Positive comments only, please. I can't get contacts because I have a fear of things touching my eyeballs.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The New Me
My glasses are here! And I'll have to wear them alot, so get used to this:
Positive comments only, please. I can't get contacts because I have a fear of things touching my eyeballs.
Positive comments only, please. I can't get contacts because I have a fear of things touching my eyeballs.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
No Can Opener? No Prob.
For those of you living sheltered, unchallenging lives, do not fear! For tho' the following thoughts may seem harrowing, I have passed twixt the eye of the needle and emerged. And all that was hurt was a $1.78 can of jellied cranberry sauce.
That was Jeff. OK, here is what happened: Last week, Jeff decided to make roast chicken with stuffing and cranberry sauce. He bought all of the ingredients and was in the midst of cooking dinner when we realized that the can opener was missing. Why? Because I had left it at work, for one of my do-it-yourself can of soup lunch banquets.
Jeff suggested that we do without the cranberry sauce, but it is his FAVORITE. Plus, I knew that I could get the can open with some gumption and disregard for personal safety.
Gumption, maybe. Motor skills, maybe not. My lady determined that we would have cranberry sauce and the lack of basic tools, much like our distant cro-magnon relatives bashing a rock against a deer carcass, would not deter her.
Um, what-EVS. Check it:
Hammer+screw+screwdriver=can opener. Sort of. It took about 45 minutes.
Here we see why Una is not a surgeon.
Fuck YOU. I watch ER and Gray's Anatomy. Oh, and Nip/Tuck. And we needed some sauce, stat.
That poor, violated can. I wish I could say that all of this effort could make us harken back to frontier ancestors and make our dinner taste all the sweeter. Unfortunately, the dirty tools made it taste like we were eating loose change.
A little bit of aluminum never hurt anyone. And besides, it all turned out OK. See?
You could say it looks like a gaping wound, but you could also say it looks like love.
That was Jeff. OK, here is what happened: Last week, Jeff decided to make roast chicken with stuffing and cranberry sauce. He bought all of the ingredients and was in the midst of cooking dinner when we realized that the can opener was missing. Why? Because I had left it at work, for one of my do-it-yourself can of soup lunch banquets.
Jeff suggested that we do without the cranberry sauce, but it is his FAVORITE. Plus, I knew that I could get the can open with some gumption and disregard for personal safety.
Gumption, maybe. Motor skills, maybe not. My lady determined that we would have cranberry sauce and the lack of basic tools, much like our distant cro-magnon relatives bashing a rock against a deer carcass, would not deter her.
Um, what-EVS. Check it:
Hammer+screw+screwdriver=can opener. Sort of. It took about 45 minutes.
Here we see why Una is not a surgeon. Fuck YOU. I watch ER and Gray's Anatomy. Oh, and Nip/Tuck. And we needed some sauce, stat.
That poor, violated can. I wish I could say that all of this effort could make us harken back to frontier ancestors and make our dinner taste all the sweeter. Unfortunately, the dirty tools made it taste like we were eating loose change.
A little bit of aluminum never hurt anyone. And besides, it all turned out OK. See?
You could say it looks like a gaping wound, but you could also say it looks like love.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Of Mice and Poorly-Dressed Men
I returned home last night to find a dead mouse in my foyer. Unfortunately this is not the first time this has happened—come winter, our apartment (and specifically our rug), becomes the place where mice crawl out to die.
While I have to extend my gratitude to the mice for not dying behind the fridge and filling the house with what my mother refers to as "eau de mousey," I wonder what goes through their minds as they lurch towards the light. Where are they going? Are they dying in plain view to make a statement? Or does the poison (left out by an exterminator every few months) act so fast that they just drop wherever they are?
Regardless, I luckily had two bottles of wine on my person when I discovered the mouse, so I opened one and covered the carcass with a napkin until Jeff came home.
Now, onto fashion. I stumbled upon Vivienne Westwood's menswear the other day on New York magazine's website. And, well, just look:
This man's destination is less obvious. Perhaps he is a hipster hobo on his way to a crafts fair, wearing his homemade macrame poncho as self-promotion but erring on the side of caution with sneakers, should he need to run from frightening gangs of schoolgirl thugs. Or maybe he's just on his way home from a game of aboriginal football with Jennifer Connelly.
You'd have to be a giant douchebag to wear this trompe l'oeil tie shirt with a satin tuxedo jacket and pants made of sleeping bag, so in a way the kneepads don't surprise me: this dude just knows that he is asking for a beatdown.
