Friday, December 17, 2010
Have zero encounters with a knotted anus.
Find at least one note on the toilet.
Have the wisdom of a silver tabby cat.
Take at least one trip to someplace new and exciting.
See a couple of totally bitchin concerts.
Spend quality time with all the wonderfully crazy relatives and friends that you can possibly handle.
All the best to you and yours. See you in the new year.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The note was written in blue pen on purple paper, a cruel trick to middle aged eyes, to be sure. I squinted to read it under the light of the bathroom sconces. This is what it said:
"If you are reading this, you're probably about to go pee or poo. I honestly don't know about your personal life. Well, anyways, good luck. Have fun.
Love and scones,
How did I react? Well if you guessed that I marched out of the bathroom and gave her a stern warning about people's privacy and whatnot then this is either your first time here or you haven't been paying attention. I gave her what every comedienne wants; laughter and lots of it. I am, after all, the person who at the same age, found my father's high school year book and wrote the following:
"Have a great summer. Eat spam.
I had no idea this stuff was genetic.
Friday, November 26, 2010
I think I have mentioned before that my Uncle Ronnie has a little bit of a hearing problem. To say that he's deaf as a stone is an insult to stones. Many years behind a pneumatic drill have rendered his ears as little more than decoration for his head.
Recently, Ronnie bought himself a new truck. And not just your average truck, a fire engine red, big jammer with all the bells and whistles that one might expect in a loaded 2011 pick up - IPod Dock "I don't know what to do with it." CD Player 'I can't play nothin since all my CD's burned up in the old truck." Sirius/XM Radio "I cancelled it. See no use for it." Digital odometer - '"Can't seem to get my mileage to display." And the biggest feature of all, its mammoth size. So mammoth in fact that I think he has had a problem parking it, because it has a couple of dents and dings. We keep asking where the damage is coming from and he keeps laughing it off and not answering. Typical Ronnie.
When Thanksgiving rolled around, Ronnie was with us at my brother's house in his Sunday-best flannel shirt. As we sat in the living room enjoying some pre-dinner noshes, the talk or perhaps what is best described as screaming, turned to Ronnie's truck. My brother, who was sitting directly across from Ronnie was yelling questions at him about how he liked the truck and Ronnie was answering. He gave us the run down of the sizable list of features in the truck that he doesn't use and he told us how much he liked the truck, overall. I was sitting to his left and tried to ask him a couple of questions that he could not hear. He kept staring straight ahead, eating chips and dips as if I had never said a word. I guess if he's not looking at you to read your screaming lips, he can't make out what you're saying. So I proceed to have a discussion with my brother about how I am going to buy a pair of truck nuts and sling them around his trailer hitch when he's not looking. Then we can take bets around how long it will take him to realize that there is a scrotum hanging from his truck. He never heard a word of it as he proceeded to completely disrespect the layered Mexican dip in front of him.
After dinner we were passing around my sister-in-law's IPad and showing him pictures of our family, including one of him and I from 1967. One thing I can say is that his vision is as good as his hearing is bad. He took one look at the picture from 1967 and said "My hair looks the same." never pausing to mention the adorable three year old at his knee. Then we showed him a video of my son playing acoustic guitar and singing Me and Bobby McGee and he immediately dismissed it as "Oh, that's not for me, that modern music." A comment that had all of us doubled over in fits of hysterical laughter. But what can you expect from someone whose CD collection consisted of Eddie Arnold and John Phillip Sousa. That's it. For Ronnie, the music industry is frozen in carbonite as of 1948.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
For today, rather than let the drought continue, I am going to heat up some leftovers for you. The post below was featured as a guest post on Speaking From the Crib, one year ago. It's a fave because it's a totally true story and something that I am still battling today (though I am winning the war). Enjoy. And I hope to be back to visit all of your blogs soon!
Friday, November 12, 2010
What? You don't read Chinese?
Are you kidding?
Ok, ok, I'.ll translate.
Why are you so full of the awesome?
When I cook General Tso's Chicken, I am reminded of how not awesome it is, compared to you.
