Today I was asked, "What is the worst pickup line you've ever heard?"
It happened at work. I was writing up an order for The 50 Mile Rule for this guy (so I'm already thinking, "Ewwwww") when he said to me in what I'm sure he thought was a most seductive tone, "You know, that little bit of grey in your hair is very attractive."
"Thanks," I said. "We'll let you know when your book arrives. Can I help whoever is next?"
The saddest pickup line I ever got, one that almost made me want to give the poor guy a hug, also occurred at work. A semi-regular customer who I knew by sight was following me around one Saturday morning while I was shelving books, and we were chit-chatting. "Would you like to have a cup of coffee sometime?" he asked.
"Well, I'm married. Thanks, though," I said.
He looked pretty bummed for a moment. Then I saw a flash of hope in his eyes and he asked, "Happily?"
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Bad omen
This morning, as I was leaving for work, I discovered that the little bed of sunflowers I planted this past spring has been attacked. Last night some nocturnal creature knocked over, bent the stalks of, or uprooted every flower. And just as they were set to start blooming!
I'm not a deeply superstitious person, but I do think it's a bad sign that something I like and have tended so carefully for such a long time can be so easily and mysteriously destroyed.
I'm not a deeply superstitious person, but I do think it's a bad sign that something I like and have tended so carefully for such a long time can be so easily and mysteriously destroyed.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Hotter'n Hades
I have this nifty digital thermometer that shows the temperature both outside and inside. The inside monitor sits in my kitchen, always the hottest room in the house; the outside one lives on my potting bench, which is always shady and probably the coolest spot in the yard. When I got home from work today a little after noon, it was about 90 degrees in the kitchen -- yuck -- and 98.7 degrees at the potting bench. I decided to conduct a little experiment and moved the outside monitor to the edge of one of my wooden planter boxes, which sits in direct sunlight right in the middle of the backyard. Within seconds the temperature started climbing: 103 degrees, 107, 112... When it got to 124.7 degrees I started to worry that the monitor might break so I moved it back into the shade by the back door. We're now back to a relatively "cool" 109 degrees.
This is not normal. This is global warming, Messrs Bush and Cheney.
This is not normal. This is global warming, Messrs Bush and Cheney.
Friday, July 21, 2006
You're getting very sleepy
I just came home after having a massage and boy, do I feel loopy. Sean gave me a gift certificate to Burke Williams for our anniversary last year and I finally got around to using it. If I could feel this relaxed and pain-free all the time, I know my insomnia and stress would disappear and I would be an all-around better person to hang out with. My plan now is to win the lottery so I can hire a full-time masseuse.
The massage itself was lovely. I chose the Pure Relaxation massage, and it certainly lived up to its name -- though the fact that I am sleep-deprived and had taken some allergy meds an hour before probably contributed to my "I'm so sleeeeepy" feeling. My masseuse was a Russian woman named Svetlana who spoke excellent English but had a very thick accent; as I began to feel the soothing effects of the massage, my mind began to drift and I only picked up on about half of what she said. She was a talker, that Svetlana, not that I minded at all. I'd ask her a simple question, like, "How long have you been doing this?" and she would reveal to me vast chunks of her personal history while I lay there semi-conscious, murmuring, "Mm hm." The room was dark and cool and smelled of eucalyptus, and Svetlana kept catching me off guard with massage oils that were surprisingly cool or surprisingly warm. When we were done I put on my robe and she escorted me downstairs, actually holding my elbow as if she were afraid I would keel over. "Are you dizzy?" she asked me. I assured her I was not, but I felt as if I were moving underwater; at my very core I couldn't see any need to rush, so why should I? I felt sedated without actually being sedated.
The rest of the "spa experience" fell a little short, but that's because of who I am -- I usually feel insecure in new situations I have to deal with on my own. All the other patrons seemed familiar with where everything was and the routine of how and when you do things. Almost everybody seemed to be there with a friend or two, while I was alone. Everyone had a bathing suit so they could use the jacuzzi and misting room, whereas I haven't owned a swimsuit in years and probably wouldn't have thought to bring it if I did. I probably should have spent more time adjusting back to the real world, but instead I washed my face and hands, combed my hair, drank two cups of citrus-flavored water, got dressed, and left. Besides feeling uncomfortable with my lack of knowledge at how best to do things, I was also disturbed at how quickly everyone was moving around -- while I drifted, all the other women around me seemed to be scurrying. It made me a little anxious, so I was happy to leave. Nevertheless, I'd go back in a heartbeat, especially with a friend.
