Brief Diatribe about Air Travel

Before too much time goes by and this becomes a random rant, a few reflections on my air travel last weekend:

Originally -- originally, she said, with a great sense of foreboding -- my flight (please notice that the word flight is singular here) was supposed to leave at 11:00 am. My mother has drilled into me from infancy the importance of arriving at the airport at least two hours before the plane leaves, so I was getting ready to climb into my taxi at 8:30 am. That's when I got the call. A dramatic re-enactment:

ME: (picks up phone)
ROBOT VOICE: Hello! This is American Airlines calling about a flight cancellation.
ME: What? Fuck!
ROBOT VOICE: Please press 1 to continue.
ME: Fuck! (Presses 1)
ROBOT VOICE: Your flight has been canceled! We have re-booked you on a flight departing from New York Kennedy at 2:30 pm arriving in Los Angeles California at 5:45 pm. And then on a flight departing Los Angeles California at 6:25 pm, arriving in San Francisco California at 7:45 pm. To accept this booking, please press 1.
ME: FUCK YOU!!!! (Presses 1)
ROBOT VOICE: Thank you for flying with American Airlines.

I mean, look, I appreciate the call. Showing up at the airport 5 hours early is no fun. But I firmly believe that bad news should be delivered by a real person. That way, at least you have someone to curse at.

So, my singular flight turned into flights, plural. Which sucked. But what sucked even more is when I got on my first flight and learned that crappy airline food now comes with a price tag. Really? Because flight prices seem higher than ever. And the comfort factor hasn't changed. So tell me, why am I paying for sustenance? Does $500 not earn me a rubbery sandwich? I ask you.

Random aside: When I was getting on the flight I noticed that Vanessa Hudgens, the tweeny-bopper star of Disney's High School Musical goldmine (who I only recognize because Us Weekly insists on covering her every move), was in 1st class. That was depressing, because I immediately knew that if the plane went down the headline would read VANESSA HUDGENS KILLED IN FIERY PLANE CRASH. That is the worst thing about having a celebrity on your flight (I really hope other people think about this, because if they don't I am really fucking morose).

Oh, and speaking of first class? The whole classist thing on planes is incredibly irritating, mostly because they seem to be trying as hard as they can to rub it in coach class's face. I mean, we walk through first class when we get in the plane. We see how much bigger and more comfortable their seats are. THEN, we are told not to use their bathrooms, because, presumably, we might taint them with our imitation perfume and unmanicured paws. THEN, over the intercom we hear "Meals during the flight will be lunch for those in first class, and beverages for economy, with food available for purchase". So they get to eat free. I guess a rubbery sandwich costs an extra $400 of diposable income. THEN (I really wish there was a way to capitalize THEN even more to suggest my increasing anger), as we start to descend into our destination airport, after having watched "Employee of the Month" on a washed-out, 4 inch screen, over the intercom the flight attendants ask that "those in first class unplug their personal entertainment devices". Those assholes! They get to watch a movie that doesn't suck! And THEN, the final insult, we walk out of the plane and see, in first class, stacks of magazines, rumpled down comforters, and champagne glasses. It's enough to make you want to KILL someone. If coach seats cost $40, okay then, but for hundreds of dollars, the ridiculous classism seems entirely unnecessary.

Then again, I've never flown first class. Something tells me I would like it.

Brief Diatribe about Air Travel

For Your Weekend Enjoyment: The Sassy Curmudgeon Smack-O-Meter

(Click to enlarge)

For Your Weekend Enjoyment: The Sassy Curmudgeon Smack-O-Meter

Barack My (Pretend Lesbian) World

Last night I found myself standing in a fabulous loft in Chelsea in the company of over 100 gay men... and Barack Obama.

(Magical rewind! To build suspense!)

My Dad, as another birthday present (I am really loving the “experience” gifts, by the way; my mom gifted me a haircut, too! Mostly because I am too poor to afford one, but whatever – score!), let me tag along to an Obama “dessert reception” held at the apartment of a few of his friends. It was aimed at the LGBT community, and also for people who had donated $2300 (the most you can donate to a primary candidate) to the campaign. So I was crashing on multiple counts.

When we arrived, almost everyone was wearing Obama buttons. I had assumed that this was tantamount to wearing the T-shirt of the band you’re going to see, and so had affixed a ’64 “Citizens for Johnson and Humphrey” button to my cardigan. I pictured Barack reading it and laughing, as we chatted over cupcakes. More on that later.

