I'm just sayin'

I'm just sayin' that "I Heart Huckabees" was one of the strangest, sickest, funniest and more challenging movies I've seen in a long-ass time, and that if Jason Schwartzman ever finds himself into Seattle and looking for someone to have a beer and some quiet conversation with, I might be able to hook him up with someone, except that certain someone will probably just talk his ear off about how much he's grown up since Rushmore and how she barely recognized him in that opening seen of Huckabees, but in a good way, you know, and if ever he's looking for someone who won't judge him if he wants to put on that green velvet suit from Rushmore as part of a nostalgia thing, not a sick weird trapped-in-the-past thing, then she won't judge him or think less of him, not one bit. She might even like it.

I'm just sayin'.

What a Girl Wants

Sometimes a girl gets tired of reading hipster fiction and she just chucks that weathered Don DeLillo over against the David Foster Wallace section of her Ikea bookshelf and throws up her hands.

Sometimes a girl wants to go out and look through the self help section of her local bookstore and buy up a dozen or so titles to help rejuvenate her life and magically solve every problem she might have been suffering with over the past twenty years.

Which is where our friend the public library comes in. Unlike that episode of Sex and the City where Charlotte realizes she can use Amazon to anonymously buy her embarrassing relationship books, my new friend the public library is even better because I can get them for FREE without having the added stigma of having a whole bookshelf at home devoted to all of my intimate flaws/personal issues for every houseguest to scrounge through.

God, I feel brilliant.

I'm a Giver

Oh Friends. Don't say I never give ya nothin'.

For those of you who would like some more hot blogging action, what could be better than William Shatner's blog? Or Melanie Griffith's blog? Or, for the love of God, RuPaul's blog?

Actually, I can say that the Melanie Griffith blog, and entire site for that matter, is, ahem, WORTH CHECKING OUT. Let's just say that. See for yourself.

No thanks, just lookin'

I am feeling especially mature and adult today because yesterday afternoon I found myself walking through my favorite music store snapping up CD's left and right (The Delays! The Stills! New Elliott Smith! New Matador collection! Interpol! My God, is there no end is sight?) when a cool wave of logic came over me and I realized, Beth, you have bills to pay. You cannot drop a hundred random dollars on CD's when your cable bill is due. If you have money left after the cable bill, then you may come back.

And yet there's a giant peice of me that really, really, really just wants to turn off my cable and listen to Elliott Smith all night. Siiiiigh. Dammit, this was downright RESPONSIBLE of me.

Note to Self

Beth,

The next time you are out of food -- and I mean out of everything possible edible item in your house -- don't try and buy everything all at once and carry it home, even if you do live four blocks away. You will find yourself cursing at your grocery bags like a deranged freak and have to stop every half block to rearrange the spaghetti squash that keeps banging you in the knee.

Let's just take this as a lesson that smaller, more frequent trips are best.

Your pal,
Beth

Newfound Skills

Today I drove one of those funky hybrid cars and MAN those things are cool. They're easy to drive, which is a bonus for a car-retard like myself, and you just feel good driving one around. Like you're doing something good for the earth simply by going out and doing your errands. Just another reason to give a big fat hug to Flexcar. Love you guys.

Also, I learned, albeit clumsily, how to pill a cat. Wish there were more ways I could apply this knowledge to my everyday life. Then again, who says there's not?

Well HUH

Let's not get into how I came across this, but China's oldest inheritress of the Nushu language, probably the world's only female-specific language, died last month.

Clearly this isn't a new thing, but it's the first I've heard of it. Discovery News also did a story on the Nushu language earlier in the year. FASINATING.

Further Smugness

Today I wore a grass green scarf that I actually knit myself.

Questions I would like to ask my cat Teddy Bear

1.) What's the deal with that whole sitting-in-the-middle-of-the-bathtub thing you do?
2.) WHAT IS UP WITH ALL THE POKING AND MEOWING?
3.) Is there ever a time when you actually have enough food in you?
4.) Do you ever wish you had a slightly more bad-ass name than, say, Teddy Bear?
5.) Do you enjoy watching America's Next Top Model as much as I do?
6.) You're not judging me, are you?

Yurt Yurt Yurt!

Of course, what do I come down with, a mere two days after adopting a new cat, but a bad-ass case of the Travel Bug.

Thinking a weekend trip to the coast is in order - they have yurts for rent there -- or perhaps a less rustic getaway to Casa Crayola -- I mean HOW CUTE IS THIS PLACE? I am feeling like a change of scenery is in order, just for a few days. Now I just need to try and explain that to the cat....