Pardon me while I go use my own shower to wash all this oil or lotion or whatever it is off. Then: nap time.
The massage itself was lovely. I chose the Pure Relaxation massage, and it certainly lived up to its name -- though the fact that I am sleep-deprived and had taken some allergy meds an hour before probably contributed to my "I'm so sleeeeepy" feeling. My masseuse was a Russian woman named Svetlana who spoke excellent English but had a very thick accent; as I began to feel the soothing effects of the massage, my mind began to drift and I only picked up on about half of what she said. She was a talker, that Svetlana, not that I minded at all. I'd ask her a simple question, like, "How long have you been doing this?" and she would reveal to me vast chunks of her personal history while I lay there semi-conscious, murmuring, "Mm hm." The room was dark and cool and smelled of eucalyptus, and Svetlana kept catching me off guard with massage oils that were surprisingly cool or surprisingly warm. When we were done I put on my robe and she escorted me downstairs, actually holding my elbow as if she were afraid I would keel over. "Are you dizzy?" she asked me. I assured her I was not, but I felt as if I were moving underwater; at my very core I couldn't see any need to rush, so why should I? I felt sedated without actually being sedated.
The rest of the "spa experience" fell a little short, but that's because of who I am -- I usually feel insecure in new situations I have to deal with on my own. All the other patrons seemed familiar with where everything was and the routine of how and when you do things. Almost everybody seemed to be there with a friend or two, while I was alone. Everyone had a bathing suit so they could use the jacuzzi and misting room, whereas I haven't owned a swimsuit in years and probably wouldn't have thought to bring it if I did. I probably should have spent more time adjusting back to the real world, but instead I washed my face and hands, combed my hair, drank two cups of citrus-flavored water, got dressed, and left. Besides feeling uncomfortable with my lack of knowledge at how best to do things, I was also disturbed at how quickly everyone was moving around -- while I drifted, all the other women around me seemed to be scurrying. It made me a little anxious, so I was happy to leave. Nevertheless, I'd go back in a heartbeat, especially with a friend.
Pardon me while I go use my own shower to wash all this oil or lotion or whatever it is off. Then: nap time.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Winning streak
Biscuits & Gravy took home the award for Best Film at last night's 48-Hour Film Project's Best of L.A. screening. Woo hoo! Two years in a row! After the awards ceremony, the leader of another team (whose films I'm not crazy about -- they're always very slick, and often are filmed on rented professional sets, which is supposed to be against the rules) came up to Sean, shook his hand, and congratulated him. "But could you take next year off?" he begged. "If you took a year off, we might have a shot at winning." There were more films in competition this year than ever before, and I thought the overall caliber of the entries was very high, so winning this year is a real coup for Sean and Curtis. After the screening, all the participants were invited to an after party at a fancy-sounding place called Tart -- but I ducked out with a smaller group and went to Canter's Deli, where I chowed down on potato pancakes and kosher dills.Biscuits & Gravy also won the award for Best Costumes.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Book of the week
From the back cover:Are you a parent? Are you thirsty? Too many of us allow our infant sons and daughters to lay about idly -- napping, drinking milk and sometimes "turning over." Why not have them mix you a cocktail? Thanks, Baby!Best board book ever! It's part of the Baby Be of Use series; other titles include Baby, Make Me Breakfast and Baby, Fix My Car.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Truer words...
Curtis was doing the dishes earlier this evening while Mary, Howard and I looked at something on the computer in the kitchen corner. Suddenly Curtis cried out, "Fucking Dick Cheney! Goddamn him!"
"What's wrong?" I asked, supposing he'd just heard something terrible. "Are you listening to the news on your iPod?"
"Nah, I was just thinking about him," Curtis said. He paused, then added, "The fucker."
"What's wrong?" I asked, supposing he'd just heard something terrible. "Are you listening to the news on your iPod?"
