the secret contents of my notecard

I've had a piece of scrap paper wandering around with me for almost a week, and now that the wedding's over, I finally have time to share with you the INTENSELY IMPORTANT contents of said notecard.

1. I started my day off particularly well this morning by dropping my coffee cup into the toilet. (It involved a complicated move much like the one I employed when checking the size of my underwear.)Luckily both were empty at the time.

2. Nalgene bottles apparently leach toxic chemicals back into the water that you're storing in the Nalgene bottle because they told you that storing water in regular bottles was bad because of toxic chemicals that those bottles leach back into the water.(They're reformulating the original Nalgene bottle to be more betterer.) Luckily, I have so many chemicals in my water, it almost doesn't matter if I get more from my bottle.

3. According to an article in the NY Times, there have been a rash of fryer grease thefts from fast food restaurants in the west. I'd like to personally invite those theives to come to my house and bring a brush. In harvesting the grease from my hair, they could change their theivin' ways (and make me happy, to boot)!

4. Birds fart.
(Well, the semantics of that point are debatable, depending on your definition of "fart." Birds emit gas, but their intestines are small and they don't store up gas and then rip their ass cheeks off with a good stinker. (Most likely because they don't have ass cheeks. If they had 'em, they would.))

(It was slow in the office the other day.)

5. Fernando's been eating candy we call the "Norwegian Children," as my boss brought him gummy people from Norway. Today he actually said out loud, "I think I like the taste of the green children best." (Which was lucky, because the other color children are red and yellow.)

6. Yahoo! today told us about the undiscovered peoples of the Amazon rainforest. We thought it would be funny if someone went in there to discover them and they were already all tech-savvy, but still naked and primitive-looking. "Yeah man, we've had the internet for years. You can reach us at undiscovered_peoples@yahoo.com."

7. Did you know the Tasmanian Devil is running the risk of extinction? I didn't! (The little guy is cute, too.)8. Medium artichokes have 60 calories and about 7 grams of fiber. They have lots of choline. (Thank god!) They also make me fart. (Because I'm a bird.)

my vegas wedding

So I went to a wedding in Vegas over Memorial Day, and there are waaaaay too many stories to tell them all, so I'll just give you some photos and some highlights. And, because I'm me, maybe one or two lowlights as well.

First, the bride:

Christina was a picture-perfect bride, and I know, because I watched her be in about six thousand photos. My job during those photos? To make fun of the weird-ass poses the photographer was putting her in. (At one point, he had her on the bed in her wedding dress, with it yanked up over her knees. I said to him, "What is this? The Dirty Dirty Bride Collection?") He would say things like, "Look a little towards me" and I would say, "Is that a BUG?" and she would crack up. I hope she actually got some good photos out of it, but I worry that she didn't.

Oops.

So before there was a bride, there was a rehearsal. It looked a lot like this:

The wedding was supposed to be outside, but soon after these pictures were taken, a light rain started to fall (which turned into a pelting, bed-rattling thunderstorm overnight).

[Sidebar: it was warmer in NYC over Memorial Day weekend than it was in Vegas. I had to mutter a great number of obscenities while shaking my fist at the sky. I don't think Mother Nature gave a shit.]

We headed inside for the rehearsal dinner, and the bartender told me, appropos of absolutely nothing, "I used to be an elephant in a past life." I said, "Wow... Could I have a Jack & Ginger, please?"

There were some toasts:

And some secrets:

And some general happy-bridey-ness:

At one point, the father of the groom got up to give a speech, which may or may not have been on the longish-side, depending on who you ask... And he said, as he was closing, that there were some extra guests at the party tonight. Guests, he said, that the groom (Joe, or Joey, as his family called him) didn't necessarily want at the party, but here they were anyway...

The Blues Brothers:

Adding a truly Vegas element to the event, the bride and groom were asked to get up and shake their tail feathers. Oh, and did they!

The next morning we woke up and the bride had lost her voice. When we went to the front desk to ask about the steam room in the hotel, they told us it wasn't part of the complimentary gym, it was part of the $25 spa... a fee they wouldn't be waiving for the bride, even though she brought them all this business. (Rude.)

