I remembered some more songs that I routinely butcher.
Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative" -- "Don't get me wrong, I'm really not sick. Eagle chips is not my thing."
Well hell, they wouldn't be my thing either. I much prefer vulture chips. Eagle chips DO tend to make you a little nauseous.
Rage Against the Machine, AKA Rage Against Anything Intelligible -- "Bulls On Parade" -- "Rarry rarry rarry, with a pocket full of shells. Ra-rarry ra-ra-rarry, with a pocket full of shells." Sounds like Scooby Doo trying to sing about Sargeant Larry.
Pearl Jam -- "Can't Find the Velamints"
Bon Jovi -- "Livin' on a Prayer" -- for many years I sang "Gina wants to die of old age..." and -- frighteningly, I JUST LOOKED THIS UP -- did you know the lyrics are actually "working for her man, She brings home her pay for love...for love." ???? Well slap me upside the head with a deaf rubber chicken. Until 14 seconds ago I thought it was "Workin' for 'the man,' she's free to work back for love...for love" Hey, who knows? "The Man" can be very demanding!! And here all this time I thought he was pimpin' Gina, and Tommy just let him get away with it. Phew. So good to know the truth.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
There Goes My Hero...Sergeant Larry
For someone whose entire education and subsequent career have focused on language and communication, I have a frightening lack of comprehension when it comes to hearing and repeating song lyrics. Frightening, also, because of the sheer volume of song lyrics I KNOW - ranging from early broadway to whatever Kanye West is muttering through his latest jaw operation. If you could actually clear out the portion of my brain that contains obscure song titles, artists and lyrics from 1980-1990, I might actually be able to comprehend and store other useful knowledge -- like, math. Or logic.
But as it is, there is no room for such triviality in a mind cluttered with idiotic and usually completely inaccurate song lyrics. And while I can freely admit those songs whose lyrics escape me, I still sing them anyway -- loudly and proudly and wrongly and lots of other adverbs.
Hearing a Foo Fighters song in the car today reminded me of this affliction -- the song is "There Goes My Hero" -- and the line right after that in the chorus is "He's ordinary." Or so my husband says. But as we all know, enunciation is not cool when you are an alt-punk-quasi-mainstream-band-with-a-nonsensical name, so I firmly believe that what I am hearing are the correct words -- "There goes my he-rooooh, Sergeant Larry."
And then we have Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart," which for the last 20-odd years has contained the lyrics (at least in my head) "livin' in a pony keg and giving up sparks." All I can think of is a little electrified, short-circuited troll swimming around inside a shrunken beer container.
Abba's "Take a Chance On Me" -- why the hell would they be singing "Honey I'm still free?" I was like 5 when I first heard this song, so from there on out it has been "Ollie Oxen Free" and the song was, clearly, written about hide and seek.
Britney Spears' "Toxic" (yes, I own more than one Britney Spears album) -- "it's the taste of a poison paragraph"
There are some songs I can't hear without laughing -- Alanis Morrisette's "You Oughta Know," in which I DO know what she's saying, but it's far more amusing to think about "the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me" than the "cross I bear." Picturing a deformed carnival prize here.
From "Live and Let Die," the line "this ever changing world in which we live IN" makes my English major sensibilities want to ball up into the fetal position.
I'm sure there are a zillion more but for now, I need to go see if there's already a fan club started for sergeant Larry.
But as it is, there is no room for such triviality in a mind cluttered with idiotic and usually completely inaccurate song lyrics. And while I can freely admit those songs whose lyrics escape me, I still sing them anyway -- loudly and proudly and wrongly and lots of other adverbs.
Hearing a Foo Fighters song in the car today reminded me of this affliction -- the song is "There Goes My Hero" -- and the line right after that in the chorus is "He's ordinary." Or so my husband says. But as we all know, enunciation is not cool when you are an alt-punk-quasi-mainstream-band-with-a-nonsensical name, so I firmly believe that what I am hearing are the correct words -- "There goes my he-rooooh, Sergeant Larry."
And then we have Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart," which for the last 20-odd years has contained the lyrics (at least in my head) "livin' in a pony keg and giving up sparks." All I can think of is a little electrified, short-circuited troll swimming around inside a shrunken beer container.
Abba's "Take a Chance On Me" -- why the hell would they be singing "Honey I'm still free?" I was like 5 when I first heard this song, so from there on out it has been "Ollie Oxen Free" and the song was, clearly, written about hide and seek.
Britney Spears' "Toxic" (yes, I own more than one Britney Spears album) -- "it's the taste of a poison paragraph"
There are some songs I can't hear without laughing -- Alanis Morrisette's "You Oughta Know," in which I DO know what she's saying, but it's far more amusing to think about "the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me" than the "cross I bear." Picturing a deformed carnival prize here.
From "Live and Let Die," the line "this ever changing world in which we live IN" makes my English major sensibilities want to ball up into the fetal position.
I'm sure there are a zillion more but for now, I need to go see if there's already a fan club started for sergeant Larry.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Closet Tag
ARRRRRRRGH!!!!!! I had this whole post typed out and then did some funky computer illiterate thing to it and lost it. So now I have to START OVER with only the first 3-4 paragraphs able to be recovered. If this gets unfunny FAST, it's because I already used up my allotment of wit on the first draft. RASSIN FRASSIN!!!!!
Let me start off by saying yes, I realize I have become an immense slacker on this blog -- I guess I feel that if ya don't have anything funny/witty/sarcastic/brilliant to say, don't say anything at all -- so you can guess how exciting I have been for the last week or so. I believe I am still in the throes of "post-show letdown," the bleggggh feeling we all get immediately after the last cast party wraps up whenever we do a theater production and realize that yes, indeed, our real lives DID wait for us, and so did our laundry, dishes, child who has learned to throw a 95 MPH fastball/fastblock/fastjuicecup, spouse, job, etc. Rats.
