the things I can't say

Sadly, the beau and I broke up recently. And one of the hardest parts of breaking up, for me, is figuring out what to do with all the little winks I've gotten from the universe since then that he would find apt or funny or cute. Things I want to tell him, but can't.

So I'm telling you instead. Because, well, they're apt and funny and cute and that's what you don't pay me for.

Thing 1:
A little over a week ago, the beau and I walked into an American Apparel store and I saw this adorable turquoise checked shirt (that would really only look good on a Super-Hipster -- or perhaps my extremely metrosexual boyfriend from five years ago), and pointed it out to him. He scowled (rightfully) and said, "only a Super-Hipster would wear that."

Now, secretly, if the shirt had been cut for a woman, I might have bought it for myself. Except that I look corpse-like in turquoise, and really don't need another blouse.

That foray into American Apparel sparked an argument (which I won't go into here) that essentially culminated in the unraveling of our relationship. The funny part is that this morning, on the subway, I sat next to a woman wearing the female version of that shirt.

Thing 2:
Eddie Izzard has been on my radar a lot lately. A friend emailed me today to say that a friend of hers had never seen Dress to Kill (arguably the funniest thing since sliced bread) and so my friend reported remedying that situation immediately. Then, my coach emailed me and prescribed a viewing of Dress to Kill so that I could get out of my head and into my belly(laughs). And THEN, my boss sent me a link (which neatly wraps this whole thing up in a bow) to an article about Eddie Izzard running 43 marathons in 52 days.

Did I mention the beau is a marathoner?

Yeah. Winking. I'm telling you. The whole universe is just winking at me. Like it's got galactic Tourette's or something.

a random story from my childhood

I can't be more than 13 when Darwin starts working for us. "Darwin" isn't her real name -- I mean, it is, legally, but it's not the one she was born with. At some point in her not so distant past, she tossed off something nice like Sheryl or Diane or Amy and adopted the mantle of Ye Olde Evolutionist(e). We're not sure why, but she seems normal (kind of), and my parents are in a bit of a desperate situation (what with Geraldine The Stupid Nanny having driven the Ford without oil all summer, effectively ruining the car my sister was supposed to learn to drive on, and thereby getting her ass shipped back to Glasgow post post haste) and so they hire her.

I've had a hundred nannies before, and I'll have a hundred more before I'm through, but none will be as awe-some (or perhaps awe-ful) as Darwin.

She stands a full five foot three. Now, I'm 13, so I haven't reached my stilty five eight yet, but I'm not far from it. But whereas I'm about, I don't know, 110 pounds, Darwin's got me beat by easily fifty pounds. She's kind of like a caramel apple, but weirder.

She's got eczema, which is fine, but she wears these ratty-tatty gloves to cover it up, which are not so fine. They're dirtier than the pair of socks I wore into the garage last week (because I'm 13 and the thought of getting a pair of slippers from upstairs was tooooo exhausting). They look like my dad's old underwear -- grayish, stretched out, and pathetic. She wears them all the time -- driving, cleaning, reading, and, worst of all, cooking. I'd almost prefer chunks of leprotic skin falling into my dinner than the shaky-flaky variety I'm getting from those gloves. (I could eat around large chunks of hand.) And she's not that great a cook, so it's not as if I'm being transported by delectable dinners to distract me from this likelihood.

Darwin does lots of things wrong -- she T boned the car the first week she was driving it and she vacuums in the nude (I have this on my sister's good authority, as she used to skip school and take her boyfriends to the house to make out until she discovered this disturbing phenomenon, which probably put her off making out for a whole month -- which is a long time for a high school sophomore), but for me, where she is about to go terribly wrong is in having a discussion with a 13 year old about Satan.

See, Darwin's wiccan, and, surprisingly, I don't hold that against wiccans. But she's strangely proselytizey, and decides (one dark and rainy (and I might add, super-spooky) night) to accompany me downstairs to the basement and talk to me about Satan.

"You know," she says, ironically brushing off the sofa with her dusty-yucky gloves before plopping down on it, "you should never tempt Satan."

A cricket chirps in the corner, and the cat slinks off to stalk it.

"Because Satan might feel moved to prove himself to you."

"Really?" I ask, casually. "Hmmmm."

I swallow the lump in my throat and change the subject, all the while thinking what the hell does it take to tempt Satan? Am I tempting Satan just by thinking about him? What's he going to do to prove himself to me? I'M GOING TO DIE OR, WORSE, END UP LIKE DARWIN!

That night, I can't sleep. Because, you know, I'm tempting Satan. Just by trying not to think about him. I don't pray to god (because, well, we're not close, and that feels like cheating) but I think horrible thoughts about serial killers (who probably tempted Satan) and the creepy axe-wielding man who lives under my bed and will hack my ankles to bits if I try to get out of bed. I sweat. I panic. I cry.

Finally, with the grace of a gazelle escaping the jaws of the impending cheetah, I leap from my bed and hustle my 13 year old butt down the stairs. I burst into my parents' room with the silence of a freight train and touch my mom on the shoulder.

"Mom!?!? I can't sleep! I'm afraid I'm tempting Sataaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"

I believe it was shortly thereafter that Darwin discovered the Galapagos.

yay! bug!

It has not been terribly happy in k8's nyc, so to compensate, I give you this:

I blame summer

My brain is turning somewhat to mush. I blame summer.

But that's neither here nor there. Look at what you can do on Facebook!

