Tuesday, July 10, 2007
ARUUUUGHHHH!!!!
If it doesn't cool off soon, I'm joining the kids in the water gushing out of the illegally open water hydrant.
Life's Lessons This Week
1. Remember where you left your vintage red Wayfarer sunglasses.
2. If you don't remember where you left them, be prepared to brave Canal Street vendors.
3. When braving Canal Street vendors, pick one that you've chatted with recently, that remembers you, and one who is somewhat intimidated by your large pitbull, even if said dog smiles all the time and is flopped down on the floor. This way, when the manager comes close to you, to tell you the price you've offered is too low, the dog gets up, and, still smiling, gets between the two of you. That action facilitates a quick transaction at your price.
4. Watch the vendor. They bargain for one style of cute glasses for $5, then try to slip you an ugly pair. Both are knock offs, but, one is the ugly step-sister. Make sure you walk away with Emberella. I said they were knock-offs, Cinderella would cost you $150.
5. Westie's are like straight hair, unforgiving when you clip their fur. In fact, their fur is actually hair. Curly hair is made to clip and chop at, and will allow you to make mistakes, unless you do what Miss H did one year, and shave down to the scalp trying to trim your curly hair, necessitating a Sinead O'Connor haircut. Straight hair requires a steady hand and shows every mis-cut of the scissors. There is a reason the doggy salon in SoHo charges more to trim the terrier than the Aveya training salon does to cut my hair... they are in SoHo. With that aside, there is a reason you take terriers, particularly Westies who have double coats to professionals. Attempting to trim your own dog with scissors is akin to my mother trimming the Golden Child's hair back in the day. You end up dropping off the pet/child at a salon while you wear a scarf and big, dark sunglasses and use a pseudonym. In the Golden Child's case, my mother had one side of his head shaved up to the crown and the other side shaved along the side. In the Westie's case... well, we'll say she now looks pathetic and won't come near me.
6. Do not buy the Chocolate phone, even if it is cute and red. I am getting my third, count it THIRD one this week. They've said they may just give me a new model phone. Gee, you think three phones for bad inner workings in four months constitutes a bad phone? I've not mentioned the fact I burn out watch batteries, laptop batteries, mouse batteries.. pretty much anything electrical and hand held. We'll keep that our little secret.
7. When will I learn to stay away from the heavy food at the salad buffet?
8. I was reminded my mother is a bitch. She has a lame excuse for not attending HRH's wedding... I keep opening that Trojan horse labeled hope around her. I forget it's as empty as her soul.
9. Small children cannot keep secrets. Sit next to one on the train, and they will tell you everything. The little girl this morning who sat on the lap of the woman she was with told me she had on new underware, that they were going to the beach, and that the woman she was with was her daddy's girlfriend, and they couldn't tell mom. Yeah, that's going to be a secret for a long time.
10. The inventor of the air conditioner is a god.
11. Sometimes, text messages can make your day.
12. Before you leave the landing of your five floor walk-up, make sure you have everything you need. When you are in the lobby, and realise you've left your never ending metrocard... it's 95 outside, and you look at allllllllllllll of those stairs... pay the $4 for a day pass.
13. Do not hand over your never ending metrocard even if your hands are full for someone to kindly swipe it for you... they switch cards. I deserved that... and he deserved it when I had it canceled. Poohead. (I'm going back to the land of Utes soon, I'm getting back into practice)
14. As nice as the breeze feels from the oncoming train, do not lean too close over the tracks...the look of total fear and panic on the drivers face really isn't worth the coolness of the air.
15. Isn't it wonderful to have your arms full of stuff on your way home on a hot, hot, hot, muggy day, dreading the walk to the train, the six block walk home and knowing you have to transfer at Union Station...and suddenly there it is...the 4...running local on weekends. Booya.
16. Did I mention remember where you left your vintage red Wayfarer sunglasses?
2. If you don't remember where you left them, be prepared to brave Canal Street vendors.
3. When braving Canal Street vendors, pick one that you've chatted with recently, that remembers you, and one who is somewhat intimidated by your large pitbull, even if said dog smiles all the time and is flopped down on the floor. This way, when the manager comes close to you, to tell you the price you've offered is too low, the dog gets up, and, still smiling, gets between the two of you. That action facilitates a quick transaction at your price.
4. Watch the vendor. They bargain for one style of cute glasses for $5, then try to slip you an ugly pair. Both are knock offs, but, one is the ugly step-sister. Make sure you walk away with Emberella. I said they were knock-offs, Cinderella would cost you $150.
5. Westie's are like straight hair, unforgiving when you clip their fur. In fact, their fur is actually hair. Curly hair is made to clip and chop at, and will allow you to make mistakes, unless you do what Miss H did one year, and shave down to the scalp trying to trim your curly hair, necessitating a Sinead O'Connor haircut. Straight hair requires a steady hand and shows every mis-cut of the scissors. There is a reason the doggy salon in SoHo charges more to trim the terrier than the Aveya training salon does to cut my hair... they are in SoHo. With that aside, there is a reason you take terriers, particularly Westies who have double coats to professionals. Attempting to trim your own dog with scissors is akin to my mother trimming the Golden Child's hair back in the day. You end up dropping off the pet/child at a salon while you wear a scarf and big, dark sunglasses and use a pseudonym. In the Golden Child's case, my mother had one side of his head shaved up to the crown and the other side shaved along the side. In the Westie's case... well, we'll say she now looks pathetic and won't come near me.
6. Do not buy the Chocolate phone, even if it is cute and red. I am getting my third, count it THIRD one this week. They've said they may just give me a new model phone. Gee, you think three phones for bad inner workings in four months constitutes a bad phone? I've not mentioned the fact I burn out watch batteries, laptop batteries, mouse batteries.. pretty much anything electrical and hand held. We'll keep that our little secret.
7. When will I learn to stay away from the heavy food at the salad buffet?
8. I was reminded my mother is a bitch. She has a lame excuse for not attending HRH's wedding... I keep opening that Trojan horse labeled hope around her. I forget it's as empty as her soul.
9. Small children cannot keep secrets. Sit next to one on the train, and they will tell you everything. The little girl this morning who sat on the lap of the woman she was with told me she had on new underware, that they were going to the beach, and that the woman she was with was her daddy's girlfriend, and they couldn't tell mom. Yeah, that's going to be a secret for a long time.
10. The inventor of the air conditioner is a god.
11. Sometimes, text messages can make your day.
12. Before you leave the landing of your five floor walk-up, make sure you have everything you need. When you are in the lobby, and realise you've left your never ending metrocard... it's 95 outside, and you look at allllllllllllll of those stairs... pay the $4 for a day pass.
13. Do not hand over your never ending metrocard even if your hands are full for someone to kindly swipe it for you... they switch cards. I deserved that... and he deserved it when I had it canceled. Poohead. (I'm going back to the land of Utes soon, I'm getting back into practice)
14. As nice as the breeze feels from the oncoming train, do not lean too close over the tracks...the look of total fear and panic on the drivers face really isn't worth the coolness of the air.
15. Isn't it wonderful to have your arms full of stuff on your way home on a hot, hot, hot, muggy day, dreading the walk to the train, the six block walk home and knowing you have to transfer at Union Station...and suddenly there it is...the 4...running local on weekends. Booya.
16. Did I mention remember where you left your vintage red Wayfarer sunglasses?
Monday, July 9, 2007
The Art of Texting
During the DrinkFest last week, I was deeply impressed by the amount of text messaging going on, even with people who had a beer in one hand and were carrying on live conversations. Some people sent complex messages, thumbs flying over keypads...some have clever little phones that flip open to what looks like a small keyboard... the screen makes it easier to read and send said messages, I presume.
All in all, enough letters of the alphabet were sent through space to clog the East River...which, I know, I know... it isn't a river... and that's saying something.
I am new to text...to a point.
Back in the 1990's, when I was a regular visitor to the UK, text was cheaper then calling someone, so, everyone sent text messages. I've had the same telephone number in the UK since 1998... I carry my cute pay as you go phone back and forth with me when I travel there, and it's as cute and clever now as when I bought it. I've only upgraded once... it's sturdy, it can take and receive calls, sends text messages, and is a nice shade of blue. I'm good with it. Still, I didn't master the art of the text.
Back in the US of A, I didn't text. It was expensive, the packages weren't text friendly and, oh, right! I didn't have a mobile phone.
I was a landlubber. Being a former employee of the old behemoth, AT&T, my generous retirement package included free telephone service within a certain Bell system...so, my little home held four phone lines.
Four.
Free ones.
With all the bells and whistles.
We were lazy sods, the children and I... and my dad when he lived with us. Why yell for someone when you could call them, even if they were two rooms away? Yes, I would pick up my portable phone in the sunroom and dial another number in my house to tell my son, who was in his room, to take the garbage out.
And I wondered why my ass was the size of Kansas.
The upside was, I knew every single number of every person I knew, without looking them up. And, if my son didn't answer, I could leave a voicemail for him.
Now, I live and breathe by the mobile phone, the cell phone, the almighty sliding red phone that has already conked out on me, this POS chocolate phone. It holds all my numbers, numbers I'm lost without because I've no idea what they are without this POS. It has photos, and can do all sorts of things I've yet to figure out... and it has messages I want to save.
Yes, messages.
I text.
I envy the two thumbed texter... their hands cradle the phone as they focus on the screen, brow furrowed... texting like mad. I am a one thumb texting person, myself. I've tried to give the left hand a go at messages... it is fearful, however, and won't jump in.
Let us be honest, what letters are really on the left side of the phone? GHI? PQRS?? How many words do you type that have Q in them? Sure, the middle keys are up for grabs, but, with the right thumb being such a dominatrix...I've thought of putting a little black outfit on it....it grabs those middle keys and takes control. The left thumb remains meek and submissive, content with words that hold the seldom used 'S' or 'G'.... quickly hitting the key before the right thumb can grab those letters, too. You see, I don't use T9.
"What?" Self said. "You don't use T9?"
Self really gets on my nerves at times.
No, I don't use T9. I've a good reason. I can't figure it out. The Investment has tried to teach me, on numerous occasions. Since he, too, has a short attention span, it goes something like this:
"Okay, Mom... you just hit the button, and the word will show up and you scroll past until you find the word you want."
"Let me try." I try. "Oh, I didn't know I could download music."
"You can? Whoa."
See?
I despise texttalk. I did not attend good schools in order to type "C U L8R"
I type out full sentences, with punctuation. This becomes a long and arduous process, and will remove me from ever having (kids, scroll down a few lines) a saucy conversation via text. My partner would be asleep by the time I typed in "Oh, yes, that would be very nice if we (fill in the blanks)".
You can see how the right thumb has control and the full workout in any text conversation and how I am concerned over my lopsided look of a strong, powerful right thumb... I wonder if I'll start to have a Sissy Hankshaw look eventually.
To keep peace, I let the left hand close the phone sometimes.... or hit the unlock button. You can feel the sense of accomplishment it achieves from this little task.
Ah! Then you have the worry of multiple text conversations. What then? I wear reading glasses... cute ones, but, reading glasses nonetheless. To text, I have to flip them down from my head or touch myself all over to find them, put them on, read the text and text back.
The first thing I have to do is see who the text is from.
You have to be very careful, I would imagine, on what you say to whom. I had three text conversations going on Saturday night (woot).... none were anything to be concerned about, however, I wanted to keep them separate. I wondered what would happen if you had one going with a friend, one with a colleague, and one that was slightly risque.
Watching the name at the top would be a priority, wouldn't it? If not, well, it would give you something to journal about in the morning.....
All in all, enough letters of the alphabet were sent through space to clog the East River...which, I know, I know... it isn't a river... and that's saying something.
I am new to text...to a point.
Back in the 1990's, when I was a regular visitor to the UK, text was cheaper then calling someone, so, everyone sent text messages. I've had the same telephone number in the UK since 1998... I carry my cute pay as you go phone back and forth with me when I travel there, and it's as cute and clever now as when I bought it. I've only upgraded once... it's sturdy, it can take and receive calls, sends text messages, and is a nice shade of blue. I'm good with it. Still, I didn't master the art of the text.
Back in the US of A, I didn't text. It was expensive, the packages weren't text friendly and, oh, right! I didn't have a mobile phone.
I was a landlubber. Being a former employee of the old behemoth, AT&T, my generous retirement package included free telephone service within a certain Bell system...so, my little home held four phone lines.
Four.
Free ones.
With all the bells and whistles.
We were lazy sods, the children and I... and my dad when he lived with us. Why yell for someone when you could call them, even if they were two rooms away? Yes, I would pick up my portable phone in the sunroom and dial another number in my house to tell my son, who was in his room, to take the garbage out.
And I wondered why my ass was the size of Kansas.
The upside was, I knew every single number of every person I knew, without looking them up. And, if my son didn't answer, I could leave a voicemail for him.
Now, I live and breathe by the mobile phone, the cell phone, the almighty sliding red phone that has already conked out on me, this POS chocolate phone. It holds all my numbers, numbers I'm lost without because I've no idea what they are without this POS. It has photos, and can do all sorts of things I've yet to figure out... and it has messages I want to save.
Yes, messages.
I text.
I envy the two thumbed texter... their hands cradle the phone as they focus on the screen, brow furrowed... texting like mad. I am a one thumb texting person, myself. I've tried to give the left hand a go at messages... it is fearful, however, and won't jump in.
Let us be honest, what letters are really on the left side of the phone? GHI? PQRS?? How many words do you type that have Q in them? Sure, the middle keys are up for grabs, but, with the right thumb being such a dominatrix...I've thought of putting a little black outfit on it....it grabs those middle keys and takes control. The left thumb remains meek and submissive, content with words that hold the seldom used 'S' or 'G'.... quickly hitting the key before the right thumb can grab those letters, too. You see, I don't use T9.
"What?" Self said. "You don't use T9?"
Self really gets on my nerves at times.
No, I don't use T9. I've a good reason. I can't figure it out. The Investment has tried to teach me, on numerous occasions. Since he, too, has a short attention span, it goes something like this:
"Okay, Mom... you just hit the button, and the word will show up and you scroll past until you find the word you want."
"Let me try." I try. "Oh, I didn't know I could download music."
"You can? Whoa."
See?
I despise texttalk. I did not attend good schools in order to type "C U L8R"
I type out full sentences, with punctuation. This becomes a long and arduous process, and will remove me from ever having (kids, scroll down a few lines) a saucy conversation via text. My partner would be asleep by the time I typed in "Oh, yes, that would be very nice if we (fill in the blanks)".
You can see how the right thumb has control and the full workout in any text conversation and how I am concerned over my lopsided look of a strong, powerful right thumb... I wonder if I'll start to have a Sissy Hankshaw look eventually.
To keep peace, I let the left hand close the phone sometimes.... or hit the unlock button. You can feel the sense of accomplishment it achieves from this little task.
Ah! Then you have the worry of multiple text conversations. What then? I wear reading glasses... cute ones, but, reading glasses nonetheless. To text, I have to flip them down from my head or touch myself all over to find them, put them on, read the text and text back.
The first thing I have to do is see who the text is from.
You have to be very careful, I would imagine, on what you say to whom. I had three text conversations going on Saturday night (woot).... none were anything to be concerned about, however, I wanted to keep them separate. I wondered what would happen if you had one going with a friend, one with a colleague, and one that was slightly risque.
Watching the name at the top would be a priority, wouldn't it? If not, well, it would give you something to journal about in the morning.....
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Never on a Sunday
And so, the holiday ends....
Today is tidy day, finish out what has to be done, pack up my belongings, and schlep back up to the crack house in the projects.
Last night, C came over from Brooklyn... with her kids gone for the summer, we finally made it to a play, something we've discussed doing together since January.
Granted, I've already seen it, but, she wanted to go, so... I used my last season ticket and went again to see In a Dark, Dark, House with her. We were seated in the second row at first...not my favourite place to sit... still, good seats. The young man next to me was thrilled to be there, he was a huge LaBute fan, and he and I started discussing the play while C went to find new seats.
It wasn't the seating, it was the man next to her who smelled as if he'd lived on the F Train platform on 6th for around three years.
We were moved back when a couple were willing to take second row seats and StinkyMan in exchange for their rear seats and clean air.
Perhaps it was knowing in advance what was going to happen that allowed me to sit back and view it from a different angle. The acting was superb... I was again gutted by the content, those crystal sharp words.... however, I was able to distance myself from it this time, and not be overwhelmed emotionally. C, like myself, was able to put the pieces of this Neil LaBute (shhh, don't say his name more than once...odd people write you really strange things) puzzle together in the first act. Walking out, we heard others discussing the play, and how they were still questioning points. One girl kept asking her companions about something that was so clear over and over to where I wanted to turn around and say, "He stole the car because....". That is the beauty of a good play, when people walk out and are still talking about it.... and that is what happened both nights I saw this work. It was the last show of the run... I'm glad I saw it again, it was the same play, different point of view. And, I still say he writes about love.
And, this time, there was food. Someone to discuss it with, which always adds to the enjoyment of a good or bad performance, and food.
Greek food.
Lovely food.
So, even though I was waiting for C at Union Square and she was at Washington Square because I had the wrong train line in my head before the show... all's well, blah blah.
The Jarhead has sent me his email address... he's on the ship now, headed for points unknown until he reaches his unknown destination. I woke up at 5A yesterday, at the exact time they were casting off.... they've already changed his return time from the beginning of December to mid January. He had called me Friday night, before they shut his phone off. We spoke for a bit, and his friends wanted to tell me they would all be safe. Oh, and they weren't in a titty bar, no m'am. They never call a Mom from a titty bar.
Nice to know that bit of information.
Here I sit, nothing to do, really. I'm sure I'll nap at some point...it is in my genetic code to do so. The tourists were out in full parade at 10A when I walked the dogs... some in heels. I don't understand doing a full day of being a tourist in heels. I don't understand wearing heels at all anymore...but, then, I don't have to if I don't want to, so, there.
I am eating what is possibly the worst muffin in the world... there are three dogs snoring.... I am babbling about nothing of any interest.
I love me my Sundays.
Today is tidy day, finish out what has to be done, pack up my belongings, and schlep back up to the crack house in the projects.
Last night, C came over from Brooklyn... with her kids gone for the summer, we finally made it to a play, something we've discussed doing together since January.
Granted, I've already seen it, but, she wanted to go, so... I used my last season ticket and went again to see In a Dark, Dark, House with her. We were seated in the second row at first...not my favourite place to sit... still, good seats. The young man next to me was thrilled to be there, he was a huge LaBute fan, and he and I started discussing the play while C went to find new seats.
It wasn't the seating, it was the man next to her who smelled as if he'd lived on the F Train platform on 6th for around three years.
We were moved back when a couple were willing to take second row seats and StinkyMan in exchange for their rear seats and clean air.
Perhaps it was knowing in advance what was going to happen that allowed me to sit back and view it from a different angle. The acting was superb... I was again gutted by the content, those crystal sharp words.... however, I was able to distance myself from it this time, and not be overwhelmed emotionally. C, like myself, was able to put the pieces of this Neil LaBute (shhh, don't say his name more than once...odd people write you really strange things) puzzle together in the first act. Walking out, we heard others discussing the play, and how they were still questioning points. One girl kept asking her companions about something that was so clear over and over to where I wanted to turn around and say, "He stole the car because....". That is the beauty of a good play, when people walk out and are still talking about it.... and that is what happened both nights I saw this work. It was the last show of the run... I'm glad I saw it again, it was the same play, different point of view. And, I still say he writes about love.
And, this time, there was food. Someone to discuss it with, which always adds to the enjoyment of a good or bad performance, and food.
Greek food.
Lovely food.
So, even though I was waiting for C at Union Square and she was at Washington Square because I had the wrong train line in my head before the show... all's well, blah blah.
The Jarhead has sent me his email address... he's on the ship now, headed for points unknown until he reaches his unknown destination. I woke up at 5A yesterday, at the exact time they were casting off.... they've already changed his return time from the beginning of December to mid January. He had called me Friday night, before they shut his phone off. We spoke for a bit, and his friends wanted to tell me they would all be safe. Oh, and they weren't in a titty bar, no m'am. They never call a Mom from a titty bar.
Nice to know that bit of information.
Here I sit, nothing to do, really. I'm sure I'll nap at some point...it is in my genetic code to do so. The tourists were out in full parade at 10A when I walked the dogs... some in heels. I don't understand doing a full day of being a tourist in heels. I don't understand wearing heels at all anymore...but, then, I don't have to if I don't want to, so, there.
I am eating what is possibly the worst muffin in the world... there are three dogs snoring.... I am babbling about nothing of any interest.
I love me my Sundays.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
The Popular Ones
I've come to realise, I'll never be one of the cool kids.
Of course, I never was one, so, to expect to suddenly blossom into one now is rather silly... still, we inept folk sometimes secretly harbour a wonder at what would it be like to wake up and being part of the in crowd, the sleek, the chic, the sought after.
It never happens.
We are the tech people, the fringes of any gathering, the silent ones who offer an occasional observation.... those who look in, but never quite understand the makings of what creates a popular person.
We can be beautiful, smart, talented, wealthy.... it's that unknown something that just isn't there.
Those who have the aforementioned adjectives attached to their person are often swept up into the parties, the clubs, the circles...however, you can still spot us. We look inept. We are awkward with a drink in our hand, uncomfortable in evening clothing, our eyes dart to the door, wondering how long before we can make our escape. We do not sparkle or sizzle and our minds aren't always on what is happening at the event we are attending.
While there is a certain envy of people who can do those things, while we live in a vicarious way by reading and listening and feeling great joy in the outings of friends who are the cool ones, and a slight puzzlement over how they manage it all...I would be exhausted, and never able to keep up with the texts and the people and the places. I am impressed, to be dead honest...yet, the 'me' kinds of people really are content in our own niche. I issue a sign of relief when I no longer have to worry about saying the wrong thing or dropping something or wondering if I'm in the wrong shoes or dress or place. Knowing I don't fit in.
As much as I enjoy the few hours I spend away from my flat in the projects, I'm as happy to be home, sticking to my pleather sofa, reading away or writing something that will never be seen.
No, I am not one of the popular ones. Most of my friends, however, are. They know that they are, and I'm not...
We're all good with that.
Of course, I never was one, so, to expect to suddenly blossom into one now is rather silly... still, we inept folk sometimes secretly harbour a wonder at what would it be like to wake up and being part of the in crowd, the sleek, the chic, the sought after.
It never happens.
We are the tech people, the fringes of any gathering, the silent ones who offer an occasional observation.... those who look in, but never quite understand the makings of what creates a popular person.
We can be beautiful, smart, talented, wealthy.... it's that unknown something that just isn't there.
Those who have the aforementioned adjectives attached to their person are often swept up into the parties, the clubs, the circles...however, you can still spot us. We look inept. We are awkward with a drink in our hand, uncomfortable in evening clothing, our eyes dart to the door, wondering how long before we can make our escape. We do not sparkle or sizzle and our minds aren't always on what is happening at the event we are attending.
While there is a certain envy of people who can do those things, while we live in a vicarious way by reading and listening and feeling great joy in the outings of friends who are the cool ones, and a slight puzzlement over how they manage it all...I would be exhausted, and never able to keep up with the texts and the people and the places. I am impressed, to be dead honest...yet, the 'me' kinds of people really are content in our own niche. I issue a sign of relief when I no longer have to worry about saying the wrong thing or dropping something or wondering if I'm in the wrong shoes or dress or place. Knowing I don't fit in.
As much as I enjoy the few hours I spend away from my flat in the projects, I'm as happy to be home, sticking to my pleather sofa, reading away or writing something that will never be seen.
No, I am not one of the popular ones. Most of my friends, however, are. They know that they are, and I'm not...
We're all good with that.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Money....Never Enough
Money.
It's a drag.
Between now and the end of the month, I have to come up with a gazillion dollars.
I've a wedding to help pay for, a dress for said wedding.. and not just any dress, but, the Mother of The Bride dress, a plane ticket for both myself and the terrier, spending money while I'm in the land of Utes, spending money for my side trip to L.A. to visit my brother, D and his lovely wife, my bills, shoes to go with the Mother of The Bride dress, oh, yes, and food.
Now, if I forgo the last item, that will put me into a smaller dress. It will also make a nice show when I weave down the aisle faint from hunger since I'll have consumed what body fat is left in my ass.
I am not the gazelle like creature I wish I was. My daughter, HRH,
the soon to be bride, is swanlike, with perfect proportions, having taken the time upon her conception to pick and choose the strands of DNA that she wanted. No, I am no gazelle. I am more on the musk ox build, short waisted and difficult to fit when it comes to dresses....especially those dresses. You know, the Mother of The Bride dresses.
It's a 6P wedding, so, not afternoon, not really evening. I can go short or long on the length of the dress.
It's finding the dress that's killing me.
They all seem to be made of polyester, in pastel shades of pink or lavender or blue or some particular green that makes me heave. They have little jackets with sparkly things on them, short sleeves that make my white arms look a bit like a mutated thin veal sausage. I don't like polyester. I firmly believe that polyester causes cancer (oh, wait... I have that) and rickets. The poor underpaid migrant workers who pick polyester out in the hidden fields in the wilds of South Dakota are riddled with diseases caused by touching the untreated polyester plants. You find colours not found in nature rampant in polyester materials. All of them hanging in Macy's, with a woman who coos at me, saying, "You'll look stunning in this!"
No, I won't.
No, I don't.
I tried Century 21. I'm still laughing over their selection. First of all, I'd have to walk to Utah after paying for it, and secondly, well.... I'd kind of like it to look like a real dress, know what I mean?
The upside is, it's July, so, all the winter fashions are in the stores, and the summer frocks are going on half off...I may find a bargain somewhere.
Now, if I can only find something that's cotton or silk, not in an odd shade, and that doesn't make me look like a musk ox in drag.
It's a drag.
Between now and the end of the month, I have to come up with a gazillion dollars.
I've a wedding to help pay for, a dress for said wedding.. and not just any dress, but, the Mother of The Bride dress, a plane ticket for both myself and the terrier, spending money while I'm in the land of Utes, spending money for my side trip to L.A. to visit my brother, D and his lovely wife, my bills, shoes to go with the Mother of The Bride dress, oh, yes, and food.
Now, if I forgo the last item, that will put me into a smaller dress. It will also make a nice show when I weave down the aisle faint from hunger since I'll have consumed what body fat is left in my ass.
I am not the gazelle like creature I wish I was. My daughter, HRH,
the soon to be bride, is swanlike, with perfect proportions, having taken the time upon her conception to pick and choose the strands of DNA that she wanted. No, I am no gazelle. I am more on the musk ox build, short waisted and difficult to fit when it comes to dresses....especially those dresses. You know, the Mother of The Bride dresses.It's a 6P wedding, so, not afternoon, not really evening. I can go short or long on the length of the dress.
It's finding the dress that's killing me.
They all seem to be made of polyester, in pastel shades of pink or lavender or blue or some particular green that makes me heave. They have little jackets with sparkly things on them, short sleeves that make my white arms look a bit like a mutated thin veal sausage. I don't like polyester. I firmly believe that polyester causes cancer (oh, wait... I have that) and rickets. The poor underpaid migrant workers who pick polyester out in the hidden fields in the wilds of South Dakota are riddled with diseases caused by touching the untreated polyester plants. You find colours not found in nature rampant in polyester materials. All of them hanging in Macy's, with a woman who coos at me, saying, "You'll look stunning in this!"
No, I won't.
No, I don't.
I tried Century 21. I'm still laughing over their selection. First of all, I'd have to walk to Utah after paying for it, and secondly, well.... I'd kind of like it to look like a real dress, know what I mean?
The upside is, it's July, so, all the winter fashions are in the stores, and the summer frocks are going on half off...I may find a bargain somewhere.
Now, if I can only find something that's cotton or silk, not in an odd shade, and that doesn't make me look like a musk ox in drag.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Who is That Boring Woman? Oh, it's ME!
After the whirlwind cavorting of Tuesday night, which included the train trip home at midnight...and this conversation:
Guy on train with dredlocks and white cane: I DO NOT BLAME GOD FOR MAKING ME BLIND. I AM THANKFUL TO GOD FOR MY SECTION 8 HOUSING AND MY FOOD STAMPS AND THE FOOD PANTRY! I STILL NEED HELP! ANY ONE CAN GET HELP IN THIS CI....
at this point, the guy next to me dressed in all black with Yankee's logos on his clothes said,
"Fuck off dude, can't you see I'm on the phone?"
I'm not sure what was funnier... the breaking in on the rant, or the "...can't you see" part. Either way, I got the giggles.
White Cane man moved down a few seats....
"....TY ISN'T TRYING. I AM STILL ASKING FOR HELP..." his voice trailed off as he deftly moved between cars, something I've yet to try.
Since the terrier had a sleep over at her best friend's house, I sprawled over the bed with no one to hinder me all night long. (What? You were hoping for something different? Again, wrong journal... as if I'd say otherwise even if....kids, don't read this part of Mom's journal), and was wide awake at 7A to gather my things to trek downtown for my holiday in Tribeca.
With all organised here, it really is pretty much a holiday. I've had a couple of errands, the rest of my scripty notes to send to the Film Editor...it's a struggle on some, since I wrote in the dark...and I've played the Lady of the Manor, with food from the streets, a take out and three dogs to keep me company and who fight over who gets to sleep on me at night. Sadly, the pit bull usually wins, so, once I'm settled, I'm pinned down with his head on my shoulder all night long, snoring away.
My friend, C, came over from Brooklyn yesterday, we did the Century 21 thing, and then decided to get Vietnamese food. I did at least, she went for the Noodle Shop. Thankfully, I stuck with my decision for some unpronounceable item with spring rolls and fish sauce. This is said with a smug look for one reason; as she dug to the bottom of her bowl, she found a free garnish... a fried cockroach.
This was not as ewwww as the owner's reaction....a bland look and an offer to make up a fresh meal. Sure, I'll have another try for Noodles and Cockroach, thankyouverymuch. Can you toss in some silverfish, too? Or, is that extra? We aren't talking an itty bitty cockroach either, we are talking something from Men In Black.... and I don't mean it looked like Vincent d'Onofrio. If it had, well... C could have gone back to Brooklyn, and I'd have dealt with the issue alone. *cough*
Today's wanderings brought me back to the bar area, a possible new job working as a P.A. for the shop owner where I had to return things for The Boss, and a Chipolte burrito for my meal. I thought life was almost perfect, when the manager threw in chips and guacamole.
Free.
We'd been chatting away, as I'm prone to do with strangers... I'm inept with people I know, strangers I can talk to for hours... and slap bang, free chips and guac.
Home again, dogs thrilled to see me, it's cool inside, I've fruit for dessert, a film to watch, cable on demand, a play to see this weekend, WeatherMan will call later on, an email from someone I admire and respect complimenting me on one of my six sentences.... and I'm blathering away on my journal about me.
After re-reading it, I've realised I'm a boring bit of shite.
Live with it, I do.
Guy on train with dredlocks and white cane: I DO NOT BLAME GOD FOR MAKING ME BLIND. I AM THANKFUL TO GOD FOR MY SECTION 8 HOUSING AND MY FOOD STAMPS AND THE FOOD PANTRY! I STILL NEED HELP! ANY ONE CAN GET HELP IN THIS CI....
at this point, the guy next to me dressed in all black with Yankee's logos on his clothes said,
"Fuck off dude, can't you see I'm on the phone?"
I'm not sure what was funnier... the breaking in on the rant, or the "...can't you see" part. Either way, I got the giggles.
White Cane man moved down a few seats....
"....TY ISN'T TRYING. I AM STILL ASKING FOR HELP..." his voice trailed off as he deftly moved between cars, something I've yet to try.
Since the terrier had a sleep over at her best friend's house, I sprawled over the bed with no one to hinder me all night long. (What? You were hoping for something different? Again, wrong journal... as if I'd say otherwise even if....kids, don't read this part of Mom's journal), and was wide awake at 7A to gather my things to trek downtown for my holiday in Tribeca.
With all organised here, it really is pretty much a holiday. I've had a couple of errands, the rest of my scripty notes to send to the Film Editor...it's a struggle on some, since I wrote in the dark...and I've played the Lady of the Manor, with food from the streets, a take out and three dogs to keep me company and who fight over who gets to sleep on me at night. Sadly, the pit bull usually wins, so, once I'm settled, I'm pinned down with his head on my shoulder all night long, snoring away.
My friend, C, came over from Brooklyn yesterday, we did the Century 21 thing, and then decided to get Vietnamese food. I did at least, she went for the Noodle Shop. Thankfully, I stuck with my decision for some unpronounceable item with spring rolls and fish sauce. This is said with a smug look for one reason; as she dug to the bottom of her bowl, she found a free garnish... a fried cockroach.
This was not as ewwww as the owner's reaction....a bland look and an offer to make up a fresh meal. Sure, I'll have another try for Noodles and Cockroach, thankyouverymuch. Can you toss in some silverfish, too? Or, is that extra? We aren't talking an itty bitty cockroach either, we are talking something from Men In Black.... and I don't mean it looked like Vincent d'Onofrio. If it had, well... C could have gone back to Brooklyn, and I'd have dealt with the issue alone. *cough*
Today's wanderings brought me back to the bar area, a possible new job working as a P.A. for the shop owner where I had to return things for The Boss, and a Chipolte burrito for my meal. I thought life was almost perfect, when the manager threw in chips and guacamole.
Free.
We'd been chatting away, as I'm prone to do with strangers... I'm inept with people I know, strangers I can talk to for hours... and slap bang, free chips and guac.
Home again, dogs thrilled to see me, it's cool inside, I've fruit for dessert, a film to watch, cable on demand, a play to see this weekend, WeatherMan will call later on, an email from someone I admire and respect complimenting me on one of my six sentences.... and I'm blathering away on my journal about me.
After re-reading it, I've realised I'm a boring bit of shite.
Live with it, I do.
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