We headed out to the nearest 24 Hour Fitness, and had a discussion of how the bride and other bridesmaid looked so great in their bikinis. "Kate, it's simple," said Dayna, "Tan fat is cuter than white fat." (I have since purchased some self-tanner!)

After lunch, I got a message from the girls that the wedding program wasn't coming out right, and would I take a look at it? Being a computer trainer, I heartily agreed, and knocked the program into shape in no time. However, as I was wrapping that up, I got a call from Dayna telling me that Joe had sent a text saying that he had cut himself shaving and was at the hospital getting stitches. Nobody had heard from him for the last half hour, and Christina was getting really worried.

I left the program assembly line and joined the bride... where we got the text, "It was a joke. Hehe." Our response? "The wedding's off. Hehe."

Fast forward through a lot of stuff, and now we're in the bridal suite, with the photographer taking artistic photos of her shoes (why do they all do that??) and the hair and makeup folks turning Christina into a princess. We go for the wedding, and despite her best intentions, Christina's nerves get the better of her.

I walked her up and down the hallway, saying things like, "In Tahiti, there are warm beaches, and coconuts and everybody takes deep, relaxing breaths."

(Don't ask me how, but it kind of worked.)

The ceremony was gorgeous. Short, sweet, full of love. I'm sure the photographer got a lot of great contorted-face pictures of me, as I fought back my tears. (I suppose it would be only fair, since I made him work for his money.)

The first dance was terrific, too. They were so happy and so cute, and performing in front of the most adoring crowd ever. (And the song they picked was so sweet. While I don't know the name of it, I've now got it stuck back in my head.)

The toasts... well, they were perhaps one of the lowlights.

The best man started out by saying, "Joey's a nervous guy. Always has been. But this morning he was completely calm. When I went into his bathroom, though, I found these." And he pulled out two bricks.Silence prevailed.A cricket chirped.Seven people got it. (He was shitting bricks.)

Then my table cracked up at the sheer absurdity of the whole thing.

The maid of honor didn't necessarily pick up the slack. "Chrissy called and told me she had met someone. 'But,' she said, 'he's a laywer!' I said, 'I'm a lawyer, and you like me.' 'Yeah,' she said, 'but it gets worse... he's a conservative!' I laughed and said, 'But I'm a conservative and you like me!'"

(Aren't there rules about weddings that include things like not talking about politics???)

Later in the evening, Christina tossed her bouquet... into the swag decoration over her head. Joe also tossed the garter... to three single guys. That's it! Three single guys! (And one of them was 7.)Two old men fell down. (Unrelated to the garter, we think, but there's no proof.)

The wedding ended, the couple left for their honeymoon, and Dayna and I were left to wander the strip at a cafe in the Paris Casino, where they have a Bloody Mary Bar. I recommend it. We dubbed this one The Bloody Mary That Saved The Day.
(If you're wondering, yes, that is a pepperoni stick in there!)

I caught a redeye back to New York and was so tired that I cried tears of joy upon arriving at my apartment and sleeping for the next five hours.

It was beautiful to see Christina in her wedding... and to meet Joe, finally! I realized how odd it is to have friends who live all the way across the country, and how little I get to see them. Thank god for weddings, or I might never have met this guy!

I mean, what?

my trip in the murder van

So my friend is running this small business, and part of that business involves picking up free furniture from craigslist and then refurbishing it and reselling... with delivery. (Very valuable in Brooklyn, don't forget!)

However, his wife was not terribly pleased by the idea of him mucking up her lovely station wagon, so he went to a vehicle auction and purchased the murder van.

Now, it's never actually been used for murder (as far as we know), but that's totally what it was designed for. I mean look at it. It's nicely decomissioned from the parks department, with that potentially pedophilic bent, it's a stunning shade of green, with half-hearted tags and a nice dent along the side, just to prove what it's made of.

(And in case you're wondering what it's actually made of, I think the answer is metal, rubber, string, tape, a coffee cup lid, two paper towels, a carpet (for style) and magic. Oh, and oil. Lots of oil.)

Anyway, my parents were getting rid of an armoire, and they offered it to my friend, so I rode with him in the murder van to pick it up all the way out to CT. Which, in retrospect, was something of a miracle, considering that, unbeknownst to us, the good old murder van was down two quarts of transmission fluid.