Meet Teddy Bear

And so it is with great joy that I introduce the world to Teddy Bear, an 18-pound purring behemoth that could be used as an ottoman in a pinch if the need arises.

Clearly my original plan to adopt a (1) male (2) kitten (3) after the holidays is shot all to hell. But one look at this face and I knew that She Had To Be Mine. She's a little sniffly and scrappy around the edges thanks to a nasty respiratory infection, but I think with some TLC, this plus-sized lady will be quite lovely.

Alternative, less saccharin, names for Teddy Bear are being welcomed for consideration.

Smuggy Smuggerson

I am smug, if you can't tell.

Last night I cracked open a jar of pickled green beans that I made a while back, and they were delish, if not a little overly dill-y. If they were tucked inside of a spicy bloody mary, I might have keeled over with giddiness.

Damn, I can feel the holiday craftiness starting to percolate.

Organic Lessons Learned

Need to share that I attempted to be all organic and farm-y this week and went to the newly-launched Capital Hill Farmer's Market. It gets a big shoulder shrug and a "HUH" from Beth.

First off, it consisted of about a dozen stalls. Perhaps in my enthusiasm I was expecting miles and miles of tents and booths and craft stalls that went as far as the eye could see. This is clearly not the case. It's ten card tables in a small parking lot. That's IT.

Secondly, I purchased 3 Asian pears and 4 peaches. It came to $8. To my surprise, the fruits did not have gold coins hidden inside of them. Clearly I am naive about how much organic fruit costs.

Lesson learned: Save yourself the bitterness and walk the mile down the hill to the Pike Place Market, which DOES go on for miles and miles (sort of) and where you can buy a week's worth of produce for $10.

"Nothing in life is wasted provided we are not bitter." (Seen in Vancouver) 

Season Four: A Recap

So Joey and Pacey are back from their three months at sea and they're all, YAH WE ARE BACK AND WE ARE IN LOVE except Dawson is all furrowed brow and bad hair and all, YAH, I AM SO SULKY AND WOUNDED AND DUDE I HAVE FEELINGS TOO YOU KNOW?

And then Andie and Jen and Jack and Gran said some stuff that I fast forwarded through.

And sadly, that about sums it up to date. I'm all, YAH I AM NOT IMPRESSED.

The List

So I've been going off lately about how Fall has that "new year" feeling to it and as such, I've come up with an enormo-list of things I'd like to accomplish over the next twelve months. An abbreviated version is below.

If you've got suggestions/additions, BRING 'EM ON. If you've got a list of your own to share, PONY UP.

1.) Give more random gifts to people
2.) Go to DC and see the Wee One
3.) Go to San Diego and see the Wee Ones
4.) Learn about meditation
5.) Buy real furniture that's not made of particleboard (Sorry, IKEA, it was fun)
6.) Skinny dip
7.) Join a writing group
8.) Make homemade salt or sugar scrub
9.) Make a peice of pottery
10.) Take a photography class

The Power of Perspective

So I've had a good 24 hours to sit and think about my crappy weekend and what I am now referring to as "the episode at the spa." And now I'm actually laughing about the ridiculousness of my situation.

1.) Dude, you were at a SPA. You are actually complaining about what happened to you during your FACIAL. That's pretty high on the International Life Could Most Definitely Be Worse list.

2.) Even if my masseuse/facialist WAS being judgemental and condescending (again I stress the ridiculousness of saying "my masseuse/facialist"), I have to remember that no one makes you feel inferior without your consent.

Crabby Pants

Back from Vancouver and trying to get out of vacation-mode and into real-life mode. It's a tough process.

The weekend left me feeling out of sorts. The spa experience was not its usual warm and fuzzy self and instead left me feeling...judged. Looked down upon. Maybe it was just my broken-out chin making me feel self conscious. Maybe I just didn't jive with my spa lady. I'm a little down tonight after the whole experience and also because of the fact that a day at the SPA made me so down about myself in the first place. There's something deeply snarky about that.

To bed now to sleep off this sulky, whiny, crabby feeling.

Oversharing

Can I just (over)share that I am wearing the world's most uncomfortable bra today?

This makes Beth grouchy.
Beth needs to get her ass on vacation muy rapido.

The Plan, Stan

The agenda for a trip to Vancouver with Beth (as several people can attest to):

1.) Start your day by going to Lush and getting all sorts of smelly girlie bathy goodness.
2.) Eat at Hon's on Robson. Get the wonton soup. Eat shrimp dumplings. Overdo it on the hot chili oil and swear that you're never going to do that again. Do it again the next time you go.
3.) Eat at Tsunami Sushi with the floating boats. Drink sake. Get tipsy.
4.) Walk your slightly tipsy self over to Chapters. Buy lots of mind-numbing Chick Lit books that you can't find the States. Say the phrase "I just can't FIND these in the STATES" like you're in some exotic far off country and not 3 hours up the highway from your house.
5.) Get a massage at Skoah, the world's best spa.
6.) Feel very underdressed and sloppy because you're not wearing (a) fur (b) vinyl or (c) couture .

