Ingredients

Don't ask me why, but I decided to read the ingredients in Febreze while gathering laundry today. The results are staggering:

The first ingredient is 'odor eliminator', which, I say with authority, is absurd. That's like listing the first ingredient in Coke as 'blood strain remover' or Ben & Jerry's ice cream as 'frozen ass-mazingness'. DUH.

The second ingredient is water. The third is fragrance. This seems like what 'odor eliminator' is made of, yup! Science?! Science! And marketing.

Small Thoughts on Childhood

Fuzzy memories of childhood
Remember that thing that would happen from time to time in your childhood? 

Where you've fallen asleep on the drive home, and as you're being carried from the car to the house, you wake up just for a second; just long enough to see a glimpse of the lawn, wet from the sprinklers and sparking in the moonlight? 

Getting a ride on someone's shoulders (at a parade, for example) and you never feel like you're going to fall off of the shoulders, but you also feel very wobbly? And then when it's time to get off and walk on your own, how your legs and feet would be all pins and needles?

Remember riding your bike to your friend's house, letting them get their bike, then the two of you would go to the next kid's house and then that friend would hop on a bike, and before long you had a whole crew of kids on bikes? Remember when a whole gang of your friends would show up at your door on their bikes to see if you wanted to ride with them? 

Remember Chinese jump rope? Remember hanging by your knees off of the jungle gym and swinging so you could see sky, then ground, then sky, then ground? 

Remember starring out the window at cars parked out front while you were stuck at home the summer before you had your driver's permit, bored out of your mind and wishing you could just hop in and drive to the mall? 

Remember feeling like you'd never get out of school, and thinking about how you'd spend your entire life in a little desk waiting for a bell to ring?





Grumpling Grumplet

Grumpling Grumplet,
Grumpling like a Crumplet.
(Crumplet-like, but not it.)

Grumpling over the bother of
Having to recover
From being a Grumplet
With an absentee father.

Michael J. Fox Versus The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles



Michael J. Fox versus the The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

That's not a Chuck Norris-versus-Rabid-Wolf-Who-Would-Win type of hypothetical. It's not a hypothetical at all. It happened, and I was there.

You know that episode of Seinfeld where the gang plays in a theatre league softball game with Bette Midler, and Kramer... Kramers all over Bette? Those entertainment industry games happen in real life, although usually without Bette Midler. (Michael Richards does play in every single game, though. Fun factoid.)

I started playing softball in middle school (no celebs on the field- just boring, regular kids), and then experienced my first 'entertainment industry' game playing in an amateur theatre league in Los Angeles after high school (in case you're wondering, Bette never showed- much to Micheal's chagrin!) and then I started playing in TV/Film games after I moved to NYC and started working in TV.

My first game in NYC was pitching for 'In Treatment'  in the 'Mildred Pierce' Versus 'In Treatment' pairing. It seemed appropriate to have Mildred battling a psychiatrist. Also appropriate? In Treatment was whooping Mildred until we got heat exhaustion and then Mildred took the lead and never looked back.

Which brings me back to Michael J. Fox versus the The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles:

The Michael J. Fox Show battled Michael Bay's TMNT movie on a dusty diamond in Queens, NY last summer. It was a matchup that was shaky at best; many of the competitors were green.

You'll never believe it, but The Turtles beat MJF. If we had MJF the man, the myth, the Canadian on the field we probably would have won because the only person I can think of who could best a team of ninja turtles is Marty McFly. He still rides around on the hover board. Fun factoid.










Dr. Dentist

Dr. Dentist
A short story by Val
°°°°°°°°°°°
Sitting and waiting. Again.
I was here two weeks ago for a cleaning and checkup and I waited 75 minutes. Once I was finally in the chair, the exam took 20 minutes. I thought I’d be done after that, but my x-rays revealed three cavities. My first, second, and third cavities ever. So here I am, back again- sitting and waiting. 30 minutes so far. 