So anyway, as I was contemplating which aspect of my run of the mill life to tackle as I ease back into trying to make my friends expel carbonated beverages out of their nasal passages at least once a day (or, if you're Rachel, far more often than that), I was informed by one of my imaginary online friends (I have a whole posse of them. They are scary) that I had been blog-tagged or something along those lines -- kind of like those "fill out this survey and tell us about yourself, then copy and paste it and send to your friends" things that everyone bitches about getting but everyone does anyway.
The purpose of this "blog tag" is to share information that will probably interest -- well, no one -- about your closet (your real, physical one -- not the psychological one that several people I know are stuck between the bifold doors of -- "Am I in? Out? Drunk? All of the above?")
I have been tagged by my cyber pal Tess -- http://archwords.blogspot.com. For the record, I don't know how to make it so you click on the name and it links to their site -- I will work on that later. One thing at a time, folks. Here we go:
Three Random Facts About My Closet:
1) The sliding mirrored doors are covered from ground level to 32 inches above ground level in a delightful blend of fingerprints, dog slobber and baby snot
2) There are four sections of closet in our bedroom -- three of them are mine, as are the two separate closets in the extra room
3) I hate the mirrored doors
Three Items I've Never Worn But Still Haven't Tossed:
1) A DKNY wool suit that is unlined and ITCHY
2) A black corduroy skirt from Arden B. that collects too much lint to be useful
3) A tighter-than-it-looks-on-the-hanger black skirt from Express that I try on every few months in the feeble hope that my ass and thighs will have STOPPED looking like Snausages being held against their will. No luck so far.
Three Items I'll Never Get Rid Of, No Matter How Ugly They Get:
1) The Notre Dame sweatshirt I got during my first visit to campus when I was a junior in high school, despite having more holes than the theory of intelligent design
2) My stretched out obnoxious orange Tigers sweatshirt
3) My Jay Bell/Pittsburgh Pirates authentic jersey circa 1991
Three Items People Wouldn't Expect To Find In My Closet:
1) Sensible shoes. I DO own some, I just don't choose to wear them
2) A Michigan cheerleading outfit
3) A fuzzy fleece mom-looking robe
Three items that made me go, "Oh Lord, what was I thinking?":
1) A tight wool-blend sweater from Ann Taylor -- makes a mockery of my non-cleavage AND IT'S WOOL, which I hate. Not sure why, at the time, I was convinced that particular blend of wool would be the first ever to not annoy the crap out of me. It wasn't.
2) Anything with a plunging neckline
3) A red mini-skirt suit from the Limited that would work on "Ally McBeal" but not in any real corporate setting unless I was the paid all-male happy hour entertainment
Three things that I have a surprising number of:
1) Suits -- 25 or 30? Despite the fact that I have not had a job that required wearing a suit every day since -- well -- ever. Guess I am prepared for a string of 25 interviews or funerals in a row.
2) Scarves, considering I only wear them during theater shows onstage
3) Shoes, although it doesn't surprise anyone to hear that. Probably 50-60 pairs.
Three dominant colors in my wardrobe:
1) Orange. Lots of it.
2) Black
3) Notre Dame
Three items that never fail to put me in a good mood whenever I wear them:
1) Great fitting jeans
2) One of my favorite sweaters on a 50 degree fall day
3) Suck-it-in brief thingies, which, along with a water bra, make all outfits look better and are the answer to "how can you EAT like that and still be that size???"
Three people I will tag:
1)Heather because she needs a kick in the blogging booty
2)Aerin although she has much better things to be doing right now -- like, having a child -- than blogging about her closets
3)Kara -- because she is funny and probably has some weird skeletons in there
Let me start off by saying yes, I realize I have become an immense slacker on this blog -- I guess I feel that if ya don't have anything funny/witty/sarcastic/brilliant to say, don't say anything at all -- so you can guess how exciting I have been for the last week or so. I believe I am still in the throes of "post-show letdown," the bleggggh feeling we all get immediately after the last cast party wraps up whenever we do a theater production and realize that yes, indeed, our real lives DID wait for us, and so did our laundry, dishes, child who has learned to throw a 95 MPH fastball/fastblock/fastjuicecup, spouse, job, etc. Rats.
So anyway, as I was contemplating which aspect of my run of the mill life to tackle as I ease back into trying to make my friends expel carbonated beverages out of their nasal passages at least once a day (or, if you're Rachel, far more often than that), I was informed by one of my imaginary online friends (I have a whole posse of them. They are scary) that I had been blog-tagged or something along those lines -- kind of like those "fill out this survey and tell us about yourself, then copy and paste it and send to your friends" things that everyone bitches about getting but everyone does anyway.
The purpose of this "blog tag" is to share information that will probably interest -- well, no one -- about your closet (your real, physical one -- not the psychological one that several people I know are stuck between the bifold doors of -- "Am I in? Out? Drunk? All of the above?")
I have been tagged by my cyber pal Tess -- http://archwords.blogspot.com. For the record, I don't know how to make it so you click on the name and it links to their site -- I will work on that later. One thing at a time, folks. Here we go:
Three Random Facts About My Closet:
1) The sliding mirrored doors are covered from ground level to 32 inches above ground level in a delightful blend of fingerprints, dog slobber and baby snot
2) There are four sections of closet in our bedroom -- three of them are mine, as are the two separate closets in the extra room
3) I hate the mirrored doors
Three Items I've Never Worn But Still Haven't Tossed:
1) A DKNY wool suit that is unlined and ITCHY
2) A black corduroy skirt from Arden B. that collects too much lint to be useful
3) A tighter-than-it-looks-on-the-hanger black skirt from Express that I try on every few months in the feeble hope that my ass and thighs will have STOPPED looking like Snausages being held against their will. No luck so far.