"Nah, I was just thinking about him," Curtis said. He paused, then added, "The fucker."
Friday, July 14, 2006
Quote of the day
"My feeling about technique in art is that it has the same value as technique in lovemaking. That is to say, heartfelt ineptitude has its charm and so has heartless skill, but what you really want is passionate virtuosity."
- John Barth
- John Barth
Hatred
When Feral Mom tagged me for this, I thought I was going to have a hard time coming up with 10 Things I Hate. “Hate” is a pretty strong word, after all. A list of 10 Things That Irritate Me Plenty would be a breeze. But the more I thought about it, the easier it became to identify things that I Really Do Hate After All. So, in no particular order:
1. Rap, hip-hop, whatever you want to call it. It’s not music, so stop clogging up the music airwaves with it. You want rap, tune into your local performance art station. And keep the volume down, kids.
2. Makeup. Not on others – on me. I can’t stand the way it feels on my skin, and my rare attempts to apply it usually end badly. I’ve been virtually makeup-free since my college days, much to my relief and everyone else’s distress.
3. Reality TV. I just don’t get it. It’s all terrible, and the worst offender is American Idol. (Strangely enough, though, I have a secret fondness for a couple of Kelly Clarkson tunes.)
4. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and melons of all sorts. As my friend Kathleen says, “So, basically, you don’t like anything that’s refreshing.” My life would be much easier if I did like these foods, since they're everywhere and in everything, but I don’t and there’s not much I can do about it besides go all Sally when ordering in a restaurant.
5. I Heart Huckabees. That movie was awful.
6. Hard butter, especially when it’s served in fancy restaurants. Here you are, all dressed up (though makeup-free), ordering a meal that will cost more than a week’s worth of home-cooked dinners, and the waiter brings you butter in a little ice-filled dish. What is that? How are you supposed to spread that on your bread without tearing it to shreds? I know it’s supposed to be elegant, but it’s just thoughtless.
7. “One size fits all.” That is a lie.
8. Sweating. My least favorite not-fresh feeling and the #1 reason I have no exercise regimen.
9. Insomnia. Why can’t I sleep at night? God knows I’m exhausted from not being able to sleep any other night, so why does my body refuse to just cave in and get some rest?
10. Bad drivers. Yeah, yeah, I know the saying: The only thing all Americans have in common is that we all think we’re better than average drivers. But I know I’m better than some of the morons out there.
I know ~Lucy and Norman can be filled with rage and hate, so I'm tagging them, as well as kindly Trooperdog. And Will, I don't know you well, but I think you should give it a try, too.
1. Rap, hip-hop, whatever you want to call it. It’s not music, so stop clogging up the music airwaves with it. You want rap, tune into your local performance art station. And keep the volume down, kids.
2. Makeup. Not on others – on me. I can’t stand the way it feels on my skin, and my rare attempts to apply it usually end badly. I’ve been virtually makeup-free since my college days, much to my relief and everyone else’s distress.
3. Reality TV. I just don’t get it. It’s all terrible, and the worst offender is American Idol. (Strangely enough, though, I have a secret fondness for a couple of Kelly Clarkson tunes.)
4. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and melons of all sorts. As my friend Kathleen says, “So, basically, you don’t like anything that’s refreshing.” My life would be much easier if I did like these foods, since they're everywhere and in everything, but I don’t and there’s not much I can do about it besides go all Sally when ordering in a restaurant.
5. I Heart Huckabees. That movie was awful.
6. Hard butter, especially when it’s served in fancy restaurants. Here you are, all dressed up (though makeup-free), ordering a meal that will cost more than a week’s worth of home-cooked dinners, and the waiter brings you butter in a little ice-filled dish. What is that? How are you supposed to spread that on your bread without tearing it to shreds? I know it’s supposed to be elegant, but it’s just thoughtless.
7. “One size fits all.” That is a lie.
8. Sweating. My least favorite not-fresh feeling and the #1 reason I have no exercise regimen.
9. Insomnia. Why can’t I sleep at night? God knows I’m exhausted from not being able to sleep any other night, so why does my body refuse to just cave in and get some rest?