Your skin is like fine porcelain. So fine, in fact, that I can see all your veins.
Your hair is like rarest amber, with a brown stripe down the middle, 'cause your roots girl? Damn.
Your energy level is so high that you can actually beat the all the Sr Citizens at assisted living center at the pole vault, but only by the very narrowest of margins. And your kindness can only be bested by the average Mc Donalds employee.
Stay awesome and come to China real soon.
The Ghost of Chairman Mao
If you think this is hot, you shold read the love letters I get from Nikita Kruschev. Smokin!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
However, somewhere around my early 30's, my mother started to obsess over the weather, just in time to question my choices around the way that I suited up my kids to battle the elements. I had gotten a piece of advice from my pediatrician that said "If you're comfortable, they're comfortable", so I followed my own clothing guidelines with them, choosing not to layer then in so many snowsuits, blankets and hats and mittens, that their bucket became a Flavor Wave Oven. I really didn't want to have to Mr T with me everywhere with him saying things like "MMMMMM, that roasting baby smells good. Quit your jibber jabber woman, gimme some of that baby!".
Somewhere around the same time, my mom became obsessed with the news. I couldn't walk into a room without seeing her with her reading glasses perched on her nose, thumbing through the newspaper with CNN blaring in the background. Ultimately, she would try to engage me in discussion about local politics or other current events and I would lapse into my Forrest Gump voice and tell her "Mama, I am not a smart woman, but I know what over saturation of media is.". An then I would scamper off and anesthetize my brain with pop-culture info and other junk food for the brain. I couldn't name all the 9/11 hijackers, but I had a firm grip on the romantic history of Brad Pitt.
I have talked to friends that are around my age and they all say the same thing, once their mothers hit retirement age, they developed an unnatural obsession with Willard Scott and his morning raisin brigade and with all things news. To this, I respond "NEVER!". I am so determined not to have a picture in picture of CNN and MSNBC running simultaneously that I have made a pact with my besties: They are approved to call Kevorkian, as soon as exhibit any combination of two or more of the following:
1) Watch the news and weather obsessively
2) Wear holiday themed sweaters
3) Stuff tissues up my sleeve
4) Wear rubber bands around my wrist
5) Break wind with every step that I take
6) Save wrapping paper from opened gifts (yes, yes, it's green, it's also "grandma")
7) Develop a love-jones for Keith Olberman ,Sean Hannity or Glen Beck (or any other controversial, talking head)
8) Save my bacon grease in a coffee can
Oh, and did someone say Mr . T? Well I pity the fool. . . .
Friday, November 5, 2010
I work in a business that has a pretty well defined busy season and for whatever reason, that busy season lands right around the holidays. I also work in the type of job where you have to work in large teams of people. Working with a large group of people, increases your chances for working with people that have personalities that have more in common with a festering bunghole than a decent human being. The upside of this is that for every difficult person, there are twenty awesome people that are committed to offering their skills and expertise, without the side order of bitterness,hate and childishnes that bungholio contributes.
This is nothing that I can't handle, because I feel that people who behave like this, offer self-fulfilling punishment by way of their own embarrassing behavior. There is nothing that I could do or say that is more humiliating than to let these people flaunt their bad attitudes and lack of cooperation. Score! Unfortunately, they become an inconvenience when fighting the clock, as their foot dragging petulance can occasionally slow progress.
HEY WAIT DIARY! WHAT ABOUT THE ANUS OF A CAT?
OK, chill. I'm not about to steal anybodies good time.
Owing to my OWN childishness. . .
There is a person that I work with that is so foul and so bitter that I want to name them Marie. Why Marie? Because as my daughter informed me, the meaning of the name Marie in some cultures is "Sea of Bitterness", and there couldn't be a more perfect description for this person than that. " But what about the anus, Diary?", you might ask.
OK, OK, I'm getting to it.
When we were in Italy, we went to this Tuscan hillside restaurant where no one spoke English. We were greeted in the outdoor courtyard by a brown, curly haired dog at our feet and a black and white cat, sitting on the roof of the restaurant. The owner came out and thanks to the one (in 17) Italian speaking member of our party, it was agreed that we would eat outside.