So, first things first: security was pretty lax. They had people taking names at the door, and my name wasn’t on the list. You’d think they’d be strict about letting an anonymous person into a private event where the nation’s most assassination-likely public figure was going to speak, but they didn’t even ask me for ID, let alone look in my bag. I frequently think (morosely) that I would make a great terrorist (note to the CIA: I am joking, obvi I am not looking for such a job, please don’t arrest me) because no one ever stops me for anything. I guess I look like a rich lesbian. Who knew?

We rode up in the elevator, which opened up into the loft. I was kind of hoping that Obama would be there already, padding around in socks, sipping a beer and making small talk with the guests. This naïveté would carry me through the night. I brought my camera with me, so sure was I that I would leave with a snapshot of me and Barack. Oh, sometimes I am just so precious I can’t stand it.

Dad and I were standing by the windows when Secret Service came over and closed all the blinds. Someone said it was for safety reasons, which suddenly did not make me feel good at all to be standing by the windows. Then again, the cupcakes were by the windows. Which brings to mind the old Eddie Izzard routine: Cake, or death? In this case, the two were inextricably linked. Unsurprisingly, I stood my ground by the desserts.

The place was pretty packed when, all of a sudden, people started clapping and hooting, signaling that Obama had arrived. Sadly, my post by the cupcakes meant that I was far away from the reception area, but I held out hope that Barack would have to sample the food at some point. The Secret Service cleared a little circle at the front of the room and Obama began to speak. At which point I found myself in my first ever Caucasian gospel church.

As you probably know, white people don’t tend to make noise in church. They sit quietly and sing their hymns and that’s that. But when Obama started to speak, it was like there was a fever in the room. Men in suits were swaying and nodding as they attempted to take photos with their iPhones. Women stood barefoot on chairs, shouting “That’s right!” after every articulate point the senator made. Murmurs would rise and fall like waves. I almost expected people to start fanning themselves and crying out “Amen!” And, you know, I guess white people have as much of a right to do that as anyone, but it just looked so funny. The woman on the chair was really annoying me, though. First of all, you do not take your shoes off and stand on someone’s leather chair without asking. Secondly, no matter how much you agree with Obama you do not need to shout affirmations at the top of your lungs. Thirdly, she just had that look of someone I knew needed a smack. So many people have that look. Maybe it’s just me?

So anyway, Barack spoke and was very good and funny and articulate. He spoke a lot about gay rights and concerns that the LGBT community might have, in a way that was very real. He said he has always voted in support of civil unions but doesn’t think it’s realistic that there will be a national law legalizing same-sex marriage anytime soon. “I know I’m in no position to tell anyone to be patient,” he said, “But politically I don’t think we have a majority right now.” I appreciated that he was honest and wasn’t making empty promises. He didn’t use sound bites and it felt like he was thinking about his answers. I caught a few peeks of his head bobbing around. He is handsomer in person, not as washed-out looking. The possibility that I would meet him, or even shake his hand, dwindled with every passing moment. There were too many assholes standing between Obama and the cupcakes. He would have to be insane to open himself up to that kind of parade of handshaking, not to mention that you could tell that almost everyone there would shove themselves in his path and ask him obnoxious questions. I was, I admit, a tiny bit relieved that I might not actually meet him, given my track record of humiliating myself in front of celebrities. Still, I knew that this was probably the closest I would ever get to him. I comforted myself with Rice Krispies treats.

After a few idiotic questions (why do people feel so compelled to ask cocky, ridiculous questions like “What are the first three things you will do the morning of your first day in office?” I so wish he had said “Uh, probably take a piss, read the newspaper, have some Danish.”), Obama begged off, saying he needed to get some sleep. He started to make his way back to the elevator, and my Dad, God bless him, shoved me forward. I inched closer and closer to Obama, but lo and behold, the bitch from the chair pushed her way in front of me and literally threw herself through a sea of people, sticking her arm out like she was grabbing at a drowning child. “Your family is so wonderful,” she said. Really? That’s the sparkling jewel you simply had to utter? Her level on my Smack-O-Meter went up to Red (I base it on the government’s Terror Alert chart).

Anyway, long story short I didn’t get to touch Obama. I didn’t get to chat with him over profiteroles, and I certainly didn’t get my picture taken with him. The closest I got was standing in the elevator he had just been in, holding his eponymous cupcake. Which I carried all the way home and then fed to my husband.


(Pre-haircut. I hope to look much better than this soon.)

Barack My (Pretend Lesbian) World

San Francisco Round Up!