The other patients in this waiting room seem to have more patience than me: a teen girl sits across from me with her headphones on, happily bopping her head to a song I almost recognize. Her denim shorts are very short- but it's summertime, and she’s young enough to pull it off without looking inappropriate.  She arrived with her mother, but I guess, just like me, Mommy hates to wait. She announced to the room that she was off to get a mani/pedi and left. I smiled at her as she left, then regretted it. Fuck her for gettting to leave.
Next to the latchkey teen sits a male whose age is not apparent. He is either 17 or 47. He’s got the kind of lean, blond, bland features that will cause him to be carded for the next 30 years. He’s smiling and watching the wall. Neither of these people seem to mind waiting at all.
Maybe one of them would switch appointments with me, let me cut them in line? Waiting drives me crazy. When I have to wait too long, I get a powerful urge to smash things. I’m staring at a vase in the corner right now: it’s clay, painted white. It’s got a black, green, and yellow floral design painted across it in big, clumsy strokes. I bet when you pick it up and look at the underside, the naked terracotta is gritty and orange and horrible. I hate it. I want to smash it against the carpet and scream, ‘Fill my cavities so I can get the fuck out of here!’.  

This office, like so many New York offices, was once an apartment. I’m in the living/waiting room now. When I get my cavities filled, I’ll have to go the to guest bed/exam room.  The reception area was once a wet bar. A cutout in the wall where drinks were passed from husband to wife, or hostess to guest, now serves as the check-in window. A window with no glass. Which is probably good, because if there was glass I’d probably be dreaming about smashing that, too.

On the other side of the cutout sits a woman to whom I’ve only said four words, “Hi, I’m Janie Wassle?”, and to whom I’m currently giving the stink eye. I’ve nicknamed her Screaming Mimi the Terrible Temp. She has the nasty habit of yelling for help instead of getting up to ask questions. The hygienist’s name is Vanessa. Every time Screaming Mimi does anything new (which is everything, because she’s a temp) she yells out to Vanessa:
“Vaness! Vaness!”
“What?!” Vanessa shouts back, from the master bedroom/larger exam room. Vanessa’s in the middle of assisting the dentist.
“Where do you put the information for the patients’ insurances? At my last office we kept it with the main folder but you guys don’t do that?” Screamed Mimi.
“We keep it in the main folder, too!” Vanessa yelled.
“Thanks, honey!” Screamed Mimi. I want to smash her. She’s giving me a headache.
I’m trying to focus on reading a brochure on oral cancer screenings, but that loud-mouth is driving me crazy. What must the patient in the exam room think, having these two women yell back and forth as the doctor drills holes in his teeth? Would he rather the hygienist left the procedure momentarily every time Mimi had a question, or would he prefer Mimi to come in to the room and stare down his gullet as she asks where the free toothbrushes are?
“You know who you look like?” Suddenly, the Teen girl is talking to the ambiguously aged dude.
“Yeah, I do,” he smiles big, “I look like that guy from Super Bad.” His voice does not hint at his age; smooth, not too deep, not too high.
“Yeah! You must get that a lot, huh?” The teen asks.
“Who do you look like?” Mimi asks from behind the wet bar, just the tip of her head peeping over the ledge. He stands up so she can see him.
“The guy from Super Bad?” He smiles the smile that people who look like famous people smile when you ‘recognize’ them.
“You look just like him!” Mimi says. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”
“Plus, my name is Steven King,” he, Steven King, says.
“Like the writer? Or wait, was that the guy’s name in the movie? The one you look like?” Mimi asks. I want to smush her face between my hands.
“The writer, but spelled different,” Steven King says. “So yeah, it’s weird. I look like one famous guy, and I’m named the same as another famous guy. So people are always disappointed when it turns out to just be me.” Stephen King was getting too philosophical for this waiting room. The teen had already put her earbuds back in. Mimi nodded like she got it, but didn’t respond. After an awkward beat, Steven King sat back down. Plug it up, Steven. Plug it up.


***
The teen girl  got called to the exam room, and already is done, in and out in 17 minutes. Now, just me and Steven King remain. And Mimi. And my headache.
I’ve been waiting 55 minutes now and I just realized I don’t even know my dentist’s name. The practice isn’t named after him, it’s just called Central Park Dentistry, and I’ve never heard anyone say his name or seen it written. He introduced himself once, but I don’t remember what he said. So I guess I’ll call him Dr. Dentist.