We assembled around a long, L shaped table and with the help of our Italian speaking friend, we ordered a metric crap-ton of food and wine. As I have mentioned in prior trip reports about Italy, dinner is an all night affair, with course after course of deliciousness, stretched out over several hours.
Just around the time that our entrees came out, the sun was just going down and the festive patio lights and candles on the table were lit. This was also about the time that the cat came down off the roof and started to prowl around the guests, looking for scraps. Seeing the cat on the ground, close up, it was evident that he was either not well, very old or both. He was skinny and rickety and he moved a little slowly. It wasn't until he walked away from our table that I saw what was really going on. His rear end area was bulging out and it had a strange green hue. It looked like he was smuggling grapes in his ass and someone had spray painted the area for emphasis. It was at that moment that my son exclaimed "Look at that cat! He has a knotted anus!".
It was such a astute observation, that it became the unofficial battle cry of our week in Tuscany. Every cat that we saw after that, we would simply point and say "knotted anus". So now, when I look across the conference table at a particularly bitter and uncooperative coworker, with their lips pursed in pruney discontent, I am reminded of that unfortunate cat's backside and I giggle, on the inside. Hey, I'm a professional here. A professional child, but a professional, none the less.
And there's your anus. Have a fabulous weekend and be sure to let me know about anyone that you know whose face reminds you of a diseased cat butt.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
However, I most definitely admire my cat. Have you met my cat? This is him. His name is Spike the Hotness monster. He is 11 years old, which is nineteen bajillion in cat years. (Are there even such a thing as cat years? I don't know, I made it up. Whatever.)
Here are some of Spike's philosophies that bear repeating:
People Suck: When you don't need them for something, like food, water or affection, then they are of no use to you. Find a cozy place behind the big chair in the living room and sleep there for more hours than a human could count without an abacus.
Flirt with Everyone: You should not care about someones race, creed, color or species. If nuzzling a dog gets him to move off the choice spot on the stair landing, then nuzzle away. Being able to perch there and sleep with one eye trained on the flora and fauna out the window is worth a little insincere cuddling. And being that humans are too dumb and lazy to think beyond food, they will fill your bowl every time you sidle up to them. Score!
Explore the World, But There's No Place Like Home: The guy across the street likes when you roam his property because it keeps the mice away, there are cat treats in that gig. The little boy down the block gets all excited when you sit on his front lawn, so he convinces his mother to feed you. This extra meal helps to plump you up for the chilly winter months, when you will need your energy to sleep behind the chair. But remember to start the morning with a bowl of cat crunchies at home and end the day the same way. Nobody really knows how much you eat during the day. All you have to do is dilate your pupils and give them saucer eyes, magically, the bowl will fill.
Never Bathe or Poop in Public: This one is self explanatory. No one should ever see you either cleaning your business or doing it. Arrive everywhere looking clean, with a spring in your step.
A Narrow Eyed Glare is More Effective in Communicating Your Displeasure Than Raising Your Voice: Look at this picture, it's self explanatory. Oh, you soiled yourself in fear. Sorry. See how effective it is? Now go clean yourself up so that you can continue to gaze lovingly at my incendiary hotness.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm Apple Pie.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
So in its place, I give you a far, far better clip to enjoy. This one is better because I was there to see it (though it is not my video). Last week, Billie Joe Armstrong joined the cast of his Broadway musical, American Idiot for a one week run. We quickly snatched up whatever tickets we could get and we went on Friday night. In case you are wondering what I thought of his performance and the entire show, consult the title of this post.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
This phrase has become part of my own lexicon, despite my attempts to beat it back with a stick. Anything you hear that often sinks in whether you want it to or not.
Today, I would like to share with you, some of the people and things that I have encountered over the past week that need a "Swift Kick in the Pants".
A Swift Kick in the Pants to: My Shoes
for the sole separating out from under the heel and making a smacking noise with every step. And an extra kick for happening as I walked in the building at 9:00 am, leaving me to announce my arrival at every meeting with a thwack,thwack.