So, I spent the weekend in beautiful, warm, some might argue overly sunny (if some are used to concrete and shadows and Nor'Easters, such as I) San Francisco, taking a writing workshop with my literary idol, Lynda Barry!


That's me, with her! She made me give a "thumbs up" sign, by the way -- that is not, generally, how I roll. But I didn't care because she is so incredibly rad. And I don't use the word "rad" either! Wow!

My Dad gave me the trip and the class for my birthday. I came across the photo below while I was downloading my photos from the weekend, and it seemed to fit the celebratory nature of this post.


Thanks, Dad! You rock.

My class was in the Mission District. In fact, I never left the Mission the entire time I was in San Francisco, since my hosts live there, too. The Mission is sort of indescribable, but I spent a lot of time trying to put it into words for any New Yorkers who have never seen it: It's like mixing 1 part Bowery (pre-gentrification) with 1 part Coney Island and 1.5 parts Chinatown, except substitute Latinos for the Chinese. Except of course the neighborhood could never exist in New York; it would immediately cost a million dollars to buy a loft and Trump would build a tower.

The building my class was held in is called The Women's Building (or Edificio de Mujeres), a multicultural center for ... women! Here is the awesome mural covering the outside:


Taking a touchy-feely writing class in this building from a woman who espouses the wonders of "magical hippie love" made me feel a little inferior. I wish I was unselfconscious enough to be a free-lovin' hippie child (and I imagine my devout misanthropy wouldn't do me any favors if I tried to convert). Also there was a girl in the class named -- I kid you not -- Flower Frankenstein. So the competition for best feminist nonconformist was pretty much already won.

On Easter Sunday, we had an extra-long lunch break so that we could partake in the festival going on in Dolores Park, held by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. The Sisters are a group of drag queen nuns. I didn't get to see them up close, but I did meet some very colorful attendees:



I saw a few Hunky Jesuses (or is it Jesi?) getting ready for the official Hunky Jesus contest, but sadly I had to go back to class before the festivities began. I still want to know what that strap-on was used for (to anyone who doesn't know what I'm talking about -- that's what you get for not reading my blog regularly! Strap-on mysteries!)

I will eventually post some of what I actually wrote during the workshop ... it was an interesting experience, since I wrote by hand and was not allowed to pick up my pen or re-read what I wrote. The result is much more raw and unpolished than what I usually write, and devoid of the self-deprecation and attempts at wit that I tend to view as my signature style. Most of the stories are brief childhood remembrances (we were limited to seven minutes per piece), and since I had a pretty happy childhood they deal with things like school lunches and peeing my pants. I know you can't wait.

San Francisco Round Up!

I Have No Explanation for This

I made this on careerbuilder.com (ironically, I only go to that site to procrastinate. Huzzah!)

You can also make it talk. Mine says:

I AM AN OLD COOT. I WILL HIT YOU WITH MY MOTORIZED WHEELCHAIR. LOOK OUT!

I Have No Explanation for This

My Marital Spats Are Different Than Most

Every once in awhile, I fall asleep on the couch but wake up in bed, and Jeff assures me that the process of moving me from said couch to said bed is, to put it mildly, difficult. Apparently I bat him away, cling to lamps, wriggle and squirm, and generally make my body as heavy as possible as he attempts to drag me into the bedroom. What he didn't know -- until last night -- is that I sometimes fall asleep on the couch on purpose.

Last night, I thought Jeff was working in the study, so I turned off Letterman, tucked myself in with a blanket, nestled my head into the scrotum-like beanbag pillow that my Mom gave me for Christmas a few years back, and was reaching to turn off the light when Jeff wandered into the living room.

"Nope!" he cried, lunging towards me. "You can't sleep there. Up!"

"Nyargh!" I replied, pulling the blanket over my head.

"Get up, you little asshole!" He started pulling my feet off the couch.

At that point I was motivated solely by pride. "No, I like it here!" I feigned sleep, making elaborate snoring sounds.

And that is when my husband punched me in the ass.

Gently, but firmly, he was pushing me -- by the ass -- off the couch. It worked, too, because if someone grabs your arm you can pull it away, but when a foreign object is flying towards your ass you tend to get up.

(Note: Jeff wants it made very clear that he was not abusing me. Which is technically true, though interrupting sleep is very close to my definition of torture.)

Now, of course, Jeff has discovered my kryptonite, so my clandestine, on-purpose dozes are probably a thing of the past. At least I can thank God he didn't punch me in the boobs. It really hurts to be punched in the boobs.

