The Boy's friend A's mom, J, who I am friendly with but never actually thought of as a friend, if you know what I mean, called me Saturday morning. I was assuming A wanted to invite The Boy to do something, but it turned out that J wanted me to GO WITH HER TO LOOK AT A HOUSE, in a ritzy suburb.
J & R (A’s dad, and a complete asshole to the extent that I truly can’t stand to be around him and will avoid him at all costs) were considering buying this house, which is a foreclosure. It was listed for $X million, but R had it under agreement for $X hundred thousand. J wasn't sure about it, though, and wanted MY opinion.
So I went (despite my bemusement at being asked to go—which turned into a sort of pity for J, because I started to assume that she must not have many friends, if she were calling on me to serve in this capacity). I’m not sure why, but I was more honest (and bitchy) with her than I've been about anything I felt negatively about in a very long time. This is a five-bedroom McMansion with eight bathrooms, a four-car garage, and an indoor pool in a housing development filled with expensive cars. THEY ARE A FAMILY OF THREE.
I bitched about the house’s carbon footprint (believe it or not, J has an erstwhile-hippie aspect about her to which I was trying to appeal), the amount of gas/power it would cost to heat the gigantic house and pool all winter (“Do you really want to pay all that money to keep the pool open all winter, when you know you’d only use it, like, twice?”), and to keep it cool in the summer. I bitched about the shoddy building and materials, pointing out that the doors were hollow, doorknobs were loose, particle board was rampant, the “multi-paned” windows were actually just normal windows with plastic dividers that were popping out everywhere, cupboards were crooked, "oak" paneling was actually crappy veneer, the decking was a mess of poisonous splinters, and in one classic moment, was able to show her that even though a window in the master bath was closed and locked, there was a gap that allowed a clear view to the outside.
She complained about how R wasn't taking care of things in the house they live in now (a great old house with brick, stone, plaster, wood, and a terra cotta roof), and I said, "J, do you really think he's going to be any better here? He'll just say, ‘I gave you this beautiful house, and you're complaining about it!’" (See? I was even bitchy about their relationship! I NEVER DO THAT!)
She remarked on how safe the neighborhood seemed, and that she'd be able to let A go out on his own. I said, "Where's he going to go? There's nothing here in walking distance, and besides, there are NO SIDEWALKS."
I told her it was lovely to look at, and that it would make for great pictures, but that it was only a shallow beauty.
In short, I was a total bitch about the place. I kept apologizing, and telling her how I felt terrible saying such mean things, and that it was really pretty but just felt BAD . . . and she kept saying, "No, you're right—you're telling me what I need to hear."
She called me later that night and told me they'd faxed a letter saying they didn't want the house, and thanking me again for being so honest.
The whole thing is just SO WEIRD. WHY ME?!?!?!?
I have to say, though, that now that it’s over, I’m pleased with myself for being so forthright about my feelings. Normally I would have held her (emotional) hand and looked for positive things to say, because I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt her feelings, but I didn’t do that. I was honest about my bitchy feelings, and I didn’t suffer any terrible consequences because of it. Maybe I am growing up. Maybe I’m finally on my way to being more true to myself, which might help me in the self-esteem department. Which might help me in the panic/anxiety department.
Maybe. I hope.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Presenting . . . The Arthritis Scarf!
My sweet, sweet Aunt N--who is only 57--has arthritis in her neck, so I made her this scarf.
It's from the same Malabrigo yarn as the hat I made a while ago, and it's sort of short, so she can put her hands in the pockets.
And she can warm up the little heat pack in the microwave, and slide it into the pocket on the back of the neck.
I hope it helps. If nothing else, it might make her glad to know someone's thinking of her.
It's from the same Malabrigo yarn as the hat I made a while ago, and it's sort of short, so she can put her hands in the pockets.
And she can warm up the little heat pack in the microwave, and slide it into the pocket on the back of the neck.
I hope it helps. If nothing else, it might make her glad to know someone's thinking of her.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Punched in the Gut
Ever late to the party, I just heard that the most brilliant of my secret boyfriends, David Foster Wallace, killed himself on Friday.
I am shocked and sad, and will miss him and his wonderful footnotes, those flirtatious whispering asides, very much.
I hope he's at peace.
I am shocked and sad, and will miss him and his wonderful footnotes, those flirtatious whispering asides, very much.