Let me give you an impression of riding in the murder van. First, go to a seedy hotel room. Throw all sorts of things around, including a buckeye, three computer speakers, some tools, dust and whatever else suits your fancy. Start up your Magic Fingers bed and then swap the bed for a race-car seat. Pump in some carbon monoxide, hire sixteen toddlers to rattle pots and pans and get an angry, lone cricket to play incessantly for two hours. Multiply that by a hundred, and you're close.

On the ride up, I think I might have been high. I'm pretty sure the following things were said:

friend: Murder Van loves Tom Waits.

me: Totally understandable.

friend: Murder Van loves Madonna.

me: Can we open the windows a little more?

me: How much did this cost you?

friend: $600. And I didn't even have to pay extra to get the entire cast of Stomp into the back!
me: Why is that thing so long?

friend: Well, it has to reach all the way inside.

(You dirty birds! I was talking about the oil dipstick and he was talking about the engine. Maybe you've had too many fumes!)

Anyway, there's not much of a plot to this story, except that we got in the van, drove into a time warp, were plied with an armoire, dried fruit, a kitchen table and a bag of artichokes, and then we drove home.

The punchline: the door on my side opened really well, but only shut when my friend wiggled something and stood on his left foot singing Madonna songs. Needless to say, any time I wanted to get out, I had to clamber out of my race-car seat, hop over the driver's seat, and tumble out into the driveway or parking space. The maneuver alone was enough to send me into hysterics, but landing next to the murder van? Icing on the cake.

Murder van loves transmission fluid:

aches and pains

I hurt my right thumb earlier this week, and since I'm right handed, doing a lot of things (ok, just about everything) has become very challenging (to say the least).

Let me put it to you this way: as an experiment, try brushing your teeth or wiping your behind with your non-dominant hand.

[Luckily, I've been disabused of the notion that I'm suffering from an early onset of "the arthur-itis."]

Unrelatedly...
I was at TJ Maxx the other day, and just after I had given up trying on bolted together bikinis, I decided to purchase some new underwear. Not being allowed (thankfully) to try on fannypants, I wanted to make sure I was getting the right size. In a move created by Satan's own personal yoga instructor, I twisted myself around and yanked on the tag of my undies, to discover that they were, in fact, sevens.

In the process, I pulled a muscle in my side.

I immediately called everyone I knew and told them that I had pulled a muscle checking the size of my underwear, which, of course, only worsened things by making me laugh my ass off and tense a muscle already in spasm.

Private lessons are available at $50 an hour. (BYO Underwear)

Also unrelatedly,
I took a trip in the Murder Van this weekend. Details will follow, when my thumb hurts less.

stuff for the stuffaholic in you

My parents are in China, but luckily, nowhere near the earthquake. My aunt emailed me the morning of the quake to see if I had heard from my folks and I told her they were totally fine. Then the following exchange ensued:

Auntie Do: It probably wasn't an earthquake at all. It was probably just your mother farting.
Me: Yeah, she said they were eating Chinese food for breakfast.
Auntie Do: Imagine the moo goo gai pan she must have in her underwear!
Me: That's why they call them "moo goo gai panties."
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Dear TJ Maxx,
I tried to get the maxx for the minimum today, but I failed. I was totally thwarted in the dressing room. Not only do your sales associates consider a bathing suit "two garments," (and only allow seven garments at a time) but you've made it impossible to look good in a bikini.

I'm not blaming you for the bumps and lumps and wrinkles and frumps on my body. No, no, those are all mine, and I own them with (self-enforced) glee. I am, however, blaming you for BOLTING TOGETHER the tops and bottoms of the bikinis.

"I sure look GREAT in this blue and white top, but only when the bottoms are hanging out of my armpit with a security device attached."

Yours harumph-ily,
Filene Z. Basement
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I almost stepped on a baby bird that had fallen from its nest today.

Yuck.
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I always take the same route to and from the subway -- the one that goes past the lilac bush. I actually stop to smell it twice every day. Because someday, way too soon, that bush won't smell so good anymore. And then I'll be sad.
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Speaking of smelling, I was changing out of my gym clothes last night when I smelled the oddest smell -- Fritos. I thought, gee, that's dumb. Somebody's here working out really hard, only to put Fritos back into her body. Then I realized there weren't any actual Fritos in the locker room. It was just me.