Three Items I'll Never Get Rid Of, No Matter How Ugly They Get:
1) The Notre Dame sweatshirt I got during my first visit to campus when I was a junior in high school, despite having more holes than the theory of intelligent design
2) My stretched out obnoxious orange Tigers sweatshirt
3) My Jay Bell/Pittsburgh Pirates authentic jersey circa 1991
Three Items People Wouldn't Expect To Find In My Closet:
1) Sensible shoes. I DO own some, I just don't choose to wear them
2) A Michigan cheerleading outfit
3) A fuzzy fleece mom-looking robe
Three items that made me go, "Oh Lord, what was I thinking?":
1) A tight wool-blend sweater from Ann Taylor -- makes a mockery of my non-cleavage AND IT'S WOOL, which I hate. Not sure why, at the time, I was convinced that particular blend of wool would be the first ever to not annoy the crap out of me. It wasn't.
2) Anything with a plunging neckline
3) A red mini-skirt suit from the Limited that would work on "Ally McBeal" but not in any real corporate setting unless I was the paid all-male happy hour entertainment
Three things that I have a surprising number of:
1) Suits -- 25 or 30? Despite the fact that I have not had a job that required wearing a suit every day since -- well -- ever. Guess I am prepared for a string of 25 interviews or funerals in a row.
2) Scarves, considering I only wear them during theater shows onstage
3) Shoes, although it doesn't surprise anyone to hear that. Probably 50-60 pairs.
Three dominant colors in my wardrobe:
1) Orange. Lots of it.
2) Black
3) Notre Dame
Three items that never fail to put me in a good mood whenever I wear them:
1) Great fitting jeans
2) One of my favorite sweaters on a 50 degree fall day
3) Suck-it-in brief thingies, which, along with a water bra, make all outfits look better and are the answer to "how can you EAT like that and still be that size???"
Three people I will tag:
1)
2)
3)
Friday, September 16, 2005
Giving Summer the Boot
Here in Michigan, the seasons of the year are 1) nasty DAMN cold sloppy winter 2) nasty cold sloppy spring 3) 400% humidity summer and 4) road construction. I was lamenting the passing of summer this morning as I experienced a creepy sensation -- you know, kind of like when your hands keep buzzing after you push a lawnmower around for an hour or you have no feeling around a big scar -- I was forced to put actual whole-foot-covering footwear on for the first time in five months.
Given that I own, without exaggeration, probably 40 pairs of sandals, and also that I have very, VERY weird toe-constricting issues (one wonders how I did ballet en pointe for years), I look forward to the ability to feel the wind and rain and dog slobber on my naked podiatric digits from May til whenever-it-gets-really-really-crappy-in-Michigan.
I was disheartened this morning to have to put on BOOTS since 1) it was raining and 2) I would be spending the morning walking around in the dirt (aka mud) at a construction site. I cringed as I pulled up a pair of Dan's socks -- I despise trouser socks for women and all of my boots come up to my knees so I routinely steal Dan's nice Calvin Klein socks to wear under dress pants and leave him having to fend for his black loafers with a pair of grass-stained sweat socks. Sorry honey. Feel free to do the laundry if you want clean socks more frequently.
It took me a few minutes to retrieve a complete pair of matching non-sandals this morning, as one of the only ways for us to keep Molly occupied in the morning while we get ready is to let her empty my shoe closet -- thus most of my shoes live in single pieces with the mate somewhere lost under the bed, behind the toilet or shoved in a trash can. She is also obsessed with emptying my underwear drawer, but we won't go there.
I morosely jammed my feet into one of my 4 pairs of black knee high boots (yes, DAN, they are all different and yes I DO NEED THEM ALL.) and when I started to walk out of the room, my feet were gripped with a horrible claustrophobic feeling akin to walking around in casts. I had to check about 40 times during the day to make sure my boots were indeed on the correct feet -- it felt THAT WEIRD to be wearing actual foot-covering shoes. My beautiful (well, beautiful is a stretch. Tolerable.) polished toes were screaming in constrained agony beneath a vacuum seal of black leather.
It really truly feels ICKY to be wearing boots, and it's equally icky to know that summer is being booted out the door. Sigh. The only way to combat (oh, ouch. combat. boots. ha, ha, de ha ha ha) this malaise is, of course, to go buy some more shoes. Better stock up on sandals for next year - God knows how many more Molly will manage to lose before next season.
Given that I own, without exaggeration, probably 40 pairs of sandals, and also that I have very, VERY weird toe-constricting issues (one wonders how I did ballet en pointe for years), I look forward to the ability to feel the wind and rain and dog slobber on my naked podiatric digits from May til whenever-it-gets-really-really-crappy-in-Michigan.
I was disheartened this morning to have to put on BOOTS since 1) it was raining and 2) I would be spending the morning walking around in the dirt (aka mud) at a construction site. I cringed as I pulled up a pair of Dan's socks -- I despise trouser socks for women and all of my boots come up to my knees so I routinely steal Dan's nice Calvin Klein socks to wear under dress pants and leave him having to fend for his black loafers with a pair of grass-stained sweat socks. Sorry honey. Feel free to do the laundry if you want clean socks more frequently.
It took me a few minutes to retrieve a complete pair of matching non-sandals this morning, as one of the only ways for us to keep Molly occupied in the morning while we get ready is to let her empty my shoe closet -- thus most of my shoes live in single pieces with the mate somewhere lost under the bed, behind the toilet or shoved in a trash can. She is also obsessed with emptying my underwear drawer, but we won't go there.
I morosely jammed my feet into one of my 4 pairs of black knee high boots (yes, DAN, they are all different and yes I DO NEED THEM ALL.) and when I started to walk out of the room, my feet were gripped with a horrible claustrophobic feeling akin to walking around in casts. I had to check about 40 times during the day to make sure my boots were indeed on the correct feet -- it felt THAT WEIRD to be wearing actual foot-covering shoes. My beautiful (well, beautiful is a stretch. Tolerable.) polished toes were screaming in constrained agony beneath a vacuum seal of black leather.
It really truly feels ICKY to be wearing boots, and it's equally icky to know that summer is being booted out the door. Sigh. The only way to combat (oh, ouch. combat. boots. ha, ha, de ha ha ha) this malaise is, of course, to go buy some more shoes. Better stock up on sandals for next year - God knows how many more Molly will manage to lose before next season.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Those pages of the manual must be missing
There are so many things they don't tell you about parenthood in the nifty "How to Be a Great Parent or at Least Keep Child Protective Services One Step Behind You" manual that all new parents get.
