may be wondering how best to achieve an awesome weekend, I've compiled a list of awesome-weekend ingredients with helpfully illustrative photographs. Results may vary.
1) Do-it-yourself leg o' mutton sleeves. Go ahead - fashion is your b*tch.
2) Ridiculous ginger cookies. You can eat as many as you want, because ginger has soothing digestive properties. Brilliant!
3) Scrabble on your vintage turn-table board. Preferably with a furry brown letter bag and a cheat sheet of two-letter words, both made by your very crafty grandmother. Remember: people who are fixated on winning are generally compensating for something.
4) Sherry. People don't drink enough sherry.
5) A sausage breakfast so good, your vegetarian friend eats it all before you get to take pictures. Sausages! Sausages!
6) A cute little Monkey.
Friday, February 6, 2009
The Rog-isms, part I
- Shaking like a dog trying to pass a peach seed. (He uses this to great effect in mixed company.)
- Grinning like a possum eating shit out a broke fruit jar. (I'm not clear why this makes the possum happy, just know that it does. Also know that the preposition "of" is unnecessary.)
- Like a greasy string out a cow's butt. (An unsettling way to describe ease or speed.)
- Like a rat on a cheeto. (Denotes enthusiasm. I have now mentioned cheetos more than once in a post. What does this say about me?)
- Man, it's dry. If you took all the rain we got, turned it into gasoline and put it into a pissant's motorcycle, he wouldn't make it half-way 'round a BB. (He delivered this flawlessly. It was incredible.)