Dr. Dentist knows the pain of waiting. The last time I was here, as he was giving me my check up, he had asked me what I did for a living:
“Ahmam acwess,” I explained with his hands in my mouth. I'm an artist.
“An actress? Very cool. You know, I was an extra for a while. I like acting.” of course he couldn't understand anything I was saying.
His eyes looked down at me, the rest of his face obscured by the seafoam green surgical mask. I noticed then that he didn’t have any wrinkles.  His skin was smooth, and a very nice dark brown. He told me that the worst show to be an extra on was Gilmore Girls. “Hurry up and wait. That’s what they say, isn’t it? Well on Gilmore Girls I did a lot of hurrying and waiting. And the actors were very rude to the extras. The stories I could tell... ” he trailed off, and then he didn’t tell any. Changing the subject, he asked, “How did you get started in acting?”
“Wew, waw worr ahmam acwess,” I answered, speaking around his hand and through his fingers.
“Your father was a dentist?! Very cool! So was mine!” He exclaimed.
“Naw-”, I gagged on his fist. He finally took the hint and removed his hand from my mouth. “That’s not what I said.” I caught myself rolling my eyes at him.
“Oh. Open please.” A deflated Dr. Dentist relied. Weirdo.

***
85 minutes gone now. Sure, Dr. Dentist claims he knows the pain of waiting from his days as an extra... but yet, here I am in his lobby, waiting. Waiting. Again. At least the good people at Gilmore Girls had the decency to set up a craft service table with chicken caesar wraps and cookies for him. All I’ve got is this lousy brochure for oral cancer and Mimi. Oh, and I can tell my mother that I hung out with Steven King all afternoon. 

***
90 minutes into my wait and Vanessa finally emerges from the exam room to call my name. Then, just in case I didn’t hear her, Mimi screams it. Steven King has gone back to smiling at the wall. He doesn’t even flinch when I’m called in before him. Is he even here for an appointment?
“I’m getting a really bad headache,” I say to Vanessa as she leads me to the guest bed/exam room, “do you have any aspirin?” It’s never a good sign when you’re asking for pain medicines before the dentist starts working on you. I can hear the anger in my voice. I need to relax. Somehow, that wait has turned sitting in the chair and getting drilled into a highly anticipated reward. Shit. Wait. Was that was Dr. Dentist’s evil plan all along?

The next time I come here, I have to remember to bring a magazine.

Dreams I've Had

I had a dream the other night, and in the middle of the dream, Louie CK walked in with a young man and announced, "this is my son, Johnny CK."

They exited, and my dream continued uninterrupted.


Naming the Colors - Orange You Glad Edition

Signatures: Atomic and Stylistic
Guess what- the fruit orange existed before the color! Imagine a time before the color orange was invented... that'd be so weird!...
*time warp..... to the year 1404, before the color Orange had been named, to a street scene that MIGHT have been!*

"Good day, my lady. Doth thou know the date to-day?" asked the 15th century gentleman to a young woman passing by with a basket of berries freshly plucked from the bushes o'er the yonder hills.

"Why yes, my good sire, todoth's date beith the fifth Monday of the lord's year 1404, the 4th of February," the lady replied quite verbosely to a strange man she had never met before.

"And may I ask you another question?" asked the 15th century gentleman.

"Yes," said the lady, quite quickly. She shouldn't be talking to a man who is not her relative without a chaperone present, per the societal rules of the day.

"What ungodly color hath your garb been dyed?" asked the 15th century gentleman.

"Well," the lady paused quite pregnantly, "there is no name for the color of the dye of my dress."

"What do you mean?" asked the 15th century gentleman.

"I mean to say, it is somewhere between yellow and red but it is neither yellow nor red-"

"Nor is it blue! But I hath not asked what it is not, I hath asked ye what doth isith!" said the 15th century gentleman, in a less than gentlemanly manner.

"It is nothing, it is a shade that has not yet been named!" cried the lady.

"I ask ye again: what color hath thou dyed thy garment? Answerith me, woman!" hissed the 15th century gentleman, as a bit of sour spittle gathered in the corners of his lips.

"There is no name for it, strange gentleman! Tis a new color! One that exists only in the moment where yellow fades to red as the sun sets over the River Th-" and with that he slapped her check. It was the first time a man other than her papa had every touched her skin.