10. Bad drivers. Yeah, yeah, I know the saying: The only thing all Americans have in common is that we all think we’re better than average drivers. But I know I’m better than some of the morons out there.
I know ~Lucy and Norman can be filled with rage and hate, so I'm tagging them, as well as kindly Trooperdog. And Will, I don't know you well, but I think you should give it a try, too.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Quote of the day
ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: If your bathroom scale could talk, what would it say?
MO'NIQUE: It would say, "Bitch, stop it!"
MO'NIQUE: It would say, "Bitch, stop it!"
Pretty and witty and gay
I am a sucker for a good sing-along. You'd think by this point in my life I'd have outgrown the primal pleasure of joining an outdoor theatre full of strangers in belting out showtunes at the top of my lungs, but nooooo. I've attended, with great enthusiasm, the sing-along Sound of Music at the Hollywood Bowl the past few years -- I actually get a little misty when thousands of people slowly wave their cellphones to the gentle strains of "Edelweiss." A couple of years ago felt like "sing-along summer" when I joined hordes of like-minded musical fans at not only The Sound of Music at the Bowl, but also Moulin Rouge at the Ford Amphitheatre and The Wizard of Oz at the Greek Theatre. There should be more sing-alongs, dammit! They bring out not only the pent-up musician in everyone, but also the ribald comedian: every one of these sing-alongs ends up a Rocky Horror experience, with people shouting funny (and often obscene) comments at the screen.
Last night Curtis and I went to the Outfest screening of West Side Story at the Ford. Outfest is an ongoing GLBT-themed film series that ramps up during the summer, with the highlight being the sing-along at the Ford. I gotta tell you, I never realized how gay West Side Story was until I watched it with a theatre filled 90% with homosexual men. Suddenly all the fight scenes, which had formerly looked merely "stylized" to me, now appeared -- well, gay. The audience's favorite character was Anybodys, the butch girl who wants to be part of the gang. And sure, it's easy to smirk at lyrics like "I feel pretty and witty and gay" and "Got a rocket in my pocket." But the line that got the hugest laugh, and the most hoots and hollers, is when Maria tells Tony, "When you come, use the back door." Mercifully, the audience dance participation was staved off until near the very end, when a couple (a man and maybe a woman -- who can tell at these things? It was dark) enacted a dramatic pas-de-deux to "A Boy Like That" in the aisle to my right.
Mambo!
Last night Curtis and I went to the Outfest screening of West Side Story at the Ford. Outfest is an ongoing GLBT-themed film series that ramps up during the summer, with the highlight being the sing-along at the Ford. I gotta tell you, I never realized how gay West Side Story was until I watched it with a theatre filled 90% with homosexual men. Suddenly all the fight scenes, which had formerly looked merely "stylized" to me, now appeared -- well, gay. The audience's favorite character was Anybodys, the butch girl who wants to be part of the gang. And sure, it's easy to smirk at lyrics like "I feel pretty and witty and gay" and "Got a rocket in my pocket." But the line that got the hugest laugh, and the most hoots and hollers, is when Maria tells Tony, "When you come, use the back door." Mercifully, the audience dance participation was staved off until near the very end, when a couple (a man and maybe a woman -- who can tell at these things? It was dark) enacted a dramatic pas-de-deux to "A Boy Like That" in the aisle to my right.
Mambo!
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Dark chocolate dreams and peanut butter fudge
I have changed my mind: the best inventions, EVER, are not air conditioning and Advil. It is this product, which I haven't even tasted but just know is the most wonderful stuff ever created for human consumption. I ran across it online this morning after amusing myself with this peanut butter disaster slideshow. You can order it from Peanut Butter & Co.How wonderful it is, some days, to work in a bookstore and to have access to fun things like The Peanut Butter & Co. Cookbook, which contains the recipe for Dark Chocolate Dreams. I'm warned that I won't get quite the result that Peanut Butter & Co. can achieve in their commercial kitchen, but it sounds like it's worth taking the risk: To 1 cup of smooth natural peanut butter, add 2 tablespoons semisweet chocolate chips, gently melted. They don't say what I should do next, but I assume the final line of the recipe is "Eat it with a spoon."