Easily the oddest thing I've ever smelled like.

i owed attention $5. so i paid it.

I've been trying to pay closer attention to my life lately, and in doing so, there are details that have become richer and more vibrant. (Hell of a side effect, really.) For example:

-- the other day, I saw raindrops clinging to the close-cropped hair of a guy on the subway the way ornaments cling to a christmas tree.

-- raisins taste AMAZING.

-- on my run today, little olive-shaped leaves were falling from the sky and it felt like magic weather.

-- there's a poster on subway cars of Ye Olde Coney Island, and if you look in the balloon, I swear you'll see Abraham Lincoln.

-- the JFK departures area makes me feel all fluttery inside, like something really good or really bad is about to happen. That feeling also makes me feel like I have to pee.

-- the loop around the park is not so long when you look at it in now-sized chunks.

-- I must have a pair of Corsican twin toes, as I swear the wound (that sits atop a blister) is on my fourth toe, when in fact it's on my third. (Either way, it hurts.)

-- too much cologne is never a good thing. Especially when you're trapped in a car with it.

-- there was a really droopy-looking guy on my way to class last week. I keep periodically picturing him in my head, worrying that his cheecks will eventually droop right off his face, like the candle that's about to spill over.

-- the very overweight woman at brunch this morning ate her salad first, and then proceeded to eat the rest of her meal. (I'm not judging, though, since I did almost exactly the same thing.)

-- I suck at frisbee. Sometime my throws are so bad I have to fall down in paroxysms of laughter.

on compassion (take note, self!)

I'm reading a great book on how to be a writer, not because I'm actually interested in being a writer, but because it's written by one of my favorite authors in the whole world, Anne Lamott.
In a passage from the book, Bird by Bird, that really struck my fancy today, she talks about writing characters well -- how you have to give them space to do their own thing, and not judge them while they do it. She then encourages the author to apply this inner distancing to him/herself, saying:

"Obviously, it's harder by far to look at yourself with this same sense of compassionate detachment. Practice helps. As with exercise, you may be sore the first few days, but then you will get a little bit better at it every day. I am learning slowly to bring my crazy pinball-machine mind back to this place of friendly detachment toward myself, so I can look out at the world and see all those other things with respect. Try looking at your mind as a wayward puppy that you are trying to paper train. You don't drop-kick a puppy into the neighbor's yard every time it piddles on the floor. You just keep bringing it back to the newspaper. So I keep trying gently to bring my mind back to what is really there to be seen, maybe to be seen and noted with a kind of reverence. Because if I don't learn to do this, I think I'll keep getting things wrong."

hot stock tips (and other useful information... as always)

First things first:
I have the biggest zit known to mankind on my face. Like the Great Wall of China and the Staten Island Garbage Dump, you can see it from space.* And to boot, it's one of those ones that really REALLY hurts.

I would like an award because I haven't popped it or picked at it yet.

Second things second:
It's spring. That means a number of things, not the least of which is that it's shedding season... for me! One by one, I'm losing all kinds of hairs (except, of course, gray ones) that do nothing but get trapped in my bra and make me ITCH! No wonder cats go out and roll around on the flagstone! It's all I can do to keep from diving down my shirt at work and vacuuming. (Fernando gives me disapproving looks periodically, but I promise you, he'd be doing the same thing if he had boobs.)

Fourth things third (just to keep you on your toes):
I'm about to give you your hot stock tip, so go get a pencil. Ready for it? Here it comes.

INVEST IN BAND-AIDS.

I personally drove the stock up a million points today, simply by wearing the "comfortable" sandals from last summer. (Man, I hate the transition season.)

Fifth things fourth:
There was a guy on the subway tonight who could barely keep his eyes open, he was so tired. However, he had such amazing optical poptitude that I imagined just keeping those bulging orbs open required a great deal of effort.

And last things last (or third things fifth):
You know what's awesome? Art Garfunkel's part in the song Save the Life of My Child. He mutters all this really cynical stuff in the background as a toss off, and if you can imagine him saying it with that six foot hairdo of his, it's just all that much better.