A Swift Kick in the Pants to: Me
for face planting in the middle of Five Guys Burger. Go figure, old dumbass germophobe wants to wash her hands before she eats her burger and since they take an eternity to cook a burger at Five Guys, I had ample time. However, you would think that after a lifetime of scraped knees and twisted ankles that I would look more closely at the four inch high lip between the restaurant floor and the bathroom floor.
Just to reinforce for the trillionth time - Weak Ankles + Clogs + Uneven Pavement = eating the floor.
A Swift Kick in the Pants to: The Boyscouts of America
for stalking people outside the 7-11. I definitely don't mind buying things from the Girl Scouts or Boy Scouts. I have certainly purchased more than my fair share of Thin Mints. But on this morning, the BS0fA had a new product line (oh goody, no more microwave popcorn), which included an eleven ounce bag of Carmel corn. This is a much smaller bag than your standard bag of chips. The bag was smaller than an 8X11 sheet of paper.
I picked up a bag and handed the kid a ten dollar bill. It wasn't priced, but I figured I must have had it covered. He looked at me in confusion, tongue half hanging out of his mouth like it was the first time he had seen money. The older scout at the table told him to look up the price. He flipped open his little catalogue and said "eighteen dollars please". I tried not to look as shocked as I was. Are you telling me that if they sold that measly bag of snacks for eight dollars, the BSofA would not have made a tidy profit for their organization? Say, somewhere in the neighborhood of $7.50? But it gets better . . .
I reach into my wallet to return the ten dollar bill and retrieve a twenty. I hand the boy the 20 and again, a pained look of confusion crosses his face. He stands there, motionless and silent with the twenty dollar bill in his hand. Again, the older scout instructs him to give me two dollars change. He opens up his little cash box and it is empty. The older scout yells down to his father "Dad, we need change for the box.". His father, deep in conversation with another father about either baseball or hookers, barely nods to his son and goes on with his conversation. At this point, my level of frustration is at its peak. I had two choices: Walk away or walk down to the father and give him a Swift Kick in the Pants. I walked away, but one week later, I regret not kicking him. What a douchebag. Or maybe the douchebag is me. I am the proud owner of a $20 bag of caramel corn.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
However, this one bears mention and participation. I heard about it from the Empress over at Good Day Regular People. Thanks to the Empress for raising awareness.
About this blog carnival: “The world I want for my children” is an effort to support The Joyful Heart Foundation, which was founded by Law & Order: SVU actress Mariska Hargitay to help victims of sexual assault mend their minds, bodies and spirits and reclaim their lives. Today, the foundation is at the forefront of an effort to end a disheartening backlog of tens of thousands of rape kits in labs across the country, a backlog that contributes to a rapist’s 80 percent chance of getting away with his crime. The backlog and its detrimental effects will be the topic of an SVU episode on September 29th.
Please help us raise awareness for this important work. What kind of world do you want for your children? Write your post and link up here.
The World That I Want For My Children - By DG @ Diary of a Mad Bathroom
The World that I Want for my children is one where blog carnivals like this aren't necessary.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Now don't get me wrong, there were good things about the 70's, but for the most part, they are hazed over by the faint and jumbled memories of bad Barbara Streisand movies and episodes of the Partridge Family.
Here are some of the more horrifying things that I survived. It's nothing short of a miracle that I am not walking around in polyester gauchos with marshmallow shoes, incoherently babbling lyrics to Allman Brother's songs. Somehow I made it out with my dignity in tact.
More feathered than Big Bird.
Again, hats off to the astronauts. Another sacrifice in the name of progress.
How Much I Feel by Ambrosia @ Yahoo! Video
OK, I'm not gonna lie, I kinda dig that song. It was played so much in the 1970's that I'm pretty sure you could find traces of it in my DNA. And there were so many more like it. Every time you turned on the radio, it was like spinning the giant wheel of musical cheese.