I hope he's at peace.
Padding with Pictures
I had a busy weekend, filled with movies and soccer games and football games and a matinee performance of Wicked and board games with my nephew and a Super Sweet Sixteen party, but . . . instead of writing about all of them, I'll just show you some pics.
Okay, so I've seen The Simpsons episode where Marge joins the Cheery Red Tomatoes, but I didn't realize these red hat women were for real. There was a whole gaggle of them at the Wicked show I saw with my mom and sister this weekend, but these two were the only ones I could snap without being conspicuous.
Wicked was good, by the way. I had no desire at all to see it, because I'd tried to read the book a few years ago and found that I just didn't care. The musical, though, was fun and funny. The story was decent and clever, the songs were fun, the sets and costumes were great, and the two leads were bursting with talent and personality. The only thing I didn't like was the choreography, which I thought was odd and ugly.
My mom, who loves the books, had a great time and insisted on buying us all shirts, and . . . I'll never wear the shirt, because I'm not that kind of girl, but I'm glad we went.
The Boy and I went with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew to an old friend's son's 16th birthday party last night. My sister, the friend, and I are from a very small town where even the "rich" people honestly didn't have much money, and I think our friend was pretty excited to be able to blow out her oldest kid's birthday in swank(ish) suburban style. There was a limo for the birthday boy (who is now six-foot-one and nearly 200 pounds) and his closest buddies, a DJ and a buffet dinner, and then a rapper later in the evening. The birthday boy has a sister who is The Boy's age, and she had a table filled with her friends, but The Boy wouldn't get anywhere near them. In fact, he seemed to try to keep his back to them as much as possible. He would have died of a cross between boredom and mortification if my brother-in-law hadn't taken pity on him and sneaked him off to watch football in the bar.
And here's how we spent our Sunday evening. Look at his face! That smile! That's what it's like when you love what you do. Sigh. Anyway, the Steelers beat the Browns, our division rivals, and all is right with the world. Except: Either the NFL or the NFL/NBC seems to have co-opted Morrisey's Every Day is Like Sunday to use as a music bed under their Sunday Night Football bumper things. Does anyone else find this weird? I consider Morrisey and football to be two great tastes, but unlike chocolate and peanut butter, I wouldn't have thought them to be two great tastes that taste great together. I would have thought, in fact, that John Madden (and certainly that jerk Chris Collinsworth) would have wanted to beat up on Morrisey fans . . . but maybe the world is a kinder, gentler place now, where Madden and Moz can share a pizza and their feelings?
My neighbor left this pin stuck to my door last night, which sort of sums up things nicely for now.
Okay, so I've seen The Simpsons episode where Marge joins the Cheery Red Tomatoes, but I didn't realize these red hat women were for real. There was a whole gaggle of them at the Wicked show I saw with my mom and sister this weekend, but these two were the only ones I could snap without being conspicuous.
Wicked was good, by the way. I had no desire at all to see it, because I'd tried to read the book a few years ago and found that I just didn't care. The musical, though, was fun and funny. The story was decent and clever, the songs were fun, the sets and costumes were great, and the two leads were bursting with talent and personality. The only thing I didn't like was the choreography, which I thought was odd and ugly.
My mom, who loves the books, had a great time and insisted on buying us all shirts, and . . . I'll never wear the shirt, because I'm not that kind of girl, but I'm glad we went.
The Boy and I went with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew to an old friend's son's 16th birthday party last night. My sister, the friend, and I are from a very small town where even the "rich" people honestly didn't have much money, and I think our friend was pretty excited to be able to blow out her oldest kid's birthday in swank(ish) suburban style. There was a limo for the birthday boy (who is now six-foot-one and nearly 200 pounds) and his closest buddies, a DJ and a buffet dinner, and then a rapper later in the evening. The birthday boy has a sister who is The Boy's age, and she had a table filled with her friends, but The Boy wouldn't get anywhere near them. In fact, he seemed to try to keep his back to them as much as possible. He would have died of a cross between boredom and mortification if my brother-in-law hadn't taken pity on him and sneaked him off to watch football in the bar.