My Marital Spats Are Different Than Most

Holly GoHomely: Tuesday Night In

So often people ask me, so Una, what does a glamorous city girl like you do for fun? (Nobody has ever asked me that, at least not in real life. In my imaginary Vanity Fair interviews, I am asked this and many other hard-hitting questions, usually over a bottle of Rioja, usually by James McAvoy).

Let me tell you what I'm doing RIGHT NOW: Sitting on my couch, glass of wine and New York magazine in front of me, Weight Watchers pepperoni pizza Smartwich to my left (Note: this is by no means my dream meal, but I currently have about $20 in my checking account and this is what was in my freezer, alongside a very sketchy bottle of Jose Cuervo, dating - I think -- back to 2003). I am surrounded by Girl Scout cookies. Thin Mints, Samoas, and Tagalongs. I am watching Entertainment Tonight. I am Holly GoHomely.

I was IMing (that's Instant Messaging, to anyone born pre-1975) with a friend just before I left work for the day and I wrote the following sentence: "I am going home to drink, talk to you later." It wasn't until I re-read it that I realized how wrong it sounded. Don't most people go out to drink? Is it really, really sad that going home to drink wine in my living room is, to me, as exciting (if not more) than going out to a noisy bar? Do most people not drink alone while watching American Idol? Is that not normal?

Anyway, so be it. This -- the wine, the cookies, the mindless television -- is my idea of a good time. And I know I haven't blogged about my awesome trip to San Francisco ... I just need to scan a few things, and gather my notes. I will give you a preview, though:

-I met my idol Lynda Barry and she was fucking awesome! And she told me (well, the class, but I like to think it was just me) a dirty joke in a Midwestern accent.

-I spent Easter Sunday eating a tuna sandwich watching a "Hunky Jesus" contest hosted by drag queens (I know that the tuna sandwich isn't an important detail, but doesn't it make the mental image so much richer and slighlty more inappropriate?)

-One of said Hunky Jesus hopefuls borrowed a strap-on dildo from the lesbian couple I was staying with. What he used it for is yet to be determined.

More to come! Until then, you may ruminate on your jealousy of my delectable Tagalongs.

Holly GoHomely: Tuesday Night In

I Am Going To San Francisco ... But I Will Not Wear Any Flowers in My Hair

So I'm leaving on a jet plane tomorrow morning and I don't know when I'll be back again (well, Monday night). Hopefully I will have some super-exciting adventures to share. At the very least I'll have some crappy in-flight movies to review.

Have great weekends!

I Am Going To San Francisco ... But I Will Not Wear Any Flowers in My Hair

I'm Ready For My Close-Up

Jeff bought a new camera on Sunday. He is retardedly thrilled. I call his cameras his "mistresses," because he spends all day every weekend with them, not me, and while Jeff doesn't own an ounce of porn, I often catch him in the wee hours browsing camera sites, his eyes wide and glassy.

Since I am usually around, and (see below) a shameless ham most of the time, I am Jeff's most-used model-slash-guinea pig. He did not waste any time in testing out his new toy, and, in reviewing the photos, I came face to face with three distinct facets of my personality:

THE VAMP (only comes out if you feed her martinis)


THE SHAMELESS HAM (always lurking just beneath the surface; loves wigs)


and, closest to my heart, THE INSECURE ADOLESCENT (tweezers will never tame her!)


I think it's safe to say that the world dodged a major bullet when I refused acting jobs as a child, intent instead on becoming a bus driver. All of New York is lucky that did not happen. Publishing, in the end, took one for the team.

I'm Ready For My Close-Up

Public Service Announcement: Jumbo Push Pop Is NC-17

Yesterday afternoon, my co-worker yelled "Who wants a Push Pop?" and of course I was all over that because, free candy! I mean, really.

I remember Push Pops (not to be confused with the delicious sherbet Push-Up Pop) as being great because you slowly pushed them up from below with your finger as you wore them down from the top, unlike Ring Pops, which just left your knuckles a big, sticky mess.

So it was with great excitement that I snatched off the cap and put the pop in my mouth. At which point I was introduced to what is referred to on the label as "spring action". Basically what this means is that as soon as you push the top of the pop down with your tongue, it releases a spring that sends 5 inches of oblong candy flying back into your throat. The sensation, ladies (and some men), will be familiar. Action indeed.

The catch is, there's no catch for the spring. Once you release it, you are forced to gag on the thing until you lick it into submission. It is a candy that should not, under any circumstances, be consumed at work. And as for the packaging that says it's not to be used by "ages 3 and under"? Kids don't need to grow up that fast. Make it 18.