"Witch!" the 15th century gentleman exclaimed, "Witch! Witch! She hath created a new color! Burn her body to see if it floats! Hang her to see if she can swim! She hath doth aught that we shant!"

The lady remained in silent shock, considering for a moment if now she would be forced to marry this strange man since they had made bodily contact... but before the moment passed, the 15th century gentleman produced a small dagger from within his coat and sliced her virgin throat.

"My virgin throat!" the lady gurgled through the blood.

The 15th century gentleman screamed as he watched the devil fabric absorb the definitely red blood that twas spurting from her jugular. Just then, another man approached the 15th century gentleman.

"What hath thou done?" Asked the second 15th century gentleman.

"She wore a garment dyed a color neither yellow nor red but instead somewhere in-betweenith. I used my dagger to cut her throat as she was obviously a witch! Now we must drown her to see if she'll catch afire," replied 15th century gentleman.

"Why, my good man! I've traveled across all the Europe and Asia's mountains by foot and by beast as part of my work as a cartographer, and that hue has only existed in one place! The oriental fruit they call 'orenge' is that strange color as well, and the only other natural thing I've eer seen in that hue. I've definitely never seen another fruit, flower, butterfly, sunset or anything else that particular color!  For certain! Just the fruit," said the second 15th century gentleman

"Perhaps she was a witch after all, for how else could a woman create a color that only our Creator hath produced, and only then in the distant gardens of the Orient?" ask the first 15th century gentleman.

"Indeed! Good work, my good man. Now, let's gather the towne's wagoner to pluck her wretched body from the street and give her a ye olde witch's trial in the cemetery!" cried the second 15th century gentleman.

*******
And so it might have gone... in the time before the color orange had been named.... DUN-dun--DUNNNN!!!!

H2Oh No You Didn't

Don't get mad at water for being wet.

Scold it for scalding.
Tread if you're drowning. 
Be annoyed if it's, like, totally shallow.
& You can decide if you'll spit or swallow.   
But water's wet so don't wallow.

Yep. Eyeliner. See?


Peace and Love

What I wore:

This is an oldie but a goodie. I love this look.

Turtle neck from Uniqlo
Skirt from Kate Spade: Saturday
Tights from Target
Boots from Kate Spade: Saturday

I'm in a mod 60s mood as of late.

I wore this skirt with an orange skoop neck and yellow tights with my knee high docs and a denim vest. Forgot to snap a picture, though!

Use your imagination :)


Schmunday

The weekend is winding down.
Sunday is suddenly slipping through our pinkies, and pointers, and middle fingers.

Sleeping late on a Sunday is the superior sweetener for a sour week's work;
yet, sleeping late on a Sunday is the worst way to waste the weekend's waining hours.
And for what? A few whittle winks.
Sleeping late is a waste.

Sleeping late leads to headaches.
Avoidable, predicable headaches.
Avoidable, had he heeded history.
When mister misses his midmorning mocha,
migraines make him miserable.
Sleeping late leads to missing midmorning mochas,
hence the headaches.

I am lying here,
pretending I don't have to pee-
partly because I am dreaming,
partly because I want to stay sleeping,
partly because I am too warm under these covers,
partly because if I stand up now I might not be able to hold it.

Teal Crushed Velet

How good is this?! 12 year old me always dreamed of the day I would have as many colored tights as I wanted. Today, I live that dream... *sniffle*

Stress Cat

I drew this cat when I was really stressed at work. I took a five minute break to do this. It made me feel better. Make art not stress balls.

Subtle!!!!!!!!!

Copy and paste as necessary.

Teal Sewing Machine! Singer Stylist = Happiness


It was my birthday on Saturday, and my awesome boyfriend, Max, teamed up with his awesome mom to get me a TEAL SEWING MACHINE!

I can't wait to start creating all sorts of awesomeness with my new machine.

Here's my list of must sews:


1) Sock Monsters: I have made Sock Monsters by hand in the past. Everyone loves them, but it took forever to sew them with a needle and tread. Now I can use my Singer Stylist to whip them up for holiday and birthday gifts, and give my carpal tunnel a break!