*Ok, so you can't see the SI dump from space anymore. But that thing right next to it, over in Brooklyn? Yeah, that's me and my zit.

war of the worlds redux?

You're worried. You've seen the beacon, shining brightly from midtown east, signaling to the extraterrestrials that they can land. You're stockpiling canned goods (and a can opener, of course, because you're not stoopid) and waiting in the basement.

Well, you can stop worrying. That's not a beacon to the aliens. It's the sun, glinting off my greasy, greasy hair, as there was not sufficient hot water this morning for me to shower.

Don't feel bad about being worried, though. My feet were, too. (Thanks to my shoes and the a/c in the office, they broke out in a cold sweat. I've treated them with a solid dose of cotton socks and sneakers, and they seem to be recovering nicely.)

intrigue! excitement! lies in your headlines!

Section One:
Things heard recently in my neighborhood

"I'm from Brooklyn. Not one of those backwards states like Kentucky or Minnesota or Connecticut."

"Is it possible to cultivate wild rice?"

"If I get into the stroller with you, who's going to push?"

Section Two:
Call and response

Let's pretend you and I are on a pre-first-date phone call, just like the one I had earlier this week. And when I say the following statements, you respond back with the genius lines provided for you. (Please sound dorky and unpleasant.)

Me: I'm taking a philosophy class and am finding it really cool how it's applying to so many different areas of my life.
You: Well, if something's broad enough, it could apply to anything.

Me: I don't know how you feel about the whole idea of "soulmates," but just go with me on this one -- what if your soulmate looks nothing like you expect her to?
You: I don't believe in soulmates. I flat out reject the idea.

And now switch! You call out and I'll respond.

You: I have this problem with women. They only want me for my body. I find that on this site that's not as much of a problem.
Me: ???

You: That was a joke.
Me: ???

You: So, I think it's a good idea to meet before too much time goes by. Maybe we could get coffee this weekend?
Me: NOT A CHANCE IN FLAMING HELL!

I mean,
Me: You know, Frank, I'm going to save us both some time and energy and tell you that I don't think this is a good match.

Section Three:
Why I can't have vanilla soymilk in the house

It's just too damn tasty!

Section Four:
The Cake and Celery Diet

I've found that when I date a lot, I go out with a number of duds. I mean, they're perfectly nice guys, but they're just not right for me, so there's no chemistry, or it's too much work, or whatever. These guys are the celery guys.

And every now and then, I meet a guy who really strikes my fancy -- makes me laugh, treats me like a princess, is smart, charming and thoughtful... These guys are, of course, the cake guys.

I've been on too much of a celery diet lately. And I had cake for the first time in months this week. I'd forgotten just how good cake tastes. With its frosting and gooey layers and yum-yum deliciousness...

I don't ever want to go back to celery again.

(Unless it's covered in peanut butter, but that makes the metaphor kind of break down, so maybe I'll just go and have my peanut butter by myself and not even try to work it into the story.)

some fun photos

I have a lot to say right now, but not a whole lot of time in which to say it. So instead, I'll share with you some fabulous photos I've taken in the last few weeks.

Prego! Ciao! Hotele de Holiday!

First, my friend from Colorado (the one who took my profile picture) was in town this week and he stayed at the Holiday Inn on 57th Street, which is surprisingly Italian -- as you can see from their elevator signs:

P.U! What's that Malodor?

I went with a friend to the Rubin museum last friday evening and in their bathroom, they had the funniest air freshener I've seen in a while. It's a bad photo, but I think you can get the idea:

After the museum I had dinner with another friend, and at that restaurant, their air freshener was also well-named ("Scense"), but it was too dark to get a photo.

Strip Off Your Skin and Slip Into Something Cozier

There's a great sculpture in the garden of the Lever House on Park Avenue of a pregnant woman who's had some severe dermabrasion (not my photo) :

However, recently, she must have gotten kind of chilly, because the last time I saw her, she was wearing something a little, well, bundle-y:

(She's recently been sent to her room for being naughty. No idea when she's coming back. Maybe she's just getting a bath. Or having her baby! I hope she hasn't moved somewhere else. I'm quite fond of her.)