And here's how we spent our Sunday evening. Look at his face! That smile! That's what it's like when you love what you do. Sigh. Anyway, the Steelers beat the Browns, our division rivals, and all is right with the world. Except: Either the NFL or the NFL/NBC seems to have co-opted Morrisey's Every Day is Like Sunday to use as a music bed under their Sunday Night Football bumper things. Does anyone else find this weird? I consider Morrisey and football to be two great tastes, but unlike chocolate and peanut butter, I wouldn't have thought them to be two great tastes that taste great together. I would have thought, in fact, that John Madden (and certainly that jerk Chris Collinsworth) would have wanted to beat up on Morrisey fans . . . but maybe the world is a kinder, gentler place now, where Madden and Moz can share a pizza and their feelings?
My neighbor left this pin stuck to my door last night, which sort of sums up things nicely for now.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Clay Animation
The Boy went to a clay animation camp at the Center for the Arts last month, and he loved it. They gave them the basics and the equipment and turned them loose the very first day, and The Boy and his friend got so into it that they were never ready to leave when I picked them up at noon--they would have been happy to hang around and work on their films all day.
We just got the DVD of all the finished projects, and I can't post all of them because there are credits with names and stuff involved, I can show you this one, which is what The Boy and his friend came up with on the first day. It's very, very short, but what it lacks in length it makes up for in cute.
We just got the DVD of all the finished projects, and I can't post all of them because there are credits with names and stuff involved, I can show you this one, which is what The Boy and his friend came up with on the first day. It's very, very short, but what it lacks in length it makes up for in cute.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Weird Song Lyrics
Some songs are brilliant; some songs are stupid. Some express your feelings in ways that make you think the songwriter's heart must be exactly like yours, and some just miss the mark. Some are supposed to be complimentary, but come off as insulting or creepy. Let's have a look at some of those, shall we?
Nina Simone is awesome*, but this song bums me out:
My Baby Just Cares for Me
Is it me, or is her baby either mentally deficient and without any interests, or is he a stalker? Seriously. I like the sentiment, but this doubt ruins things for me.
And speaking of stalkers and other bad types:
I chose this version because I like Ella, but let's look at the lyrics:
Baby It's Cold Outside
I added the bold to some of the female lines up there. Nothing like a little Christmas date rape to warm your heart.
And finally, let's turn to Jack Wagner for a classic insult from the 80's:
And the lyrics:
All I Need
It's the chorus that kills me here. "It seems SO HARD to believe that YOU'RE all I need. Because, frankly, I'm fabulous and you're kind of average."
Screw you, Jack Wagner!
Anyway, there's a little look into my head. As much as I want to enjoy things, I can't. I am bugged, man. Bugged!
*Nina Simone is awesome, but her daughter sings like a Disney Princess. That's a fine thing in and of itself, but not so fine when you've recorded an album full of covers of classic, Nina Simone, gritty songs. Disney Princesses are decidedly not gritty.
Nina Simone is awesome*, but this song bums me out:
My Baby Just Cares for Me
My baby don't care for shows
My baby don't care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for high-tone places
Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Lana Turner's smile
Is somethin' he can't see
My baby don't care who knows
My baby just cares for me
Baby, my baby don't care for shows
And he don't even care for clothes
He cares for me
My baby don't care
For cars and races
My baby don't care for
He don't care for high-tone places
Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Liberace's smile
Is something he can't see
Is something he can't see
I wonder what's wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for me
Is it me, or is her baby either mentally deficient and without any interests, or is he a stalker? Seriously. I like the sentiment, but this doubt ruins things for me.
And speaking of stalkers and other bad types:
I chose this version because I like Ella, but let's look at the lyrics:
Baby It's Cold Outside
I really can't stay - Baby it's cold outside
I've got to go away - Baby it's cold outside
This evening has been - Been hoping that you'd drop in
So very nice - I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice
My mother will start to worry - Beautiful, what's your hurry
My father will be pacing the floor - Listen to the fireplace roar
So really I'd better scurry - Beautiful, please don't hurry
well Maybe just a half a drink more - Put some music on while I pour
The neighbors might think - Baby, it's bad out there
Say, what's in this drink - No cabs to be had out there
I wish I knew how - Your eyes are like starlight now
To break this spell - I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell
I ought to say no, no, no, sir - Mind if I move a little closer
At least I'm gonna say that I tried - What's the sense in hurting my pride
I really can't stay - Baby don't hold out
Ahh, but it's cold outside
C'mon baby
I simply must go - Baby, it's cold outside
The answer is no - Ooh baby, it's cold outside
This welcome has been - I'm lucky that you dropped in
So nice and warm -- Look out the window at that storm
My sister will be suspicious - Man, your lips look so delicious
My brother will be there at the door - Waves upon a tropical shore
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious - Gosh your lips look delicious
Well maybe just a half a drink more - Never such a blizzard before
I've got to go home - Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there
Say, lend me your comb - It's up to your knees out there
You've really been grand - Your eyes are like starlight now
But don't you see - How can you do this thing to me
There's bound to be talk tomorrow - Making my life long sorrow
At least there will be plenty implied - If you caught pneumonia and died
I really can't stay - Get over that old out
Ahh, but it's cold outside
Baby it's cold outside
Brr its cold….