Hooray! I love to poke fanny!

And now that you know what you CAN do, here are some things you can't do in the state of New Jersey:

1. Throw a bad pickle in the streets of Trenton
2. Be a cat and not wear a bell to alert the birds of your whereabouts in Cresskill
3. Frown in Bernards Township

Who knew?

And you probably CAN eat this, but why would you, ever??
Caffeinated Beef Jerky! (Run!!!!)

And, as Fernando said this afternoon, "I think I've caused enough dumb for one day."

I'm using my powers for good. I think.

There are many things you need to know. And who better to supply them to you than me, right?
First, when Fernando and I escape on our Costa Rican holiday, we'll be staying in this hotel:

For several reasons.

1. It's a plane
2. Your neighbors are monkeys
3. It's in Costa Rica
4. It's a plane

Second, Apple is releasing its newest operating system, Snow Leopard, sometime soon. What I want to know is when are they releasing the upgrade to the kick-ass operating system, Def Leppard?

Third, I'm awfully fond of a very geeky, computer-related comic called xkcd. Occasionally it's too geeky, even for me, but the following comic had us rolling in the hallway recently:

Fourth: What's the last thing you think to hear a bike messenger saying into his phone? For me, it was easily, "Dude, 'polemical' is just another word for 'controversial.'"

Fifth, I love Mimi Smartypants. Because she loves Smashed Rats:

"If I have lunchtime errands, the route I take involves crossing the same street twice (which is totally possible, fuck you Heraclitus). This is because of crazy construction activity and blocked-off sidewalks. This could be kind of a drag, but now I look forward to it because of SMASHED RAT!

"A smashed squirrel is a pretty standard thing in Chicago. You know the kind—completely devoid of organs or guck (where did that go? stuck to the car tires? spread and diffused and soaked into the pavement?), flush with the street, basically just a flat gray strip of matted fur. But a smashed rat is something special! Rats are usually more wily and less interested in crossing streets, so they do not become smashed as often. Plus, that tail! The State Street Smashed Rat is really perfectly smashed, too: you can see the outline of his little face and body and the tail is still long and pinkish despite being smashed.

"Obviously, when I pass Smashed Rat I need to say “SMASHED RAT!” Smashed rat is the new dead bird. Yesterday as I was waiting for the light to change I said, “smashed rat” and a fellow pedestrian heard and gave me a strange look. So I pointed down and showed him the smashed rat so he could SHARE THE JOY."

Sixth, did you ever wonder what it looked like when trucks filled with various things tipped over? Then you need to go to http://www.truckspills.com/ and see images like when the truck full of chickens tipped over:

May I recommend the whale guts? (Just slightly too disgusting to post here!)

Ah... technology!

I was shopping online today for, um, personal items, and discovered hilarity waiting for me:


(if you can't see what's funny, click on the photo to make it bigger.)

Also, if you've ever wondered what I do for my living, click here. Just don't die of excitement.

Also, it's proof positive that Time Warner is raping and pillaging its customers when you call them to tell them you want to pay less and they offer you a better package, with more goodies, for less money. Oh yeah, now I've got the "All the Best" triple play for $13 less a month than my old "Nothing Good" package.

By the way, it's really difficult to post this entry under the category of "important stuff you need to know."

it's a miracle there's any space in my brain at all

You are very lucky readers, folks. Not everyone gets to reap the fruits of a diligent soul scouring the world for useful knowledge and then compiling it all together for you.

(Ok, that's not true. This is a public blog. Everyone could read it. Just not everyone does.)

The Booger Affair
Apparently, wall-booger-wiping is something of a pandemic.

(And here I thought you were supposed to wipe your boogers under the couch.)

Did you know?
Remember the Monkees? There was Davey Jones (the cute one), Mickey Dolenz (the crazy one), Peter Tork (the red headed one), and Mike Nesmith (the other one). Well, turns out that Mike Nesmith's mom, Bette, created Liquid Paper.

Bet you didn't (need to) know that one.

Audio Illusion
If you sit very, very quietly in the pantry at my office, you might think you were scuba diving. Because the ice maker makes this weird gurbley sound that really shouldn't be coming from an ice maker.

Also, if you sit very, very quietly in the pantry at my office, you're weird.

Optical Illusion
While we're on the topic of mistakes (not that I make them), I saw a link the other night for what I thought was Do Rito Slate Night.

Go ahead and check it out: www.doritoslatenight.com

Updates on Jesus and the Tiger
The beau came up with a fabulous idea for a new piece of artwork in my apartment building hallway -- just a picture of the tiger with a scrap of Jesus-colored robe dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Take that, multinational deity!

On the way to work
I love my commute. This week I heard a dad saying, as he dropped his little girl off at nursery school, "She's so excited to see you! God knows she's sick of us!"

Also, there was a pair of fat man pants left on the windshield of a car. I chuckled to myself as I imagined this was due to a recreation of the Whitesnake video gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Fashion Basic
I have a skirt that I love to wear in the summer -- it's linen and lightweight and in my world it stands in for shorts, which are a kind of clothing I don't believe in. It recently developed two holes in it and was destined for the rag heap. UNTIL... I realized that if I cut the tags off of it, I could wear it inside out!

Yeah, I'm sexy.

Hilarity and Vitriol, Rolled Into One


(if the embedding doesn't work for you, go here: http://www.escapistmagazine.com/videos/view/zero-punctuation/860-Call-of-Juarez-Bound-in-Blood)