The birth of SNL
The birth of Punk
The Cars first three albums
OK, the third one was from 1980, but in my opinion, they are the three best albums that this band had to offer and the musical dividing line between love and like. This band also provided my first teen crush on a band guy. Oh the years I spent pining over Ben Orr. But, how do you not? I mean, really.
No, not that dorky Bed and Breakfast show with the three guys with the same name. The original Newhart show. The one that the dorky show had to call back to in order to make the greatest show ending in television history. The one with Roger, from I Dream of Jeanie. The one that has its own drinking game.
Hard to believe that this show was run off the air because people couldn't believe that two men could live together for this long and not be gay. OK, Felix was kind of a queen, but so what? They had perfect comedic chemistry. Imagine if we applied that same twisted logic to Friends - they really all hang out together every day because they're into group sex! So stupid.
This little walk down memory lane was sponsored by the most disgusting food of the 1970s:
PS - for Noelle and any of you other youngsters that have to ask what Marshmallow shoes were - the shape of the heel and sole was sort of like the shoe below, but it was a closed shoe style and the heel was made of springy white rubber (which looked like a marshmallow). If you didn't have Marshmallow Shoes in 1976, then you just weren't cool. The cork platforms below? Also very cool. As were platform Buffalo Sandals and wood platforms, but you are going to have to Google those yourself. All this walking down memory lane has me exhausted.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
This generation's teen heartthrob:
My generation's skinny little musician:
Saturday, September 18, 2010
In my ongoing quest to prolong the sights, sounds and tastes of Italy, I have taken a swipe at the standard breakfast food of the Italians -Cornetti. A cousin to the croissant, cornetti have a slightly less rigid fold/chill/turn/chill process. It is basically a brioche dough with butter (or burro if you want to be all Italian about it) between the sheets.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Rather than write a standard trip report about my two weeks in Italy, I am going to share with you the myths, facts and my own stupid assumptions about it and what the realities were, based on our experience.
We stayed in a beautiful old, stone house in the hills of Tuscany. It was set deep within a nature preserve, where the chief protectants were deer and wild boar. Their presence was never seen but it was obvious that they were there, based on the five foot high wire fencing that surrounded the entire perimeter of the compound.
Getting to the villa was nothing short of treacherous. The 2 mile long road to the villa off the main road was a steep, winding, unpaved, single lane path lined with sharp gravel and ditches on either side. Every ride up or down was harrowing and caused the drivers tremendous stress and anxiety. And the bugs! Bugs would follow the car up the road in swarms, they would divebomb us in the pool and they were in the house and everywhere else. I soon realized that we were in their space and we either had to co-exist or go down fighting. The irony was that at night (when all the bugs come out at home), all the bugs went away and we could thoroughly enjoy the outdoors. Because of this, there were several moonlit dinners in the courtyard which we enjoyed with many bottles of wine. (The recycling that we put out was a shocking retrospective of our consumption.)
Myth 5- Rome is crawling with gypsies just waiting to rip you off. - There are definitely street performers and people begging for money all over the place. Again, NY City rules and savvy apply. Don't look like a tourist. Don't make eye contact. Don't be afraid to assertively say NO.
Bottom line assessment: I'm going back. That's all there is to it. I'm going back.
Now the pictures (In no particular order. We have 1300 pictures from this trip. I have no time for sorting and ordering.). . .
Temple to my homeboys Castor and Pollux. Where my Geminis at?
Street view looking out from inside the Colosseum.
The Colosseum hasn't been the same since REO Speedwagon played in '78.
Then Pantheon at dusk. Nothing like a 2000 year old building to make you feel insignificant (And young! Win!).
My perfect cappuccino. Want to guess where I got it? Go ahead. I'm waiting. Nope. I got it at the gas station. I went in to the "minimart" to find a marble counter with delicious pastries and freshly made espresso and cappuccino. What? No beef jerky?
Nice knockers in Siena.
This was the side street near our apartment in Rome. Right out of La Dolce Vita.
The Villa from a distance. Not too many neighbors, unless you count the entire biting fly population of the Northern Hemisphere.