It's cold out there
Cant you stay awhile longer baby
Well…..I really shouldn't...alright
Make it worth your while baby
Ahh, do that again…
I added the bold to some of the female lines up there. Nothing like a little Christmas date rape to warm your heart.
And finally, let's turn to Jack Wagner for a classic insult from the 80's:
And the lyrics:
All I Need
Kissing you is not what I had planned
And now I'm not so sure just where I stand
I wasn't looking for true love
But now you're looking at me
You're the only one I can think of
You're the only one I see
CHORUS:
All I need
Is just a little more time
To be sure what I feel
Is it all in my mind
Cause it seems so hard to believe
That you're all I need
Yes it's true we've all been hurt before
But it doesn't seem to matter anymore
It may be a chance we're taking
But it always comes to this
If this isn't love we're making
Then I don't know what it is
All I need
Is just a little more time
To be sure what I feel
Is it all in my mind
Cause it seems so hard to believe
CHORUS
No stars are out tonight
But we're shining our own light
And it's never felt so bright
Cause girl the way I'm feeling
It's easy to believe
That you're all I need
Ahhhh
You're all I need
Oooooh ahhhh
It's the chorus that kills me here. "It seems SO HARD to believe that YOU'RE all I need. Because, frankly, I'm fabulous and you're kind of average."
Screw you, Jack Wagner!
Anyway, there's a little look into my head. As much as I want to enjoy things, I can't. I am bugged, man. Bugged!
*Nina Simone is awesome, but her daughter sings like a Disney Princess. That's a fine thing in and of itself, but not so fine when you've recorded an album full of covers of classic, Nina Simone, gritty songs. Disney Princesses are decidedly not gritty.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla
You know that new Woody Alan movie, Vicky Christina Barcelona? It's playing at one of the little movie theaters I pass all the time, and every time I do, I sing the title of the movie to the tune of that School House Rock song about pronouns, Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla. This probably isn't what Woody was hoping for, but I think he's lucky to get that much of a positive reaction out of me. I will admit a fondness for Annie Hall, but beyond that I think he's a perv and a dirty old man, and no thank you.
In other news, here's a very bad photo of my finished hat, modeled by The Boy. I keep taking pics with my phone despite its less-than-stellar-for-posting results, because the phone is there, whereas the actual camera is put away. I'm lazy, and my blog pictures prove it. But here it is, anyway:
It's not perfect by any means, but it is clearly a hat, and I'm pleased. I'm trying to learn how to knit ribbing, with the hope of making a hat for The Boy. I'll keep you posted on that.
Finally, a public service announcement: If you haven't tried Fage yogurt, run to the store and get some as soon as you can. It's thick and creamy and delicious, and kicks other yogurts' collective asses. I've been mixing it with strawberry preserves and walnuts for my new favorite breakfast, and indeed wish I were eating it right now. Yum!
In other news, here's a very bad photo of my finished hat, modeled by The Boy. I keep taking pics with my phone despite its less-than-stellar-for-posting results, because the phone is there, whereas the actual camera is put away. I'm lazy, and my blog pictures prove it. But here it is, anyway:
It's not perfect by any means, but it is clearly a hat, and I'm pleased. I'm trying to learn how to knit ribbing, with the hope of making a hat for The Boy. I'll keep you posted on that.
Finally, a public service announcement: If you haven't tried Fage yogurt, run to the store and get some as soon as you can. It's thick and creamy and delicious, and kicks other yogurts' collective asses. I've been mixing it with strawberry preserves and walnuts for my new favorite breakfast, and indeed wish I were eating it right now. Yum!
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