Again with the kneepads! But methinks this sexy farmhand is not so much cruisin' for a bruisin' as he is cruisin' ... for another farm boy.
If all of the characters on Blossom were consolidated into one outfit, this would be it: The hat, a porkpie from dad Nick's sensitive musician wardrobe, adorned with twee flowers by You Know Who. The cardigan, Anthony's AA security blanket. The leggings, Six's date-night pants of choice. The rad sneakers, Woah Joey's go-to kicks. The bow and arrow? We'll never know.
While I have to extend my gratitude to the mice for not dying behind the fridge and filling the house with what my mother refers to as "eau de mousey," I wonder what goes through their minds as they lurch towards the light. Where are they going? Are they dying in plain view to make a statement? Or does the poison (left out by an exterminator every few months) act so fast that they just drop wherever they are?
Regardless, I luckily had two bottles of wine on my person when I discovered the mouse, so I opened one and covered the carcass with a napkin until Jeff came home.
Now, onto fashion. I stumbled upon Vivienne Westwood's menswear the other day on New York magazine's website. And, well, just look:
This man person is wearing a skirt, a floral-print blazer, and is carrying not one, but two man-purses. With a turtleneck, fisherman's cap (perhaps hiding the large dent in his head), and burgundy kneesocks. The only place this person could possibly be striding towards so purposefully is into the bowels of the Port Authority to sit next to me on a bus.
This man's destination is less obvious. Perhaps he is a hipster hobo on his way to a crafts fair, wearing his homemade macrame poncho as self-promotion but erring on the side of caution with sneakers, should he need to run from frightening gangs of schoolgirl thugs. Or maybe he's just on his way home from a game of aboriginal football with Jennifer Connelly.
You'd have to be a giant douchebag to wear this trompe l'oeil tie shirt with a satin tuxedo jacket and pants made of sleeping bag, so in a way the kneepads don't surprise me: this dude just knows that he is asking for a beatdown. 
Again with the kneepads! But methinks this sexy farmhand is not so much cruisin' for a bruisin' as he is cruisin' ... for another farm boy.
If all of the characters on Blossom were consolidated into one outfit, this would be it: The hat, a porkpie from dad Nick's sensitive musician wardrobe, adorned with twee flowers by You Know Who. The cardigan, Anthony's AA security blanket. The leggings, Six's date-night pants of choice. The rad sneakers, Woah Joey's go-to kicks. The bow and arrow? We'll never know.But the real reason I saved this for last is the bare ass in the background! The farmer boy is wearing assless overalls. I guess that answers our question.
Have a great weekend!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Japan Makes the Best Toys
An amazing website, featuring an Obama doll that wields an Uzi like a badass, fights Darth Vader, and relaxes with oranges (yes, really) awaits you here.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
At Last
Somehow I didn't cry at all during the inauguration ceremonies, but today I came across a video of the Obamas' first dance, and somehow that did the trick. I'm a sap.
Fun With Crosswords Part 4
Me: Honey, I'm doing something wrong. I'm getting "titty" as an answer to the Sunday puzzle. Will Shortz would not say titty.
Jeff: What's the clue?
Me: "It's fed at a table." Could it mean, like ... breastfeeding?
Jeff: I highly doubt that.
Me: Then what?
Jeff: Kitty.
Me: Not everyone has cats. Plus, they eat out of bowls on the floor.
Jeff: Like in poker. The kitty.
Me: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.
Jeff: What's the clue?
Me: "It's fed at a table." Could it mean, like ... breastfeeding?
Jeff: I highly doubt that.
Me: Then what?
Jeff: Kitty.
Me: Not everyone has cats. Plus, they eat out of bowls on the floor.
Jeff: Like in poker. The kitty.
Me: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
And Don't Let the Door Hit Ya on the Way Out!
A friend pointed out that Cheney in a wheelchair looks just like Mr. Potter in It's A Wonderful Life. I feel he looks more like the young/old Brad Pitt in Benjamin Button. Discuss.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Book Learnin'
I'm working on my unibrow essay this month, and I've actually been doing some research on the subject to help make my flippancy and use of expletives seem more authoritative.