2) Skirts: Millions of skirts will be made. Minis, full circle, taffeta tutus, pencil, elastic waist bands, zippered skirts (this machine comes with 10 different feet, including zipper feet!), button-up skirts (the machine comes with several button hole options!), long skirts, pleated skirts. I can never have enough skirts!

3) Pillows: Easy to make, useful to have.

4) Kitchen towels/Linen Napkins: They cost so damn much at the store, but now I can make them myself. Same goes for cloth napkins.

5) Quits: Max's mom introduced me to quilting. Can't wait to get into this.  I'll have to do other projects first so I end up with some fun scraps to piece together.

6) Dresses: Once I've mastered skirts, I'll move on to the tricky world of sleeves and collars. Can't wait!

7) Purses and cosmetic bags: Zippers, liners, pockets. Yup, my makeup will be very orgaized!

8) Aprons: For the kitchen, for the office, for the street. I am gunning to make the apron trendy and acceptable.

Absurd Friday


eye ham watt eye ham.

I am just not that into purchasing anything else

 
I just tried looking for a pair of new shoes, but it felt like a charade. I could not give less of a f**k. 

New Orleans by Boyfriend Max

 My Boyfriend Max went around town taking picutures. See above for his version of the Sheraton.
 This is the M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I.

Oy Pay

Warning: Do not visit the ASPCA website unless you want those personalized adchoices to forever be sad puppies begging for 60 cents.

Lesson learned.

Well played, Sarah McLachlan.

Low 5

My first night in my new apartment and what do I spy? 

My "lucky" #5 in my carpet! It's not burned in, it's not a stain, it's just the way the fibers lay. 

Thank you, Shag Carpet Jesus.

Randoms of Note

-Today's an espeically good day because my purple Spanx match my cardigan, my bike and my new Nike Lunarglides. No one else knows, but it makes me happy.

-My boyfriend asked me to switch out one of the pics I used here because I was showing too much cleavage- the weird thing is I hadn't even noticed the cleavage... guess it goes to show boys like to notice boobs. You learn something everyday!

- I'm wondering if anyone else always counts the stairs as they take them? I always realize a few flights in that my inner monologue has switched from 'I love the way the color of that ____ matches the color of ___" to "...12, 13, 14, 15" I go up and down 3 flights of stairs 5+ times a day, and pretty much without fail I'll realize I'm counting them again as I ascend/descend the final floor.

Washed Up

Every time I go to the ladies room to wash my hands, the running water makes me have to pee.

Which means I have to wash my hands again when I'm done.

Luckily, I have not yet been sucked in to an infinity loop of hand washing, peeing, hand washing, peeing... although I worry that a Pavlovian thing might overtake me and soon I will be nowhere to be found because I'll be stuck in the ladies room wearing a groove in the floor between the sink and the stall.

Pinterest Protest

Dear Ben & the Pinterest Team, 


I would like to start with my main point and then circle back to why my point is correct: In the words of my idol, Gordon Ramsey: You are stuck up prissy little bitches.


I read a lot of blogs about food, crafting, fitness and other such twee bullsh*t. Yes, despite the whole 'my soul is black and I hate everything' vibe I have going, I actually enjoy scrolling through pages and pages of pictures of the lemon blueberry feta bacon scones Kristin from Iowa Girl Eats has baked, and I even go Ben Does Life 'at it'. I think this proves I'm not some stuck up East Coast/West Coast elitist (yes, I'm bi...coastal). I can enjoy a bubblegum website that is all about happiness and sunshine and the finer things in life- not just sites about epic fails and random facts (I'm looking at you, my love.) Many of the blogs I read link to Pinterest, which is how I came to the decision to give your website a try.


This is when I realized that, in the words of many people's idol, George Carlin, Pinterest is bullsh*t and it's bad for you. 


First tip that Pinterest is BS and bad: You can't just sign up. You jerks at Pinterest have decided that to add to your mystique, new users sign up for a 'waiting list'. At first, I believed that there might actually be a need for this- maybe the site is so new they only have one guy in the back responsible for setting up accounts, and his MacBook is powered by a hipster hamster on a recycled PVC-free plastic wheel. 