Repeat every 3-6 months as necessary.

Back to Capeside

In an effort to prove how ridiculously LITTLE street cred I have, I need to point out that Season Four of Dawson's Creek is now available on DVD.

God. Bless. Netflix.

'Tis the Season

So it's Fall again.

And every single Fall I start reverting back to the academic calendar where I start thinking of the time after Labor Day as "the new year" and the time to start all fresh and anew. You get your back-to-school clothes, your new box of crayons, a spankin' new pair of Kangaroos brand tennis shoes and the year is suddenly back open for business after months of summer slacking off.

Already I'm thinking up my list of Things To Accomplish in 2005. More trips. More visits with friends. More cooking. More saving money. And a firm resolve to eat that damned bag of cauliflower in the freezer if it kills me. Suggestions welcomed.

P.S. Dick Cheney has a soul mate. I'm just sayin'...

The Soul Mate Game

By far the WORST MIND GAME IN THE HISTORY OF MIND GAMES is a little ditty I like to call the Soul Mate Game.

You know this one.

This is the mind game you play with yourself when you consider all of the people in the world that have found soul mates EXCEPT YOU. The crazy guy on the bus that sweats all the time? Check. Your allergist that shaves off her eyebrows and then hand draws them back in? Your neighbor that listens to Toby Keith for 48 HOURS STRAIGHT. Yes, all of these people have found someone. Even Osama has a soul mate. I'm not saying they're happy. I'm not saying I envy them.

It's just. That for a brief moment. Someone said, "YES THIS IS THE PERSON FOR ME THAT I WILL WAKE UP WITH EVERY MORNING AND SPEND EVERY SINGLE DAY WITH. YES, SIGN ME UP FOR THAT."

God I hate/love the Soul Mate Game.

Lessons learned this weekend

1.) Mark Ruffalo seems to make a lot of movies involve threesomes and other "unconventional" sexual set-ups. Sadly, none of these movies are ever sexy or interesting.

2.) XX/XY is one of those movies.

3.) Drinking lots of red wine while watching one of those bad, unsexy movies will NOT make it better. It will only give you a headache the following morning.

An uneasy list

Words that can make a girl downright nervous when she turns on the telly during a lazy Saturday afternoon:

1.) Evacuations
2.) Eruption
3.) Earthquakes and/or tremors
4.) "Level 3 Alert"
5.) MAGMA

Poorly Thought Out Spam

Recent spam that came to me:

Hello!
We would like to offer V_I_A_G_R_A soft tabs,
These pills are just like regular Vìagra but they are specially formulated to be soft and dissolvable under the tongue. The pill is absorbed at the mouth and enters the bloodstream directly instead of going through the stomach. This results in a faster more powerful effect which lasts as long as the normal. Soft Tabs also have less sidebacks (you can drive or mix alcohol drinks with them).

1.) Isn't there a deep and sad irony in soft-tab Viagra? Wouldn't you want those little blue pills to be hard as, well, they could possibly be?

2.) I'm disturbed about the mention of being able to DRIVE after taking these new Viagra soft tabs. Really, you want to get in a car with your giant boner? Really?

3.) I'm also disturbed about the newfound ability to mix alcohol with the new Viagra soft tabs. Because the giant boner isn't enough, but now you can be sloppy drunk while you have it?

Hominahominahomina. I'm staying in my house all weekend.

Reunions?

Well it's been a sad couple of days in Bethville, but thanks to all of you for your kind words and warm memories of the Wonder Cat. I find it tremendously comforting to think of him up in heaven riding around on Emma the Wonder German Shepard (she used to let ME ride around on her, why wouldn't she let Thomas?), staring intently at my freakishly ancient 6-year-old goldfish, and hanging tough with Mooshie the Enormous Housecat/Lynx. I'd also like to think that he would stargaze like a dork at the various Morris actor cats that have passed over the years. It's not a bad way to pass on.

My vet gave me this poem about the Rainbow Bridge. I literally wept the first time I read it. But now that I've had some time to think about it, I feel....weird about the idea of Thomas being in some odd heavenly waiting room of sorts hanging out until I get back. It raises all sorts of logistics questions. What happens if he doesn't get along with the other animals that are also waiting for me? What if my mom picks up Emma and Mooshie before I get there? Is there like a coat check girl there that helps me track down my group of furry buddies?

