When did we stop being thrilled by personal jetpacks?

My parents have far too much technology available to them. My mom said to me this afternoon, "Have you heard of Tivo?" I said "Yes, but you don't need it. It's for people to record shows when they're not home, but you're always home. "She said, "Well, we got it. The cable guy said you have to have it to get high definition tv."

I was really stumped. I was unsure whether to first address the fact that there is no reason for them to have high definition tv when only like one or two channels broadcasts in it, not that they would notice, or the fact that they were completely hoodwinked by a cable guy who clearly wanted to make a sale or the fact that they thought they needed any of this.

My parents are 78 and 64 and they have two computers that are each faster, bigger, and more powerful than mine, 6 tvs, one of which is approximately larger than my bathroom, 2 subscriptions to satellite radio, a stereo that could make people in China wet their beds, and now tivo.

My dad was a child during the great depression and my mom during world war 2. Aren't they supposed to be impressed by sunbeam mixers and content themselves with the idea that their children and grandchildren may one day live on the moon? It's not enough anymore! Now they need tivo!

*I* don't need tivo and my youth was misspent listening to hair bands!

Memorializing on the American Highway

I did not fully participate in Memorial Day activities this year. Those of you who attended my Memorial Day barbecue may be scratching your heads at this thought. "Quoi?" you ask.

What I mean is that I do not usually partake of the heartily American tradition of getting pulled over for speeding. And judging by numbers of people I saw pulled over, most Americans give nothing but deep-throat, red, white, and blue devotion to this time-honored tradition for national holidays, by participating in this fine-fest! The rednecks do their part to get drunk and carouse en masse. Non-drinkers snigger to themselves about how they will cheat the long drive to grandma and grandpa's by going approx. 800 mph. (Though as a frequent driver of this much-traversed way to carry the sleigh, I can tell you that 800 mph is not an unusual highway speed, year round.) The city's finest don their blues (en masse) and quietly sneak into their hideouts in shrubs, ravines, behind sofas, under deck chairs, and inside koozies, radar and stun guns at the ready. To quote Paulie, "Nothing really helps me remember our veterans like a DUI."

God bless America, indeed.

The Sound and the Fury

If you have not had the pleasure of living adjacent to two monstrosities, I mean "houses," (henceforth sarcastically referred to as "houses") under construction, allow me to explain the well-orchestrated cacophony of sounds that thanks to the brilliant ordinances of the city of Houston (shout out once again to the peops at my favorite organization: C.O.H! Woot.) I get to hear beginning around the dawn of humanity and concluding in the twilight of my life. I would also like to mention that I am not familiar with this particular meter of measurement unless it's like evil 4/4 time, and every sound is a godforsaken whoooole note (attn:see how I used four o's to indicate the length? that was awesome.) and there are no rests. Ever. Except when it rains. (Ha ha. Bitches.)

So there's the staple gun quartet, which is basically four guys with staple guns alternately pissing me off. Chk. CHK. Chk! CHK! cHK! ChK. Like so.

Then there's the ubiquitous machine saw. What they are still cutting, I can't imagine. They have already used 1e6 pieces of lumber constructing these gargantuan monjos (I mean "houses") and have Spanish-tiled the roofs within an inch of my life (and theirs, believe me). Everything is cut, and yet this sound, more shrill than a million chalkboards scratched over by a million dentist drills. My skin is in full-on heeby-geeby scrapy angst 24 hours a day thanks to this special sound.

Then there's random guy who alternately yodels and whistles. I'm sure your wife thinks you're very charming and your rubber ducky finds you a real hootenanny, but I find you to be not an Austrian in the alps. No avalanche, skiier, grizzle bear, etc. will be along to interrupt your cry, so if you would kindly 86 the serenades at 6 am, that'd be super tight.

Not to be forgotten is guy with shovel/hammer/heavy item who is standing next to the metal scaffolding/bucket/hollow, clinky item trembling like an elementary school-age child who has just been handed a pair of cymbals and told not to play. There's NO WAY that guy is gonna be quiet. Are you kidding me? Not with that kind of power. Everytime he feels like it, even if it's not his turn, and even if it's during one of those rare and beautiful interludes of silence, he's like--ooh! my turn! And you can bet that turn will fall during a time of maximum irritance to the neighbors.

Perhaps another time I will visit the swoopy sound of stucco falling lightly on my car (which is now home to 1e6 mosquitos--don't ask; I will blog about it if I can't hold back) or perhaps the resigned crunch of stepping on the styrofoam from 18 to go boxes which have littered my yard in the span of about 12 minutes, promptly following the "aww damn" of me while picking up the previous few minutes' litter from these fine musicians.

Add another sound to the pot: Grrr.