Anyway, fun fact: One of Frida Kahlo’s most famous paintings (above) is titled Self Portrait with Thorn Necklace, Hummingbird and Unibrow. I knew that her unibrow was always prominent, but I didn't realize that Kahlo's titles acknowledged it outright. That is actually a really good idea; I might steal that from her. Instead of seeing my old photos as unflattering relics, I can turn them into art. My twelfth birthday party will heretofore be known as Self Portrait with Oversize Denim Hat, Slap Bracelet and Unibrow. Maybe I’ll sell them on eBay.
Anyway, fun fact: One of Frida Kahlo’s most famous paintings (above) is titled Self Portrait with Thorn Necklace, Hummingbird and Unibrow. I knew that her unibrow was always prominent, but I didn't realize that Kahlo's titles acknowledged it outright. That is actually a really good idea; I might steal that from her. Instead of seeing my old photos as unflattering relics, I can turn them into art. My twelfth birthday party will heretofore be known as Self Portrait with Oversize Denim Hat, Slap Bracelet and Unibrow. Maybe I’ll sell them on eBay.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Hair Diatribe (Does Not Involve Unibrow)
Secret time! I have never learned to blow-dry my own hair. Well, actually, it's more like my hair has never learned how to be blow-dried. I have multiple-personality locks that run the gamut from limp and stringy to frizzy and unmanageable, depending on how much crap I do or do not put on them. Apparently there is a formula out there for exactly how much product I can put in my hair so that it curls and bounces without taking on the consistency of linguine alfredo, but I haven't found it yet (I bet it involves calculus). Anyway, one of the many fun facts about my hair is that if I blow air on it (even a little) the follicles expand to four times their natural size and I end up looking not unlike Gilda Radner as Roseanne Rosannadanna on Saturday Night Live. This is the part where my helpful friends write in the comments how I am doing it wrong. I promise you, I have tried EVERYTHING. I read the beauty magazines, I have the weird diffusers, the anti-frizz serums, the broad brushes that are supposed to make your mane sleek and Pantene Pro-V perfect. I am telling you, my hair is ALLERGIC. (Somehow, of course, it looks nice when other people blow it out, so maybe it just doesn't like me.)
This affliction does not make much of a difference in my life nine months of the year, but from December through February when it is fucking cold, I am faced with a predicament: go out with wet hair (which Mom told me not to do! And my hair takes approximately sixteen hours to dry naturally, causing everyone at work to ask me if it is raining ALL OF THE TIME) or forgo a shower (which means I look like I slept in a dumpster, as my hair is also incapable of making it through the night without jutting out of my head at odd angles and truly remarkable heights ... perhaps it's trying to escape?) I can also tuck all of my wet hair up into a knit cap, but it makes me look like a very effete teenage boy, which invites a whole other level of self-consciousness. So I go out with my wet hair and it freezes into hair icicles that tinkle and shine like glass dreadlocks. I mean REALLY. What's a girl to do?
Best Internet Site Ever
In preparation for Inauguration Day, show your support for Barry by visiting the magical playground invented by Al Gore, the Internet, and ripping off Shepard Fairey's Obama Hope poster. You are welcome.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Foux de Fafa
Ihaven'tpostedinawholeweekbecauseIamworkingtwelvehourdayspleaseforgivemeandinthemeantimewatchthisit'sreallyfunny.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Sometimes, One Sentence Can Sum Up Your Entire Day
The mouth of my Diet Coke bottle smells like B.O.
I find this inexplicable and frightening.
I find this inexplicable and frightening.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Christmas Present Shout-Out
Not to toot my own horn, but I am really awesome at giving presents. True story: I once made my friend Ellaree cry when I gave her a rock tumbler that she had wanted since childhood. Mention casually to me that you lost your Garfield ice cream maker when you were five and don't be surprised when it shows up at your 40th birthday party. That is just how I roll.
For Christmas this year, I replaced a long-lost LBJ figurine that my Dad—an avid, bordering on obsessed, fan of presidential memorabilia—had lent me in 2003. And then I couldn't help but go for the gold.
To be fair, I have also given some shitty presents over the years (just ask Jeff about his twelve styrofoam mannequin heads). Just to de-toot the horn a bit.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Jeff's Photo Blog
Jeff started a blog for New Year's! I'm finally rubbing off on him (well, this and I also suspect that without me he wouldn't watch the Food Network when he's alone in the house). He'll fill it with photos (some even of yours truly). His latest post showcases one of his recent project: photographing people jumping. It's sort of an hommage to one of my favorite things: Philippe Halsman's Jump Book. So enjoy, and please bookmark him and bug him and keep him blogging.