Public Service Announcement: Jumbo Push Pop Is NC-17

Week O' Happiness

The sweet, hot hell of three closes in a row is over -- OVER! -- and I have a whole week before I have to do it again. I'm taking two days off to fly to San Francisco to take part in a writing workshop taught by my idol, Lynda Barry.


I really hope that this workshop inspires me to start some larger projects ... I have some ideas, but I need a kick in the ass. Much to my chagrin, watching television and drinking beer has not proven to be a sufficient ass-kick.

Week O' Happiness

Fame! Fleeting, in my case.

You know what's weird? Buying the paper and seeing your friend on the cover of the Weekend Arts section.

Then again, it must have been equally weird for all of my pre-school classmates to see me on Women's Wear Daily in 1982. Just wanted to remind you all that I had my fifteen minutes. Unfortunately none of us could read at the time.

Fame! Fleeting, in my case.

Fun With Grilling in a Brooklyn Apartment

Who needs a backyard? On Monday, I grilled enough lamb, chicken, and shrimp kebabs to feed eleven people ... on my George Foreman.

Of course, it took three hours. But regardless.

Fun With Grilling in a Brooklyn Apartment

This is Next to My Desk at Work

See my little yellow head, up near the top? That's why I haven't posted as much -- I'm too busy having a series of nervous breakdowns.

This is Next to My Desk at Work

In the Heights Opening Night

Sunday night was the opening night of In the Heights, my friend Lin's Broadway musical! Jeff and I brought our sexy faces (well, he brought his sexy face and I brought my cartoon face).


The show was amazing (see the widget above the blog title for a preview) and Lin got a five-minute standing ovation! I wish I could show you the look on his face. Alas, I can only show you what he looked like when we attacked him at the after party:


Oh, and P.S. The New York Times compared Lin to Ethel Merman! Ha!

You know I was on celeb watch. Look! It's Anthony Rapp!


(Most people know him from Rent, but to me, he will always be Darryl from Adventures in Babysitting.)

And look! It's Dr. Calliope Torres from Grey's Anatomy, otherwise known by her actual name, Sara Ramirez!


I did not see this with my own eyes, but apparently she got down on her knees in front of Lin and bowed. Also, she is a very good salsa dancer. I, on the other hand, am not.


Just look at Aileen's face.

When we started dancing, I had had a cocktail. Singular.


And then, I had ... more? I guess? I don't usually freak people sober.


I definitely don't jump into sandwiches with men I barely know. Look at my face. I'm so proud of myself. Look! I'm in a grind sandwich! Yay!


Jeff and Micah also showed off their dancefloor skillz.


It was a night to remember -- and at midnight, it became Jeff's birthday. Happy birthday baby! I got you a grind sandwich! Yay!

In the Heights Opening Night

Vote Gutt '08

When I was young, I loved Three Men and a Baby, like, psychotically. Watching it twenty times or so made me start to idolize the principle cast. I had a pre-adolescent crush on Ted Danson, I trusted Tom Selleck because of his kindly Dad 'stache (which could seem creepy to some, but my Dad had a 'stache back then, too), and, while he kind of annoyed me, I also grew fond of Steve Guttenberg, which turned out to be a bad celebrity investment.

The Gutt (which he calls himself; I can't take credit for it no matter how badly I want to) went on to star in such film gems as It Takes Two and Major Movie Star (the straight-to-DVD Jessica Simpson vehicle), and if you Google him you will see a lot of pictures of Howie Mandell. I remember watching the Oscars back in the '90s, and the Gutt was the first person on the red carpet. I remember thinking, Wow, who invited Steve Guttenberg? Party foul! Still, though, I secretly wanted to see him stage a comeback, and also to stop making that smarmy face he always makes.

Enter "Dancing With the Stars." The Gutt is a contestant this season -- a perfect comeback vehicle if there ever was one! I'm being totally serious. Everybody watches that show. All it will take for him to boost his ego and land a sitcom role is a mean samba ... and YOUR VOTE.

So please, help this punctual, talented actor regain his pride and his fame. Watch "Dancing With the Stars" and VOTE GUTT!

P.S. I will deny ever having written this. Do not remind me.

Vote Gutt '08

Look at this Fucking Candidate

This Obama flyer -- presumably not official, but hey, you never know! -- cheered me up.


Click to enlarge. You won't be sorry.

Look at this Fucking Candidate

Democrats, Unite!