If they told you the truth about pregnancy, labor and/or birth, no one would have sex. Ever. I seriously do not understand how people have more than one child -- did you FORGET the hemorrhoids?? Puking? Heartburn? Having your innards ripped out on a steel table so the doctors can get to the little slime-covered pasty squirming alien that has taken residence between your bladder and your bowels for nine (err, seven) months???
We experienced one of those great moments of parenthood this morning which is only amusing to other parents, when Molly ran over to our full-length closet door mirrors to give herself "kisses" which she loves to do, imparting slobber 32 inches off the ground across a full wall of glass -- only this time, she ran up to it and sneezed and thus covered a two-foot-square swatch of mirror with bright green snot and boogers. Then proceeded to finger paint with it, all while laughing hysterically and alternately licking her hand and running it through her hair.
Oh, the joy.
Among the other items I must have missed when speed reading that manual:
- Yes, a being that small REALLY CAN produce that much poop despite eating only breast milk and the occasional bug. And it really can smell THAT BAD.
- Sticking your finger in your child's mouth to assess their teething progress should only be attempted while wearing one of those chain-link gloves worn by shark documentary makers
- The more disgusting the dog toy, the more appealing it will be as a food item for your child
- Baby carrots do NOT come out of clothing, whether spilled, barfed or pooped
- Believe it or not, grown ups without children do NOT enjoy hearing about the consistency of anything that comes out of your child's body
- Enjoy that carrier car seat while you can. The second they outgrow it you have one of those "well NOW what??" moments when you realize you cannot neatly transfer them from car to store or house or whatever without unstrapping them, rooting through your backseat for whatever toy or piece of lint they were chewing on and then threw on the floor and now CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT, finding the left shoe they managed to take off and throw at your dashboard while you're driving, cleaning pretzel pieces off of every surface in the car because pretzels are for THROWING, not eating, silly Mommy...
- Anyone who says their kid is "great, an angel" in restaurants either 1) only takes them in to pick something up from the to-go counter or 2) is on crack. There is NO SUCH THING as a great kid in a restaurant, unless it's asleep in its carrier car seat; again, see above for the logic of why you should only eat at home, on a large plastic mat, naked, once they are big enough to get out of the car carrier.
- You will never get your old body back 100% without surgery or photo retouching. Sorry. You might weigh less, but you will acquire hips or lumps or squooshiness in areas you previously were OK with showing in a bikini
There are many more items I seem to have overlooked in the parenting manual, several of which I'm sure are still to come. Please remind me of all these things should I ever entertain the notion of doing this AGAIN.
Kathy - you must have lost the whole book ;)
If they told you the truth about pregnancy, labor and/or birth, no one would have sex. Ever. I seriously do not understand how people have more than one child -- did you FORGET the hemorrhoids?? Puking? Heartburn? Having your innards ripped out on a steel table so the doctors can get to the little slime-covered pasty squirming alien that has taken residence between your bladder and your bowels for nine (err, seven) months???
We experienced one of those great moments of parenthood this morning which is only amusing to other parents, when Molly ran over to our full-length closet door mirrors to give herself "kisses" which she loves to do, imparting slobber 32 inches off the ground across a full wall of glass -- only this time, she ran up to it and sneezed and thus covered a two-foot-square swatch of mirror with bright green snot and boogers. Then proceeded to finger paint with it, all while laughing hysterically and alternately licking her hand and running it through her hair.
Oh, the joy.
Among the other items I must have missed when speed reading that manual:
- Yes, a being that small REALLY CAN produce that much poop despite eating only breast milk and the occasional bug. And it really can smell THAT BAD.
- Sticking your finger in your child's mouth to assess their teething progress should only be attempted while wearing one of those chain-link gloves worn by shark documentary makers
- The more disgusting the dog toy, the more appealing it will be as a food item for your child
- Baby carrots do NOT come out of clothing, whether spilled, barfed or pooped
- Believe it or not, grown ups without children do NOT enjoy hearing about the consistency of anything that comes out of your child's body
- Enjoy that carrier car seat while you can. The second they outgrow it you have one of those "well NOW what??" moments when you realize you cannot neatly transfer them from car to store or house or whatever without unstrapping them, rooting through your backseat for whatever toy or piece of lint they were chewing on and then threw on the floor and now CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT, finding the left shoe they managed to take off and throw at your dashboard while you're driving, cleaning pretzel pieces off of every surface in the car because pretzels are for THROWING, not eating, silly Mommy...
- Anyone who says their kid is "great, an angel" in restaurants either 1) only takes them in to pick something up from the to-go counter or 2) is on crack. There is NO SUCH THING as a great kid in a restaurant, unless it's asleep in its carrier car seat; again, see above for the logic of why you should only eat at home, on a large plastic mat, naked, once they are big enough to get out of the car carrier.
- You will never get your old body back 100% without surgery or photo retouching. Sorry. You might weigh less, but you will acquire hips or lumps or squooshiness in areas you previously were OK with showing in a bikini
There are many more items I seem to have overlooked in the parenting manual, several of which I'm sure are still to come. Please remind me of all these things should I ever entertain the notion of doing this AGAIN.
Kathy - you must have lost the whole book ;)
Monday, September 12, 2005
Random observations from the weekend
This was a crazy-busy weekend, one in which I traveled about 300 miles between home and Ann Arbor (much of it on foot, wearing insensible footwear -- the only kind I own). I attended a bachelorette party, the Notre Dame-Michigan football game, a theater gala, and dress rehearsal for "West Side Story," while Molly basked in the undiluted attention of her Ohio grandparents (following whose departure this child never fails to be completely off her sleep schedule or get sick, both of which promptly occurred this time. I think my mother dopes her milk so that the child will be a mess when she leaves, thus ensuring that Grandma MUST return as soon as possible so as to right all the wrongs that Daddy and I surely impart on a daily basis).