...and yet less than a day later I get the 'invite' (see above for screen grab). All of the sudden, it became so clear to me: You're the only site I've ever visited that made me wait. How come everyone one else can handle signing new users up in 20 seconds but you have a wait list? Are you the Harvard of sites, and all the others are the community colleges? No. You're just trying to seem special and make me feel like I've joined an elite society of housewives, Farmer wives, knitting spinsters, and GOOP-ologists. Well, gee. Thanks, but no fu*king thanks. 


To make it worse, you've included a set of rules with my invite. RULES. Not a user agreement, not a 'click here to agree and join' button, RULES like you are the camp counselor at my troubled youth center. Well, I'm not listening, GINA!!!!! You're not my mom!!!!!! 


Here are the rules, listed from least annoying to most annoying:

Blog about Blog

I woke up feeling so blog today. I hit snooze on my blog blogteen times before I finally got my blog out of blog.

As I was sleepily blogging to the blogroom, I blogged my toe against the blogjam.

"BLOG!!!!" I blogged so loudly that my neighbor blogged on the wall to tell me to shut the blog up.

I guess you could say I woke up on the wrong side of the blog this AM. Oh well. As they say in France: Ce la blog!

Salad Porn

 Lucy Dog, you better go to your bed. Salad and I need to... talk.
 Oh, hey Salad. You look nice tonight. Did I tell you that already? Well, it's true.
 So fresh and crunchy. You naughty bitch.
 I see you brought out your red cabbage tonight. Rrrrrear, kinky...
 Would you mind if I just took one little taste?
 Wait, before I do that, it helps if I have something to watch-
 What? Oh. I see. You don't want me to watch anything? You want me to focus on you?
 Hmmm... this is awkward now. Because I'm supposed to be in control here, Salad. You can't tell me what to do.
 Damn it, I can't stay mad at you.
 Let me crack some fresh black pepper all over you to make it up for you. Maybe even give you a little toss, if you ask nicely....

I love you, Salad. Let's do this.

Teal Head and No Shoulders


Nice!

"Nice! We came up with a stupid name for our knockoff generic brand and now we can head to the bar early tonight!" - Walgreens Branding Team

Cue the eyeroll...

Dear Stella Atrois,

You stuck-up prissy little bitch.

I don't care about your ritual.  I don't care that you train bartenders to slice the head off my beer with a letter opener. I just want my beer quick-like so I can get back to (instert bar activity).

Anyway, you're not even slicing off enough; there's way to much head on that beer. I don't want any head. I want as much liquid as possible. I'm paying per the ounce! Per the ounce! And who wants a mouth full of head? (That's not what she said.) Head is frothy nothingness on which I choke. I spit on your head.

This post brought to you by SOPA.

Shift + 1

VH1 was originally supposed to be called VH!, but someone forgot to depress shift.

Fact.

What I wore on 1-12-12


Dear Teal Cardigan,

You are soft and warm, and you go with everything. Just like rice.  And puppies.
In fact, wouldn't life be better if every event involved free rice and puppies?



Dear Hair Clips,

I found you in the hair care asile of Ralph's. I think you were intended to be used on babies, but I reject the slim vision that Goodie had for you. I am confidant that you can also "cute up" grown women, gay teen boys, and poodles.

There are a lot of girls who look like me...

Google Images has a new function where you can drag an image from your computer into the search field and Google will search for similar images.
Turns out I look like a goth chick... or a black dude in a blue shirt. 

Fire Soccer? Go on...

So I guess fire soccer is a known thing... or at least I googled it and Google didn't reply with a What the eff are you typing now, bitch? side-eye, so it must be a known thing...
Fire soccer! Run! Aye-yi-yi!!!!!

That said- HAHAHA fire soccer. Stupid feet gone catch a'blaze!

I'm picturing- well you know what I'm picturing....

So what does 'fire' have to do with 'soccer'? I'm guessing it's a league level- like little league, big league, medium league (I'm a sports fan obviously)... but fire league? Is that like the league for people who don't give a shit about what happens to their toes? Or flamers? Or people who think they're hot shit?

"See man, I'm on a fire soccer team. No there isn't any actual fire involved, but dude- the attitude involved- man the attitude involved IS fire. Seacrest out!"

Why didn't I think of this: