W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> Moi, Toi, et VoI: May 2007

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Suffer Little Children.

I am terrified of babies.

Well, not terrified per se, but I definitely have issues with them.

SFG has a 1 year old nephew, whom we shall call Howard. He is a really cute little kid - very well behaved, relatively quiet, good natured, etc. Couldn't ask for more really in an infant. SFG loves to play with him - he picks him up, swings him around, chases him, talks to him in such a way that the kid laughs and chirps and clearly adores his uncle.

I, on the other hand, have a horrible cribside manner. I just don't have a clue how to interact with non-verbal humans. I look at Howard and freeze up. I haven't a clue what to say or how to behave with this kid. He's really cute - has the [SFG's last name] features - but damn! I just act like a mute, numbly shaking the kid's hand and handing him a cracker. I have no clue how to relate to this kid. And I really want to. I don't want SFG's family to think I'm a freak. Afterall, Momma SFG is a psychiatrist/psychoanalyst; she especially could read an encyclopedia into that one!

(I swear I don't hate babies! I want to like them! I want to be a normal woman with motherly instincts! I have cats! The cats are my babies and I love them and play with them and talk to them in front of people all the time as if they were babies! But they're not babies! They're cats!)

The more I think about it, the more I believe that my main issue is being the center of attention. When you play with a baby, everyone is watching you interact with him. The kid is behaving like the kid he is. But you, The Adult, are being judged based on how you behave around the kid, how comfortable you are in a kid-situation. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. If I were alone with the baby, I'd definitely loosen up and be able to get down to the baby's level and just enjoy the baby. There'd be no one there observing me and I just know I wouldn't feel so self conscious.

I think that's what my problem is. I know I've blown the whole thing out of proportion, which actually makes me even more nervous around Howard.

Maybe I need to tie one on before playing with the kid.

Ok, now I'm sweating and feeling faint....

In any event, I don't feel good about this. Why can't I just R-E-L-A-X and be normal like other adults of childbearing age. What really gets me is the thought that if I were to have a kid (which I doubt I would, but still if it happened...) I'm sure I'd be fine with a kid. I'm sure I wouldn't be so damn stiff and I would treat the kid better than I treat my cats. I just know it! But for whatever reason, I can't get past (near) strangers' kids. Why do I have to be such a psycho?

(A non-sequitur but entertaining to most nonetheless! Thanks SFG!)

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

I finally learned how to pronounce 'Aja'.

Friday night SFG took me to a Steely Dan show at The Tower.

Have I ever mentioned that I am not a fan of Steely Dan? That I throw them in the same musical category as Meatloaf and Jimmy Buffet? SFG says that is an insult to SD. I associate Steely Dan with teenage boydom, Bud Lite and New Jersey and maybe mullets and drag racing, but I could be a little overboard on that one.

(Sometimes I can't believe that I'm in love with someone who loves Steely Dan and the Eagles (the football team, not the band. If he loved the band that would be weird too.) In the past I have always gone for creative types. Change is the spice of life!)

He decided last minute that he wanted to go so we took the subway up there to get some tickets. Turns out it was a sold out show, so we ended up buying tickets off of a couple that wasn't using them.

I have never seen so many White, Balding, Fat Men in Hawaiian Shirts and/or Madras Shorts in one place.

Everyone sat during the entire show and the only body movements any of them made was the chicken neck- kind of moving their heads front to back to the beat of the music. It was weird.

SFG assured me that I would recognize some songs in the set. Sure enough I did know a couple of the tunes - especially that one, you've heard it, trust me - "I don't wanna do your dirty work, oh yeah". I've heard that song at the dentist's office and Kohl's many times.

I believe that we should try and take life lessons out of our experiences - positive, negative or neutral. Well, maybe not life lessons, more like trivial factoids in this particular case. So, what did I learn? Donald Fagan does a really great blind guy impression. The other guy tells bad blow job jokes.

No, but seriously we had fun. Because we made it fun.

I'm debating whether or not to take SFG to Morrissey at the Mann at the end of June. It could be fun just for a change of pace, but the tickets are expensive, and I really don't know if I trust Morrissey to put on a good show anymore. I'd like to see the set list before I decide. Too much new stuff and it would suck. The Mann also seems huge, which is another negative. I will hamletize about this in my head so as not to bore you.

T'anyway, ta ta for now. I'm at Cafe Mocha because it seems I've permanently lost poaching access to the Internets at my apartment. I've finished my chicken salad sandwich and need to be getting back home to do mounds and mounds of laundry. MOUNDS.

GG, I'm SO sorry I never updated the link to your blog! My apologies! I usually just type it in, so for months it's been dead. I wish you'd said something. I'm horribly embarrassed.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Canary Chronicles

Have I mentioned our latest hire at The Canary yet?

There is an ongoing debate as to whether he is a Hobbit or a satyr.

He is about 5 feet tall, has a moppy head of strawberry blonde hair and a goatee. He wears his jeans rolled up well above his ankles and sports brown suede Birkenstock sandals, both of which make his feet look huge and his legs short. He is currently in massage school and he smells of patchouli, which drives me insane. I must remember to talk to him about it. He looks very much like the picture of Mr. Tumnus, though his ears don't stick out horizontally and he doesn't have the lower body of a goat. But the facial hair and bone structure are eerily similar.

Two interesting pieces of evidence:

1. A couple of weeks ago I got a voicemail from Master Scout, who used to work at The Canary informing me that "that guy who everyone says is from Middle Earth? Yeah, well he's doing cartwheels in front of my house right now." This strikes me as fundamentally Hobbitish behavior.

2. Yesterday I asked the being what his plans were for the evening. He said that he had gotten hold of some bamboo and was going to make a flute out of it. Hobbits don't make flutes from bamboo! But satyrs play lutes. Maybe he did say "lute" but I didn't hear it correctly. Or maybe he was trying to throw me off the trail.

Perhaps he is a Pan/Hobbit hybrid. Perhaps he is a different magickal species altogether. Hard to say.

Tomorrow as a guise I will ask everyone which they like better - The Chronicles of Narnia or Lord of the Rings and see what he says. I will keep you posted.

I lost my poached Internets connection at my apartment so I've been MIA for a few days. Thanks very much to those of you who have written me good wishes. Big hugs to each of you!

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Tired of Talking About Being Sad

so instead I'll talk about my new favorite moisturizer!

A couple of weeks ago I bought Oil of Olay for Sensitive Skin with SPF because of budget constraints (loooonnnngg goonnnnnne are The Days of La Mer. Sigh! Poor me!). My skin is pretty dry, but during the spring time, my allergies also come out in my face with itchy bumps on my jaw and cheeks. I figured the OOO would be fine.

But alas no! After a couple of days use, my skin was doubly itchy and three times as bumpy. Even my mother commented that I needed to dump whatever lotion I was using because I used-t0-have-such-beautiful-skin-what-happened-give-that-cream-away-
immediately-to-someone-who-can't afford-a-$6-bottle-of-face-cream-before-you-become-a-social-outcast.

Anyway, I went to Kiehl's, my trusted standby for skincare and picked up their Abyssine serum, which is a little lighter than the cream, but still protects the skin from 'the elements'. Whoa! Two days' use, and a noticeable difference in my complexion! No more itchy jawline, no more bumps. This product is a miracle worker.

And in other news, Molly the Cat is finally with me. In fact, she is sitting on my lap as I type.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Later that night...

I haven't stopped watching TLC and drinking scotch since we last spoke. Here's the line-up:

4pm: World's Smartest Boy
5pm: World's Strongest Child
6pm: World's Smallest People: Primordial Dwarves (or was it Dwarfs?)
7pm: World's Smallest Girl: Kenadie's Story
8pm: World's Tallest Woman
9pm: Meet The Fooses: A Dwarf Family

This prompted a spirited text survey. Would you rather be a dwarf or a giant?

I'd definitely rather be a dwarf. They appear to be more socially accepted. And you can find cuter clothes, I'd imagine. PeopleCat's with me on this one. SFG and C-Note would rather be giants, as would Cheesewench, who claimed that the main advantage was that she could eat whatever she wanted.

Tough call.

I did some Friendster Friend purging tonight and I admit, damn did that feel good. I'm a l'il bit drunk so the following List of the Banished is going to feel even better. Stop reading if you dislike cattiness. (You shoulda stopped reading a year ago if that's the case.)

A: Arrogant prick. Never liked you, you never liked me. Let's just call a spade a spade, fucker. (Is that a racist expression? I don't know?) Your investigative skills blow, dude. I was in Boston visiting Camille, not devising a plan for the destruction of the world. Push off.
A: Certifiable. Loony toons. A couple tools shy in the shed. Loose screws. Grow up, stop being such a nasty bitch and you'll be able to keep your friends. Trust me, it works better that way!
B: We really have no interest in being friendly even though we have friends in common. P.S. Your cell phones are ugly.
C: Erm, yeah. I tried to remain friends with you but you're too afraid of god-knows-what (showing disloyalty to Mr. X? afraid of conflict?) to go there. Too bad. Shins was fun. You're a nice guy but I've lost patience for those who sit on the fence, my boy.
D: You're SoCal/trailer trash persona is tired. I thought you were kinda nice in your own coarse way, but no loss. Quit smoking or you'll have a heart attack.
L: You're plain weird.

There were others, but I'm getting bored. People suck. I've already ranted about how amazing it is that people looking into the failing relationship between two relatively normal mentally healthy people take sides and make judgement calls and feel the need to choose which half of the pair they want to remain friends with. And obviously because I'm the One Who Left, the One Who Was Obviously Unhappy, I am a MonsterBitchFromHell.

Enh, fuck 'em

Good god, I'm chitchatting a lot with y'all today. And I'm saying y'all a lot too. And I'm not even drinking bourbon.

I'm gonna stop now because Meet the Jeubs, about the family of 15 who go to Costco to eat lunch off the samples and then complain about the fact that they get smaller samples than everyone else is on right now and I am intrigued.


Canary in the Mines.

As this divorce thing slowly but surely comes to a close, I've realized that I've made a huge mistake.

Someone should have told me that I was completely crazy to think that I could make supporting myself on my business a reality while going through this break-up. The Canary is pretty much self-sustaining at this point: I can pay my bills and my people and keep it afloat. We have a good product, and I think a good concept, and things are chugging along at a steady pace.

But the truth is I can't wait much longer to start making money off of this venture. I can't pay myself enough at this point to pay for my personal expenses. And there aren't enough hours in the day to take a 'real' job and keep The Canary going at the standards that I want it kept. I have already racked up a hefty tab on my share of the marital assets. There's pretty much nothing left except the car and cats.

I need the car and the cats won't go for much on craigslist.

It really looks like I may have to sell it. And I'm utterly heartbroken about it. I've had a lot of low points over the course of the past year, but this is definitely one of the lowest. The Canary is my baby. I don't need to tell y'all that. I would hope at least that someone would buy my baby and I don't need to kill it. But then again I can't imagine someone else owning The Canary because that would mean they own a piece of my soul.

I know I'm being melodramatic, but I know anyone who's put any amount of effort into anything they're passionate about understands what I'm saying.

I can barely think straight, much less speak, write, or bake anymore. I think I will drink scotch and watch porn now. Or use my laundry quarters to play video poker at Sal's. Or watch TLC and do some Friendster Friend purging, a long overdue task.

I'm sure I'll be back in a bit once I'm comfortably drunk. And I'll tell you all about it.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Warning: TMI/Dirty Dirty Dirty Laundry.

And I really don't care that I'm writing about this. I don't care who reads this. I don't care if you think it's horrible that I'm talking about this in public. I don't care if you're friends with Mr. X. I don't care!

Yesterday I walked into the home that I own with Mr. X to find a woman standing there and Mr. X in a towel.

And I was feeling all civic and peppy because I'd just voted too (Yay Nutter!).

He is well aware of the fact that I come to the house on Tuesdays and Fridays to collect some more of my stuff and spend time with the cats.

After telling him to put on fucking pants next time and him telling me to grow up and trying to escort me out the door while Miss X cowers in the bathroom upstairs, I flew out of the house, shaking and upset and called every single one of my friends whom I knew would understand.

I think the best, most dramatic aspect of this story was that Sophie was meowing during this whole scene. Like the plaintive cries of the neglected baby in the bassinette while the parents upstarts fight. Meow Meow Meow. Wahh Wahh Waah. I almost laughed because it was just way to perfect to be staged.

Let me be very clear: I have no issue with Mr. X getting some action. In fact, I'm happy he's boning someone. Fair is fair. The part that makes me sick to my stomach is the fact that he's 'accidentally' flaunted it in my face, in the house that we own together that I have keys to, that I come and go to as I please.

If he'd just had the balls to tell me about it so I would know to stay away. Then if I was the one with the problem with it, it would be on me. But this. This was so disrespectful to me and the space that I share. I am irrationally very upset about this.

Oh, did I mention that I found condoms laying around the den a couple of months ago? Yeah, subtle hints. He's big on subtle hints. Bastard.

I have never been more humiliated in my life. I hate that people knew about this. I feel like they let me walk right into a trap. I have been made to feel a fool. Little makes me angrier than feeling like a fool. If you really want to experiment with the wrath of Oy Vey, try and make me look stupid. It's a very sensitive spot for me. I especially felt like that with Mr. X, who was very good at making sure that he knew what was better for me than I did.

I hate him right now.