I'll start with Friday night, in which I drove from work to home (15 miles), from home to Ann Arbor and back (60 miles round trip) and walked the length of Ann Arbor and back in 3 inch heeled strappy sandals so that our gang of skimpily-clad primarily over-30 primarily mothers of infants and toddlers (and one fetus in progress) could escort someone wearing a circa 1985 wedding veil plus a veil adorned with plastic penises (penii?) to a gay bar.
Observation #1: There is no higher compliment than an extremely gay man wearing a pink plastic lei telling you "you are FABulous," especially when he does so inside a coed bathroom whose surfaces are not even safe for the bottom of your shoe to touch without fear of instant disintegration. It was the best compliment I have received in MONTHS.
Observation #2: A gay bar is an ingenious place for a group of women wearing various iterations of hoochie black tank tops and sassy pants coupled with nursing bras and an unborn child to tear up the dance floor with absolutely NO reaction from the people around you and no need to feel self conscious. We were like man repellent -- and even the lesbians didn't give us a second look.
Observation #3: Even after two beers and a shot of who knows what, there is no logical explanation for Tiffany's musical career.
Observation #4: Don't attempt to dance on a stripper pole or a stair railing unless you've properly warmed up.
Observation #5: Despite your best efforts, you (straight white girl in the tank top and black pants -- i.e., me and everyone I was with) are NOT "THE" Dancing Queen in a gay bar, no matter how violently you dance to the song. The lovely man wearing a blue beehive and a plaid dress has you beat on all counts.
We left the club at 12:30 or so Friday night and returned home, only to find a child who despite being perfectly healthy when we left her in her Grandma's care (read above about my theory), had now come down with a hearty cold and woke up several times screaming her snot-caked little lungs out before Mommy hauled her into bed at 1 am. She proceeded to wake up mewling like a wounded kitten at least 27 times between 1 and 6 am, at which time I took her into her room and tried rocking her as a last resort. This apparently was great fun -- she wanted NOTHING to do with going back to sleep, but was content to smile at me and lay peacefully on my lap -- peacefully, with the exception of continually poking me in the eye and saying "dada." Fun times.
She finally went to sleep around 7, which left me a whole hour to sleep in before we were due to get up and get ready to drive BACK to Ann Arbor, allegedly at 9 am, to get to the game in plenty of time to tailgate prior to the should-not-be-allowed-to-do-this-to-sports-fans 12 noon start time.
Ha.
We left the house around 10:15, much to the chagrin of my houseguests (my best friend from ND and her husband, who is also my friend, and was before they even started dating, but I know it pisses him off to be described as my friend's husband. nyah) who are well accustomed to my timeframe which generally means I leave or arrive at least an hour later than I ever intend to. My last timely entrance to anything was my own birth in 1975.
We finally walked into the game about 2 hours later. Some observations on the ND-Michigan game:
Observation #1): Wearing shirts that say "RUDY SUCKS!" is NOT an insult to ND people. If they said "NO SHIT, SHERLOCK" on the back, we'd probably sell them at the student center on our own campus.
Observation #2): Whatever academic ranking Michigan boasts should be lowered by about 17 notches given that the two best anti-opponent chants they can come up with as a student body are "F*** THE IRISH!" (clap clap clapclapclap) and this particularly witty one, chanted to a weird funeral dirge type thing played by the band:
YOOOOOU. YOU-OO-OO SUUUUUUUCK. YOU-OO-OO SUUUUUUUUCK, YOOOOOU, SUUUUUCK. SUCK!!!"
Wowee, that last one REALLY drives the nail into the coffin.
Observation #3): GOD is it great to be a woman at sporting events, the only time you can walk past the men's room line and LAUGH
Observation #4): Dan and I may as well have been wearing spit-up stained shirts and holding dirty diapers, given how obvious our parenthood was as we stood in the student section -- at one point, something on the field made us simultaneously yell something in the voice of Elmo speaking to Mr. Noodle, and worse yet, we both found it hysterical.
Observation #5): Get over the "maize" people -- 90% of you wear fluorescent yellow or something closer to what you'd find on a paint chip labeled "buttercream."
From the game, we drove back home (another 30 miles), arrived at 6:15 pm, and by 6:45 were back out the door to attend a theater gala another 30 miles away. Did I mention how swell it is that both of us drive gas-guzzling trucks??
I believe the purpose of this gala was to showcase the different performing groups that appear during the year at this gorgeous new theater complex -- one of which is a new theatre company that I am involved in. By the way, yes, it's "theatre" when it's the troupe you're talking about -- "theater" is the building. Either that or we just like to spell things the pretentious British way, which makes every word look more sophisticated. Glamour. Colour. Booubies. Just stick a "u" in there and voila, instant status upgrade.
Anyway, we mercifully left after intermission, having done our duty in supporting our own little theatre company which looked positively Broadway-bound amidst the other acts that were showcased. We left with very full stomachs, a contraband wine glass (good job, honey) and an appreciation for how talented our regular theatre group really is. Oh, and the knowledge that even the worst performances can be forgiven with an open bar and an unlimited Don Pablo's buffet.
I spent my EARLY Sunday morning watching Noggin and trying to sprint to Molly's nose with a wad of Kleenex before she even finished sneezing, since she has displayed record speed in going from sneezing to running snot-covered hands through her hair in about .3 seconds.
Her new word this week is "uh-oh!" which she gleefully exclaims about 400 times a day. At first she would actually WAIT for something to occur which would elicit an "uh-oh" -- for example, a spoon falling on the floor or a toy slipping off a table -- but now, she more or less warns us so that "UH-OH!" has become code for "I AM ABOUT TO HURL SOMETHING, MOST LIKELY SOMETHING THAT WILL STAIN, AT EITHER YOUR HEAD, CLOTHES OR CARPET!! HA HA!!!" The dog leaves the immediate area so quickly when she rears back to toss something that you can almost see the three cartoon speed lines and a puff of smoke trailing him. He's learned that it's safer to snuffle around for food after she has left the area instead of lurking next to her and getting yet another SpongeBob Squarepants animal cracker lodged in his eye.