Sunday Funday: Cleaning Out The Closet
It all started with the innocent-enough task of stripping and curbing our Christmas tree, "Vern." (As it turns out, it is much harder to get rid of a tree you name. Something to keep in mind.)
Jeff and I put away the ornaments, unwrapped the lights (which I then rolled into a ball and tossed into a paper bag. "They're going to get tangled," Jeff said. But I argued that they would get tangled anyway--things like strings of lights or headphone wires always manage to become irreversibly entwined in between when you put them out of sight and when you pick them up again, whether it's five minutes or five years. It's as if, as soon as you're gone, they engage in frantic, acrobatic groping, pretzeling themselves into positions that put the Kama Sutra to shame. But I digress.) Where was I? Oh, right, we unwrapped the lights, took the little devil hand puppet off the top (What? It's cute.), and hauled Vern to the curb. Which then necessitated putting away all of the gifts that had been under the tree--after all, once the tree is gone, they lose their dignity and just become clutter. Putting away the gifts made us realize that we need a new bookshelf, which made us try to clear shelves on our exisiting bookshelves, which made us attempt to put a box of leftover wedding invitations into out office closet, which made us open our office closet and see that it was full to bursting with all of the other unsightly, broken, and/or useless but coveted possessions we had formerly moved off of our bookshelves.
Which led to cleaning out the closet. See how I finally came full circle? Took me a few paragraphs, but I made it. Anyway, here are just a few of the things unearthed today during the excavation:
-A sheep's heart in formaldehyde, last used in early 2007 when Jeff decided to photograph our Christmas tree bedecked with animal parts as part of his "Meat Project" photo series (which I maintain will make him famous whenever he decides to exhibit it);
-2 mullet wigs;
-7 styrofoam heads (female);
-A deflated exercise ball, never used;
-A fake pregnant stomach;
and my senior thesis.
Funny that the last one scares me the most.
Jeff and I put away the ornaments, unwrapped the lights (which I then rolled into a ball and tossed into a paper bag. "They're going to get tangled," Jeff said. But I argued that they would get tangled anyway--things like strings of lights or headphone wires always manage to become irreversibly entwined in between when you put them out of sight and when you pick them up again, whether it's five minutes or five years. It's as if, as soon as you're gone, they engage in frantic, acrobatic groping, pretzeling themselves into positions that put the Kama Sutra to shame. But I digress.) Where was I? Oh, right, we unwrapped the lights, took the little devil hand puppet off the top (What? It's cute.), and hauled Vern to the curb. Which then necessitated putting away all of the gifts that had been under the tree--after all, once the tree is gone, they lose their dignity and just become clutter. Putting away the gifts made us realize that we need a new bookshelf, which made us try to clear shelves on our exisiting bookshelves, which made us attempt to put a box of leftover wedding invitations into out office closet, which made us open our office closet and see that it was full to bursting with all of the other unsightly, broken, and/or useless but coveted possessions we had formerly moved off of our bookshelves.
Which led to cleaning out the closet. See how I finally came full circle? Took me a few paragraphs, but I made it. Anyway, here are just a few of the things unearthed today during the excavation:
-A sheep's heart in formaldehyde, last used in early 2007 when Jeff decided to photograph our Christmas tree bedecked with animal parts as part of his "Meat Project" photo series (which I maintain will make him famous whenever he decides to exhibit it);
-2 mullet wigs;
-7 styrofoam heads (female);
-A deflated exercise ball, never used;
-A fake pregnant stomach;
and my senior thesis.
Funny that the last one scares me the most.
Friday, January 2, 2009
New Year's Time Lapse
My Christmas miracle just came late this year: On December 31, my beloved Bergen-Butlers descended on New York for a reunion New Year's celebration.
After a few bottles of Champagne, we decided to reenact the photo we took on December 31, 2003, during our epic—and, as fate would have it, only—New Year's Party.
2003:
2008:
Give or take a few pounds, eyeglass frames, and some eyebrow shaping, I think we've all held up pretty well.
To celebrate, we jumped for joy:
Happy New Year, y'all!
After a few bottles of Champagne, we decided to reenact the photo we took on December 31, 2003, during our epic—and, as fate would have it, only—New Year's Party.
2003:
2008:
Give or take a few pounds, eyeglass frames, and some eyebrow shaping, I think we've all held up pretty well.
To celebrate, we jumped for joy:
Happy New Year, y'all!
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