Here's a recipe for Peanut Butter Fudge from the same book that I will have to try soon. I also MUST plan a visit to Greenwich Village so I can visit Peanut Butter & Co.'s sandwich shop.
5 cups (2 lbs) firmly packed light brown sugar
1 1/4 cups whole milk
1 tbsp vanilla
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 cup unsalted butter
1 cup smooth peanut butter
1. In a large saucepan over medium heat, combine the brown sugar, milk, vanilla, and salt and stir until the sugar is dissolved. Add the butter and cook to 238 degrees F, soft-ball stage on a candy thermometer, stirring constantly.
2. Pour the fudge into a large heatproof bowl. Use an electric mixer to beat the fudge and immediately add the peanut butter. Continue beating just until the fudge loses its gloss and begins to stiffen. Quickly pour the fudge into an 8 x 8-inch square baking dish and allow to cool completely before cutting.
I'll be sure to let you know how it comes out.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Bad auntie
Earlier today I used my old digital camera, which I haven't touched in over two years, to take some pictures at work. When uploading said pics to my computer this evening, I realized there were some old photos on the memory card that were taken a couple of years ago at my grandma's 100th birthday party... including this one.
Cameron was four-and-a-half when I shot this. We were eating lunch the day before the big celebration at Buca di Beppo in (I think) Livonia, Michigan. Cameron had been cranky all day and claimed to have a splinter in her middle finger, which she held up for me to see. "Oh, let me take a picture of that, sweetie," I said, grabbing the camera. "It'll make your finger feel much better." WHATEVER, her bored expression seems to imply, while Mary's face appears to embody the notion of, "This is going to come back and bite me." I still think it would make a great Christmas card.
Cameron was four-and-a-half when I shot this. We were eating lunch the day before the big celebration at Buca di Beppo in (I think) Livonia, Michigan. Cameron had been cranky all day and claimed to have a splinter in her middle finger, which she held up for me to see. "Oh, let me take a picture of that, sweetie," I said, grabbing the camera. "It'll make your finger feel much better." WHATEVER, her bored expression seems to imply, while Mary's face appears to embody the notion of, "This is going to come back and bite me." I still think it would make a great Christmas card.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Onward and upward
Hey, good news! Doughboy, Beware! won an audience favorite award at its screening last week. The 48-Hour Film Project judges will be handing out their prizes at a "Best of L.A." screening on the 19th, and though there's no guarantee, Doughboy, Beware! will probably be among the films that are shown that evening. I think, if nothing else, it should win some sort of award for technical achievement.
If you'd like to watch Biscuits & Gravy's latest production, you may view it here.
If you'd like to watch Biscuits & Gravy's latest production, you may view it here.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
New and forgotten classics
I spent my afternoon break perusing the shelves of the children's classics sections, thinking it might be nice to add hardback editions of some childhood favorites to my library: Old Yeller, Betsy-Tacy, Just So Stories, and a few others. These are books I read over and over as a kid, and I know I'll read them again, so why not treat myself to copies that will last? I noticed on the shelf not one but two different editions of a classic I'll never read again, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. Did you ever read this puerile book? It's the sappiest thing ever written, with the possible exception of Little Lord Fauntleroy. The five Pepper kids and their adored mother ("Mamsie" -- barf!) have all kinds of insipid adventures with Jasper (a.k.a. "Jappy" -- retch!), their new rich-kid friend. Beloved Polly, the oldest daughter, almost goes blind when she tears the bandages from her weak eyes in order to stop her siblings from bickering. Despite my current distaste for this title, I know I read it at least twice when I was a kid, so there must have been something about it that appealed to me. Perhaps there just wasn't anything else around to read.
My dad bought me my copy of The Five Little Peppers. He told me it was a book he had enjoyed as a kid. Another childhood favorite he purchased for me, and which I read only once because it was so incredibly peculiar, was The Little Lame Prince. Yeah, you read that right: "lame." It was about this crippled boy (royalty, I suppose) who leads a solitary life in an ivory tower in the middle of a barren plain. Somehow he gets ahold of a magic cloak and some magic goggles. When he sits on the cloak and wraps it around himself, he's able to fly out the window and go soaring all over the place; the magic goggles magnify everything so he can see what's going on far below him. It's beyond weird -- I'm sure the book's publication predated the invention of LSD, but the author must have been under the influence of something to come up with a plot like that. Together, these two books made me feel sorry for my dad, who always loved to read; the tiny North Dakota town he grew up in must have had the world's lousiest library. My mom, on the other hand, passed some excellent childhood faves on to me, wonderful classics like Little Women, Heidi, Anne of Green Gables, and A Little Princess.