Sunday evening I returned to Ann Arbor AGAIN as we started dress rehearsals for "West Side Story." Back home at 11:15 pm (60 miles round trip) so that I can start the whole mess again tomorrow. I'm off to go put another $180 worth of gas in my car that will be gone by this evening...
GO IRISH!!
I'll start with Friday night, in which I drove from work to home (15 miles), from home to Ann Arbor and back (60 miles round trip) and walked the length of Ann Arbor and back in 3 inch heeled strappy sandals so that our gang of skimpily-clad primarily over-30 primarily mothers of infants and toddlers (and one fetus in progress) could escort someone wearing a circa 1985 wedding veil plus a veil adorned with plastic penises (penii?) to a gay bar.
Observation #1: There is no higher compliment than an extremely gay man wearing a pink plastic lei telling you "you are FABulous," especially when he does so inside a coed bathroom whose surfaces are not even safe for the bottom of your shoe to touch without fear of instant disintegration. It was the best compliment I have received in MONTHS.
Observation #2: A gay bar is an ingenious place for a group of women wearing various iterations of hoochie black tank tops and sassy pants coupled with nursing bras and an unborn child to tear up the dance floor with absolutely NO reaction from the people around you and no need to feel self conscious. We were like man repellent -- and even the lesbians didn't give us a second look.
Observation #3: Even after two beers and a shot of who knows what, there is no logical explanation for Tiffany's musical career.
Observation #4: Don't attempt to dance on a stripper pole or a stair railing unless you've properly warmed up.
Observation #5: Despite your best efforts, you (straight white girl in the tank top and black pants -- i.e., me and everyone I was with) are NOT "THE" Dancing Queen in a gay bar, no matter how violently you dance to the song. The lovely man wearing a blue beehive and a plaid dress has you beat on all counts.
We left the club at 12:30 or so Friday night and returned home, only to find a child who despite being perfectly healthy when we left her in her Grandma's care (read above about my theory), had now come down with a hearty cold and woke up several times screaming her snot-caked little lungs out before Mommy hauled her into bed at 1 am. She proceeded to wake up mewling like a wounded kitten at least 27 times between 1 and 6 am, at which time I took her into her room and tried rocking her as a last resort. This apparently was great fun -- she wanted NOTHING to do with going back to sleep, but was content to smile at me and lay peacefully on my lap -- peacefully, with the exception of continually poking me in the eye and saying "dada." Fun times.
She finally went to sleep around 7, which left me a whole hour to sleep in before we were due to get up and get ready to drive BACK to Ann Arbor, allegedly at 9 am, to get to the game in plenty of time to tailgate prior to the should-not-be-allowed-to-do-this-to-sports-fans 12 noon start time.
Ha.
We left the house around 10:15, much to the chagrin of my houseguests (my best friend from ND and her husband, who is also my friend, and was before they even started dating, but I know it pisses him off to be described as my friend's husband. nyah) who are well accustomed to my timeframe which generally means I leave or arrive at least an hour later than I ever intend to. My last timely entrance to anything was my own birth in 1975.
We finally walked into the game about 2 hours later. Some observations on the ND-Michigan game:
Observation #1): Wearing shirts that say "RUDY SUCKS!" is NOT an insult to ND people. If they said "NO SHIT, SHERLOCK" on the back, we'd probably sell them at the student center on our own campus.
Observation #2): Whatever academic ranking Michigan boasts should be lowered by about 17 notches given that the two best anti-opponent chants they can come up with as a student body are "F*** THE IRISH!" (clap clap clapclapclap) and this particularly witty one, chanted to a weird funeral dirge type thing played by the band:
YOOOOOU. YOU-OO-OO SUUUUUUUCK. YOU-OO-OO SUUUUUUUUCK, YOOOOOU, SUUUUUCK. SUCK!!!"
Wowee, that last one REALLY drives the nail into the coffin.
Observation #3): GOD is it great to be a woman at sporting events, the only time you can walk past the men's room line and LAUGH
Observation #4): Dan and I may as well have been wearing spit-up stained shirts and holding dirty diapers, given how obvious our parenthood was as we stood in the student section -- at one point, something on the field made us simultaneously yell something in the voice of Elmo speaking to Mr. Noodle, and worse yet, we both found it hysterical.
Observation #5): Get over the "maize" people -- 90% of you wear fluorescent yellow or something closer to what you'd find on a paint chip labeled "buttercream."
From the game, we drove back home (another 30 miles), arrived at 6:15 pm, and by 6:45 were back out the door to attend a theater gala another 30 miles away. Did I mention how swell it is that both of us drive gas-guzzling trucks??
I believe the purpose of this gala was to showcase the different performing groups that appear during the year at this gorgeous new theater complex -- one of which is a new theatre company that I am involved in. By the way, yes, it's "theatre" when it's the troupe you're talking about -- "theater" is the building. Either that or we just like to spell things the pretentious British way, which makes every word look more sophisticated. Glamour. Colour. Booubies. Just stick a "u" in there and voila, instant status upgrade.
Anyway, we mercifully left after intermission, having done our duty in supporting our own little theatre company which looked positively Broadway-bound amidst the other acts that were showcased. We left with very full stomachs, a contraband wine glass (good job, honey) and an appreciation for how talented our regular theatre group really is. Oh, and the knowledge that even the worst performances can be forgiven with an open bar and an unlimited Don Pablo's buffet.
I spent my EARLY Sunday morning watching Noggin and trying to sprint to Molly's nose with a wad of Kleenex before she even finished sneezing, since she has displayed record speed in going from sneezing to running snot-covered hands through her hair in about .3 seconds.