I'm lovin' it! Seriously.

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! I thought of this when I started typing "O hilarious day!" But days are that much mroe hilarious when frabjous.

I subscribe to Bon Appetit, which I really adore. I have learned so much from it and not just from the innovative recipes or the hints from the test kitchen. But also the lifestylie of the type of people who subscribe to Bon Appetit, but probably don't actually read it. These are the types of people that have multiple vacation homes and re-do their already gourmet kitchens with dishwashing drawers, viking ranges, and dual sub-zero refrigerators every few years or so because "bamboo is so passe." I really find it amusing to see "regular" people, like me and thee, throwing "intimate, casual" dinner parties in front of their carriage houses, which a bevy of servants have no-doubt been decorating for days to "string up a few lights," in the gardens. Right. Anyone really believes that braised duck with fire-roasted cherry chipotle glaze is really an impromptu meal among old college chums. I mean, there's not even ONE mention of the guest who brings Boone's or indicates that he will be bringing 48 additional guests on the evite because he is likely intoxicated at the time of opening the invitation. No way man. These are the types of functions to which linen invitations are issued, not to mention that the tables of which are outfitted with SILK dinner napkins. Please do not ask me why anyone in their right mind would think that silk dinner napkins are a good idea. I only know that Bon Appetit suggests them as "a great gift for dad," and a veritable bargain at $24 a pop in this June's issue. (If you are thinking that not only is silk wildly inappropriate for a dinner napkin, but that $24 is an outrageous price for a dinner napkin, then I am on your team in my newly-invented game of Us vs. Them.)

So all of this was to say: the target demographic of this magazine is basically people with fully-stocked wine cellars and a few starry-eyed cooking enthusiasts who lucked into well-paying jobs, yet still hold that silk napkins are the stupidest thing ever, probably (i.e. me).

Is it then not completely hilarious that McDonald's has a 3D ad in the CENTERFOLD of this month's issue of Bon Appetit? THREE DIMENSIONS. No kidding. When you open it, it looks kind of like those kid's pop-up books with gnashy teeth and all. It features these fitness-addict women with snarky expressions, who make contemptuous comments about fashion and love (hate) and enjoy such things as a "fruit buzz" from McDonald's salad menu or something. Also, the ad comes with 2 --$1 off coupons for aforementioned salads.

So in summary: magazine targeted at vastly wealthy people who not only have gourmet kitchens, but likely have a personal chef or assistant or something branded with smarmy 20-something cynicism campaign ad including coupons? Way to go, team. I am, in fact, lovin' it.

Lizard Update

I regret to inform you that Lizzy perished in about 2 feet of soapy clothes yesterday afternoon. I found her body in a heap at the bottom of the wash basin, tail removed. I'm really, really sorry that you died at my hands, Lizzy. It was, I assure you, not something I took lightly. I continue to be traumatized. Rest in peace.

Operation Lizard: Washing Machine Edition

Today is my day off before my last day of work. Yay!

I was just trying to do some laundry, so I go downstairs and turn the washing machine on and water is coming out like normal, when I notice a little brown lizard in there and I do that frightened girly scream that men get punched for making. I turned the water off immediately and go into crazy inventor Violet Baudelaire mode.

You see, my heart is soft for all God's creatures, but not so soft that I want to touch them or have them touch me. I have fed my neighbors' pet rats (ick). I have scooped up roaches in dust pans and tossed them outside. I will go to great lengths to spare a freaky, freaky possum that is trapped in construction hell next door (I, too, am trapped in construction hell). I really don't like to see animals suffering or scared or whatever, even though I know they're not experiencing exactly the same pain and suffering as humans. I do think animals can suffer. But anywho, there is this problem of a lizard in my washing machine. So I go pace around the back patio and what the heck? It's lizard city! I spot 3 within about 15 seconds. A green one, a gray one, a dark brown one, climbing in various parts of the backyard. I mean, I know they're everywhere--both my downstairs neighbors and I have led more than one lizard to an untimely death by squashing it in the door frame of our backdoors. It's kind of awesome and also horrible to see a perfectly flattened lizard glued to your doorway. But back to the lizard in the wash basin. How do I get it out?

Operation Lizard consisted of three parts.

The first part was to stick this long piece that looked like it belonged to some blinds found in the utility room in the basin to see if the lizard would climb out on it. (The wettened, steep basin walls were hopeless for Lizzy.) I turned the light off, closed the door, and made footstep noises like I was walking away. I don't know who I was fooling. Clearly not Lizzy as she was firmly glued to the spot she was in when first I left. So I poked her a bit to see if she was alive because then I thought I had killed her, which would be horrible. Then I'd HAVE to touch her to get her out and she'd be a dead lizard while I did it (and after), and you know, she would have died, so that was not the mission. But she was alive still. Yay.