I am getting nervous. Not because Hillary Clinton won the primaries in Texas and Ohio -- fair play to her -- but because the fight for the nomination is still going, even promising to get more contentious and negative.

I'm no political pundit, but it seems to me that the longer this fight goes on, the less likely the Democratic candidate will win in November, no matter who it is. The party is so divided over two qualified candidates that it s tearing itself in two. If -- and it looks ever likely that it's not an 'if' but a 'when' -- it comes to cut-throat fighting over superdelegates, if the nomination isn't decided until the convention, I think that there will be such a divide within the party that it will be impossible to recover from. Hillary fans will resent a victorious Obama and say he can't win, Obama supporters will cry foul if Hillary gets the nomination despite lagging behind in pledged delegates. Meanhwile, McCain will be cruising along with the entire Republican party at his back.

I hope I'm wrong, but I'm getting a bad feeling about this.

Democrats, Unite!

Jeff Made Me Post This, Because it is Embarassing

I wasn't going to blog about my day yesterday, because, believe it or not, I am the kind of person who doesn't like to overshare. Yes, I talk a lot about my life on this blog, but I generally steer clear of explicit content, whether that means bodily functions (drippies notwithstanding, and FYI I actually got a request--possibly in jest--for more about that) or sexual escapades. Some bloggers feel free to write about their bodies and exploits in graphic detail, but you know, my parents read this. It is every child's nightmare to hear their parents having sex, and I imagine the horror goes both ways.

Aaaaanyway, this isn't even about sex, so I don't know why I digressed. It's about lighting myself on fire ... for the second time in a year. Only, sadly, this story revolves around something I consider to be oversharing: namely, number two.

Monday night, I was taken out by my boss and his wife for approximately 16 drinks as well as a delicious sushi dinner. I started off with lychee martinis, but then moved on to white wine, a terrible mistake, but one you can only recognize if you are sober. Once you give a girl 5 martinis, the only judgment she can make with any certainty is "Yay! More drinks!" Long story short, martinis, wine, sushi ... my tummy was not amused.

Fast forward to Tuesday at work. My stomach grumbles, my intestines dry heave. I am struck by a horrible realization: I will have to do number two at the office. Like I said, I am a private person. I don't like for anyone to know when I ... do that. If I do that, I mean -- obviously I am a girl and girls don't poo.

So. This was an unavoidable situation. It was either that or, probably, die (that's what it felt like). So I steeled myself, looked around for potential witnesses, grabbed some matches for damage control, and darted into the bathroom.

As I am a considerate person, and a fan of smelling nice, I set about the task of "clearing the air," so to speak, after it was all said and done. I took my pack of matches and attempted to light one. It didn't light. I struck it again -- nothing. I struck it four, five times, my anxiety growing. I had been in there for what seemed like hours! Everyone would know!!! Summoning all my strength, I struck the match one last time. And that's when a sizzling fireball flew into my face.

The head of the match had lit, but had broken off and bounced off of my neck and into my curls. I heard the unmistakable hiss of burning hair. Shrieking, I rushed to the sink and doused myself with water. Assessing the damage, I: smelled like burnt ass; was wet from the neck down; had a hole in my sweater; had a burn on my neck; and -- worst of all -- had failed to conceal my clandestine bathroom trip.

And that, friends, is what it means to add injury to insult. Also it seems to reflect poorly on my place in the world of Darwin.

Jeff Made Me Post This, Because it is Embarassing

Pre-Coffee Post (Hence No Title)

This morning I was all up in Jeff's face, nuzzling -- as I am wont to do -- and I found myself staring, starry-eyed, at his eyelashes and the outline of his nose and mouth. He looked so peaceful and -- because I was so close -- kind of fuzzy and baby-like. I found myself thinking, Awwwww, that's what fetus-Jeff must have looked like!

You know you're in love when you get all misty over someone's zygote stage.

Pre-Coffee Post (Hence No Title)

Trying to Eloise-ify my Winter Blues

I was going to write a sort of whiny post about how I'm seasonally depressed and hermetically sealed inside my apartment, but instead I will try to make it seem not quite so pathetic by adopting the voice of my perpetual heroine and life coach, Eloise:

Here's what I can do:
-Watch TV for hours on end;
-Eat Cadbury Mini Eggs at a truly astonishing rate;
-Sleep;
-Reorganize my closet.

Here's what I don't do enough of:
-Go outdoors.

Sigh. When will it be spring?

Trying to Eloise-ify my Winter Blues