Her new word this week is "uh-oh!" which she gleefully exclaims about 400 times a day. At first she would actually WAIT for something to occur which would elicit an "uh-oh" -- for example, a spoon falling on the floor or a toy slipping off a table -- but now, she more or less warns us so that "UH-OH!" has become code for "I AM ABOUT TO HURL SOMETHING, MOST LIKELY SOMETHING THAT WILL STAIN, AT EITHER YOUR HEAD, CLOTHES OR CARPET!! HA HA!!!" The dog leaves the immediate area so quickly when she rears back to toss something that you can almost see the three cartoon speed lines and a puff of smoke trailing him. He's learned that it's safer to snuffle around for food after she has left the area instead of lurking next to her and getting yet another SpongeBob Squarepants animal cracker lodged in his eye.
Sunday evening I returned to Ann Arbor AGAIN as we started dress rehearsals for "West Side Story." Back home at 11:15 pm (60 miles round trip) so that I can start the whole mess again tomorrow. I'm off to go put another $180 worth of gas in my car that will be gone by this evening...
GO IRISH!!
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Molly + Sailboat = ARRRGGGGGH
I am not good with math in general (as in, I cannot make change from a dollar for something that costs 50 cents), but I am CERTAIN that my math in the title of this entry is RIGHT ON THE MONEY.
I have nothing and everything to write about today, so humor me because if I continue to write about the atrocities that have happened and continue to unfold in the wake of Katrina, I will be forced to take all the pills in my possession and believe me that is a LOT of drugs.
We spent this past weekend "up north" with Dan's family at their "cottage" on a "lake." First of all, EVERYONE in Michigan goes "up north," even if that only entails driving 20 minutes sort of in a north-east-westerly direction from your house. Technically I go "up north" when I drive to work every day. We did not have this phenomenon in Cleveland when I was growing up, as "up north" meant "Lake Erie" which meant "cesspool of hypodermic needles." But in Michigan, you ain't nobody til you got a place "up north," as I quickly learned.
I first went to the "cottage" with my then-boyfriend-now-thank-god-no-longer-sick-and-driving-me-to-the-edge-of-sanity-really-REALLY-needs-a-haircut-please-note-this-does-NOT-mean-shave-your-head-you-dumbnut-husband about six weeks after we started dating in the winter of 1999-2000. I had a boyfriend in Cleveland whose family had a cottage in New Hampshire where his family and I would vacation every summer -- it was about 200 square feet, wood, with a toilet that ran on battery flushing and a shower that delivered about a half-cup of water per hour. It was great though, and in the wilderness, and on a beautiful inland lake, so of course this is what I was prepared to see when Dan invited me to go "up north" to his family's "cottage."
The "cottage" is about 2000 square feet, with a master suite bigger than my entire first floor, room to sleep about 72 people of varying sizes (although I believe the fire marshall would only approve about 40, those other 30-or-so -- see, I'm not actually going to figure out the number -- pile in strictly for the waffles), a never ending supply of beer and froofy drinks, a ginormous yard that, when we eventually got Murphy and started bringing him up, was about the closest thing to Doggy Nirvana he could possibly imagine, jet skis, a private beach (now that it has been dug out of 29 feet of sludge caused by weird coastal erosion, it is much more conducive to laying out without feeling like you are succumbing to the La Brea tar pits), etc.
This cottage is inexplicably called the Blue Goose, which is super because the entire building is pink. I'm sure it made sense at some point. Anyway, this is the "big" cottage -- they also own a rental cottage that is still 5 times the size of what I was expecting, albeit more cottage-esque in its circa 1974 decor. We still get booted to the rental cottage when there is an influx of actual grown ups staying at the big cottage, although having a baby is a great trump card since Grandma and Grandpa adore her. I should say, if they had their way, they would boot Dan and I out and just keep Molly, and frankly, there are many mornings at 6 am where this is a very welcome suggestion.
Anyway, Dan's family is from all over the surrounding "up north" area, including Bad Axe, MI which my San Francisco-native boss still snickers at everytime I say it. I believe he is starting an official petition to the governor to have it renamed "Bad Ass." Hey, we already have Climax and Hell, MI -- why not Bad Ass?
So this past weekend, as is common for all major sun-worthy holidays, hordes of Hearsches descended on the "big cottage" to, in this order, 1) slobber over our child 2) buy our child toys 3) buy our child clothes 4) drag our child around to "be seen" 5) eat. a lot. 6) drink 7) play about 900 rounds of Tripoly, a card/gambling type game that this family has managed to turn into tribal warfare 8) yell at the TV during various sporting events 9) yell at each other because this is the loudest family on earth 10) sleep
Somewhere during the course of all that, Grandma and Grandpa and I decided it would be precious to take Molly out for her first sailboat ride. Now that she can walk like a pro, and likes being outside, and likes the beach and the sun and all that good stuff, we figured this would be a groovy little outing.
Har.
Considering this child does not want to be touched by so much as your FINGER when she is walking, and god forbid you should try to cuddle, hug, kiss or get within 3 feet of her without wearing body armor, I don't know why we thought she was going to be keen on wearing her very cute, very orange, very CONSTRICTING baby lifejacket. We lumbered onto the boat, got settled, and attempted to strap this 21 pound ball of fire into a restraining device.
I look like I was fighting with a mountain lion, and I wasn't even the one strapping her in. Then, because it was 85 degrees and sunny, we had to put a sun hat on little miss baldy pants, which was about as successful as the Tigers' recent offense (for you non sport types, that means it SUCKED). So as Grandpa is motoring the boat out past the breakwall and onto the lake -- oh, did I mention this is LAKE HURON?? As in, really really really BIG LAKE with waves and everything -- I am trying to hold onto a very, VERY disgruntled orange flotilla with flailing appendages who is trying to alternately claw my eyes out of their sockets and crawl back into the womb to escape the rocking motion of the below-deck cabin.
About 10 minutes into our trip, the cabin below had reached a temperature somewhere between 85 degrees and pottery kiln, and the rocking motion was doing GREAT things to mommy, queen of the claustrophobes. I do NOT get seasick, never have in my life. But trying to calm her down while swaying and lurching was not going well with the 9000 calories worth of breakfast sloshing around in my stomach.
In short, it wasn't a very long sail. We did finally get her up on deck, and she stopped crying long enough to eat some animal crackers and try to ingest the filthiest, non-baby-proofiest items she could find on board.
After that, I went back to the big cottage, took a big pill with a big drink and took a damn big nap on the beach while Daddy, who was smart enough to point out that he HATES sailing, would be going nowhere near this excursion, and wouldn't be surprised if his boat-aversion got passed along to his child, helped Molly play with the in-house slot machine.
There is no doubt where the gambling gene came from. It's the only time I can stand numbers.
I have nothing and everything to write about today, so humor me because if I continue to write about the atrocities that have happened and continue to unfold in the wake of Katrina, I will be forced to take all the pills in my possession and believe me that is a LOT of drugs.
We spent this past weekend "up north" with Dan's family at their "cottage" on a "lake." First of all, EVERYONE in Michigan goes "up north," even if that only entails driving 20 minutes sort of in a north-east-westerly direction from your house. Technically I go "up north" when I drive to work every day. We did not have this phenomenon in Cleveland when I was growing up, as "up north" meant "Lake Erie" which meant "cesspool of hypodermic needles." But in Michigan, you ain't nobody til you got a place "up north," as I quickly learned.
I first went to the "cottage" with my then-boyfriend-now-thank-god-no-longer-sick-and-driving-me-to-the-edge-of-sanity-really-REALLY-needs-a-haircut-please-note-this-does-NOT-mean-shave-your-head-you-dumbnut-husband about six weeks after we started dating in the winter of 1999-2000. I had a boyfriend in Cleveland whose family had a cottage in New Hampshire where his family and I would vacation every summer -- it was about 200 square feet, wood, with a toilet that ran on battery flushing and a shower that delivered about a half-cup of water per hour. It was great though, and in the wilderness, and on a beautiful inland lake, so of course this is what I was prepared to see when Dan invited me to go "up north" to his family's "cottage."
The "cottage" is about 2000 square feet, with a master suite bigger than my entire first floor, room to sleep about 72 people of varying sizes (although I believe the fire marshall would only approve about 40, those other 30-or-so -- see, I'm not actually going to figure out the number -- pile in strictly for the waffles), a never ending supply of beer and froofy drinks, a ginormous yard that, when we eventually got Murphy and started bringing him up, was about the closest thing to Doggy Nirvana he could possibly imagine, jet skis, a private beach (now that it has been dug out of 29 feet of sludge caused by weird coastal erosion, it is much more conducive to laying out without feeling like you are succumbing to the La Brea tar pits), etc.
This cottage is inexplicably called the Blue Goose, which is super because the entire building is pink. I'm sure it made sense at some point. Anyway, this is the "big" cottage -- they also own a rental cottage that is still 5 times the size of what I was expecting, albeit more cottage-esque in its circa 1974 decor. We still get booted to the rental cottage when there is an influx of actual grown ups staying at the big cottage, although having a baby is a great trump card since Grandma and Grandpa adore her. I should say, if they had their way, they would boot Dan and I out and just keep Molly, and frankly, there are many mornings at 6 am where this is a very welcome suggestion.
Anyway, Dan's family is from all over the surrounding "up north" area, including Bad Axe, MI which my San Francisco-native boss still snickers at everytime I say it. I believe he is starting an official petition to the governor to have it renamed "Bad Ass." Hey, we already have Climax and Hell, MI -- why not Bad Ass?
So this past weekend, as is common for all major sun-worthy holidays, hordes of Hearsches descended on the "big cottage" to, in this order, 1) slobber over our child 2) buy our child toys 3) buy our child clothes 4) drag our child around to "be seen" 5) eat. a lot. 6) drink 7) play about 900 rounds of Tripoly, a card/gambling type game that this family has managed to turn into tribal warfare 8) yell at the TV during various sporting events 9) yell at each other because this is the loudest family on earth 10) sleep
Somewhere during the course of all that, Grandma and Grandpa and I decided it would be precious to take Molly out for her first sailboat ride. Now that she can walk like a pro, and likes being outside, and likes the beach and the sun and all that good stuff, we figured this would be a groovy little outing.
Har.
Considering this child does not want to be touched by so much as your FINGER when she is walking, and god forbid you should try to cuddle, hug, kiss or get within 3 feet of her without wearing body armor, I don't know why we thought she was going to be keen on wearing her very cute, very orange, very CONSTRICTING baby lifejacket. We lumbered onto the boat, got settled, and attempted to strap this 21 pound ball of fire into a restraining device.
I look like I was fighting with a mountain lion, and I wasn't even the one strapping her in. Then, because it was 85 degrees and sunny, we had to put a sun hat on little miss baldy pants, which was about as successful as the Tigers' recent offense (for you non sport types, that means it SUCKED). So as Grandpa is motoring the boat out past the breakwall and onto the lake -- oh, did I mention this is LAKE HURON?? As in, really really really BIG LAKE with waves and everything -- I am trying to hold onto a very, VERY disgruntled orange flotilla with flailing appendages who is trying to alternately claw my eyes out of their sockets and crawl back into the womb to escape the rocking motion of the below-deck cabin.
About 10 minutes into our trip, the cabin below had reached a temperature somewhere between 85 degrees and pottery kiln, and the rocking motion was doing GREAT things to mommy, queen of the claustrophobes. I do NOT get seasick, never have in my life. But trying to calm her down while swaying and lurching was not going well with the 9000 calories worth of breakfast sloshing around in my stomach.
In short, it wasn't a very long sail. We did finally get her up on deck, and she stopped crying long enough to eat some animal crackers and try to ingest the filthiest, non-baby-proofiest items she could find on board.
After that, I went back to the big cottage, took a big pill with a big drink and took a damn big nap on the beach while Daddy, who was smart enough to point out that he HATES sailing, would be going nowhere near this excursion, and wouldn't be surprised if his boat-aversion got passed along to his child, helped Molly play with the in-house slot machine.
There is no doubt where the gambling gene came from. It's the only time I can stand numbers.
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