So then I just thought I'd help her climb the walls by offering support with this blind thing. But she has really tiny hands and feet and I couldn't knock the feeling that I was constantly squishing something important to her, so she kept falling back down, even as the sweet taste of success was nigh.

Okay, so if one stick is good, two sticks are better right? Part 3 was a cooperative effort between Lizzy, a pokey barbecue stick that K uses on the grill, and this blind piece--the latter two I was operating (obviously). So finally, finally, Lizzy, who is either resignedly cooperating out of sheer terror with me or just has no remaining strength allows me to boost her to the top of the basin. But there was a wild card I wasn't counting on--the rim, that has a little underside enclave where Lizzy could hide, but was certainly not homefree. Gravity would surely bring her back to the bottom of the basin instantly, or the twirl of the washer. But she disappeared under there and there was no way I could find her without touching her with my arm, screaming, and subsequently dropping her. So she was under there, and I decided I HAD to do laundry, so I left a blind in position for her for easy escape and disappeared entirely for ten minutes.

She may still have been under there when I started the washing machine. There's no way to know for sure (aside from the aforementioned unacceptable way), so Lizzy, I hope you made it out. I really hope you're not drowning in Method soap, lots of cold water, and my bathrobe. I really hope there won't be dead lizard surprise to further freak me out when I retrieve my clothes. Most importantly, I hope that if there IS dead lizard surprise that dead lizard surprise will never make it as far as the dryer and likely ruin my life (day....hour).

Who am I kidding? Rest in peace, Lizzy. This rescue stuff sucks.

First Floor, PLEASE!!!

So I was noticing over my lunch break in the elevator ride down and the one back up the plastic shield over all the elevators' first floor buttons are cracked, no doubt because this is kind of a crappy 70s-era building and over those non-facelifted years, the first floor has been a popular destination for all elevator-goers.

However, it struck me as funny that people are so anxious to get the hell out of here that they practically punch the first floor button in a desperate attempt to flee. Yet, if you were fleeing in desperation, would you really take the elevator? Okay, so maybe this will turn out to be one of those anecdotes that was much more amusing in my head, but let us all pause to consider the way we dutifully hit the floor button for our place of business in the morning--slowly, methodically, resignedly. Yet in the afternoons: get me the hell to the first floor.

Well, I found it hilarious.

And one to grow on...

Since I'm on a posting spree...

Happy Birthday, Daniel! Two years old today.


Love,
Auntie Mehmeh

Thank you for that helpful sign!

Oh you want me to stop pandhandling?

Right, well, all you had to do was post a sign in your business! I certainly don't want to make the metropolitan shopping area an unpleasant experience for those who are uncomfortable with my state of affairs. This will certainly curb my hunger, my desperation, my possible mental illness, and help get me back on my feet again!

Thank you, Greater Nashville--for your compassion!

Sincerely,
Me, if I were a lucid homeless person

L.L. Bean is Surprisingly Unchill--aren't you surprised? I really am.

Of all companies who might mail you catalogs, would you really expect L.L. Bean to be the most unchill? Bed, Bath and Beyond, maybe (though really, I think I have about 18 coupons from y'all--you're running a veeery close second, though not surprisingly) or I dunno, someone else unchill--Kroger? But in the last two weeks, here are the catalogs I have received from L.L.Bean:

L.L. Bean Summer Pre-view 2005
L.L. Bean Summer 2005
L.L. Bean Women Summer 2005
L.L. Bean Traveler 2005
L.L. Bean Summer Weekends 2005

I suspect the next one I get will be L.L. Bean Mon-Fri, Summer 2005.

Who runs your catalog mailing list? Mary Beth Cahill?

You all must chill.

"When She Says 'What?' I'll Go 'Weeeell!'"

Read the following--not for content, but for errors, specifically: spelling one(s). The topic is of no consequence to me. It's really grammar that counts in my life.


England Pleads Guilty to Abusing Prisoners
Army Pfc. Lynndie R. England, center, flanked by her defence team leaves for a lunch break during her court martial at Fort Hood, Texas, Monday, May 2, 2005. At right is Kathleen Johnson; the woman at left is not indentified. (AP Photo/LM Otero)

Yahoo News is notorious for having HORRIBLY misspelled, mispunctuated news. And it hurts me. It really, really hurts me in the most hurty place. So much so, that I feel justified in using the famous BNL ad lib "Aww for Christ sake," (Canadian inflection added).

Defence team? Not okay.

Defence is what happens when you take your fence down. This is a losing battle, isn't it? I thought so. Sigh.