I was distressed to see The Cat Ate My Gymsuit by Paula Danziger shelved in the classics section. That made me feel old, because I remember quite well when it was first published.
My dad bought me my copy of The Five Little Peppers. He told me it was a book he had enjoyed as a kid. Another childhood favorite he purchased for me, and which I read only once because it was so incredibly peculiar, was The Little Lame Prince. Yeah, you read that right: "lame." It was about this crippled boy (royalty, I suppose) who leads a solitary life in an ivory tower in the middle of a barren plain. Somehow he gets ahold of a magic cloak and some magic goggles. When he sits on the cloak and wraps it around himself, he's able to fly out the window and go soaring all over the place; the magic goggles magnify everything so he can see what's going on far below him. It's beyond weird -- I'm sure the book's publication predated the invention of LSD, but the author must have been under the influence of something to come up with a plot like that. Together, these two books made me feel sorry for my dad, who always loved to read; the tiny North Dakota town he grew up in must have had the world's lousiest library. My mom, on the other hand, passed some excellent childhood faves on to me, wonderful classics like Little Women, Heidi, Anne of Green Gables, and A Little Princess.
I was distressed to see The Cat Ate My Gymsuit by Paula Danziger shelved in the classics section. That made me feel old, because I remember quite well when it was first published.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Down time
I'm using up two vacation days to turn the 4th of July into a four-and-a-half day weekend, and despite the complete boringness of my "vacation plans," it is soooo worth it.
Friday afternoon I did nothing, then recovered by going to see Who Killed the Electric Car?, a really worthwhile documentary about yet another of the myriad ways this consumer culture is racing down the garden path to hell. Saturday I finished a quilt I've been working on for awhile, then recovered by watching the final three episodes of Big Love. (My assessment of this under-the-radar HBO series: It started off slow and muddled, then got better and better, ending with a nice little cliffhanger. Chloe Sevigny's character is particularly interesting. However, enough already with Bill Paxton's naked ass.) Sunday Sean and I went up to Santa Barbara for the day. His aunt and uncle drove us to lunch in their chi-chi Saab; I'm guessing not many people are invited to ride in their back seat, as a spider had constructed an elaborate web across the inside of the rear passenger side window. Sean's grandmother plied us with homemade German apple cake, and we proved to be very pliable. Today I'm sacked out in front of the TV, watching a marathon of my all-time favorite TV show, The Twilight Zone, on the SciFi channel and working on my cross stitch. Soon it will be time for a pina colada, and I will recover from the exertion by taking a well-deserved nap.
Recommended music for a lazy summer afternoon: Firecracker by The Wailin' Jennys.
Friday afternoon I did nothing, then recovered by going to see Who Killed the Electric Car?, a really worthwhile documentary about yet another of the myriad ways this consumer culture is racing down the garden path to hell. Saturday I finished a quilt I've been working on for awhile, then recovered by watching the final three episodes of Big Love. (My assessment of this under-the-radar HBO series: It started off slow and muddled, then got better and better, ending with a nice little cliffhanger. Chloe Sevigny's character is particularly interesting. However, enough already with Bill Paxton's naked ass.) Sunday Sean and I went up to Santa Barbara for the day. His aunt and uncle drove us to lunch in their chi-chi Saab; I'm guessing not many people are invited to ride in their back seat, as a spider had constructed an elaborate web across the inside of the rear passenger side window. Sean's grandmother plied us with homemade German apple cake, and we proved to be very pliable. Today I'm sacked out in front of the TV, watching a marathon of my all-time favorite TV show, The Twilight Zone, on the SciFi channel and working on my cross stitch. Soon it will be time for a pina colada, and I will recover from the exertion by taking a well-deserved nap.
Recommended music for a lazy summer afternoon: Firecracker by The Wailin' Jennys.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)