Yes, I'm actually mocking the Rainbow Bridge. I think this must mean I'm starting to feel better.

Siiiigh

So. Well. Yeah. After a weekend of sobbing and petting and sniffling and staring pitifully at the cat, I've made the choice to take him to the vet tomorrow morning for him to head to the giant kitty sofa in the sky. He won't eat, or drink, or be held, and he looks just so exhausted. This is the most wrenching, awful thing I've ever had to decide. This shouldn't be up to ME. Me? Are you kidding? Who am I to make this type of decision?

But in talking to people about it -- and thank you to all of you who've called and written and just sent general good vibes out to me over the past few days -- I feel a strange sense of peace with my yukky, yukky choice. The Wonder Cat has trusted me since the day I brought him home to feed him and rub his belly and pick the eye boogers off of his face, and now I feel he's trusting me now to do the right thing.

Dammit, he was one fine orange robot cat.

Wonder Cat has stomach, or possibly liver cancer. The vet, who could not have been nicer when I teared up and started sniffling uncontrollably in her office, said the best thing at this point is to take him home, spoil him rotten, and give them a call when "it's time."

I feel so heartbroken.

Wonder Cat! 

Think Good Wonder Thoughts

This blog promises the adventures of Thomas the Wonder Cat. Lately the only adventure I have had with said Wonder Cat is trying to get him to EAT.

He. Just. Won't. Eat.

He's just lost all interest in eating. Doesn't even try some days. One day we were eating fine. The next we just stopped caring about food. It's frustrating, it's scary, it's confusing and it's starting to freak me out. He's losing weight, you can feel his hip bones and spine. I am convinced he has a brain tumor, or rotting infected teeth, or a blood disorder, or any number of scary, horrific expensive problems that I won't be able to make better. For this I feel like a crappy owner that should have taken her cat to the vet in the first place when this had all just started.

So I've sucked it up and made a vet appointment for tomorrow morning. Yes, THAT will be fun and I'm going to be weeping all the way there in my Flexcar because of the pitiful screeching that will be coming from my cardboard Kitty Karryall trying to tell my orange cat that it will really, seriously, swear to God, be okay.

Any good vibes for the Wonder Robot Cat would be super duper duper.

Rare Occurance

It's not often that a person can use both the term "yeti" and "Pee Chee folders" in the same sentence, but here goes:

Props and snaps go out to Defective Yeti, a blog that never, ever disappoints, for taking me down memory lane about Pee-Chee folders and Trapper Keepers.

Don't Say I Didn't Warn Ya

I am in a FOUL-ass mood. To say that I'm cranky or grumpy just doesn't cover it. Not even close. Michael Stipe is belting out "Shiny Happy People" right now in my living room with that chick from the B-52s and all I want to do is interject somehow into the song and tell them both to SHUT THE HELL UP ALREADY. That song, when you're not in the right mood for it -- no, even when you ARE in the right mood for it, is so annoying it beats even that song about Fish Heads/Fish Heads...you know the song I'm talking about...Michael Stipe of all people singing about Shiny Happy People? Seriously?

I tried to do some yoga when I got home to get me all zen and de-foul-assed. Popped in my usually never-disappointing Rodney Yee tape. And in my uppity state that only served to make me ANGRIER because all I could focus on was how many dustbunnies and specks of filth from my floor were being magnetically drawn to my sticky mat.

And the cat still won't eat.

Grrrrr.

I never was good at math

Note to self: If you add together (1) six foot tall woman who is (2) not Kate Moss and (3) not a professional yogi and put her inside of (4) a Mazda Miata the size of a shoebox, then you just have a night of crankiness and discomfort all stirred up and ready to go.

A girl can dream

If there is a better way to start one's day than with a large creamy coffee and a toasted onion bagel with cream cheese, lox, capers and red onions, then I encourage the good Lord to bring it on.

If I could have that every single day of my life I think I'd die a happy woman.

Let it out, boys

I just flat out don't know how I feel about this new book.

Oh wait, yes I do: Oogie. Yukky. Invasive. Manipulated. Disturbed. Oogie again.

**UPDATE: Okay, so the NYT link caused some difficulty -- you can also check the book out here on Amazon -- "Crying Men" by Sam Taylor-wood...

Love the Swedish

Okay, so barring a whole blog entry about the state of Sweden's socialized health care and the critical importance of mental health days and the disparity between Swedish vacation/sick time versus the U.S., let's just say: People, sometimes a person just has to take a day off to get away from exhausting co-workers and stress and deadlines and just lay in bed with a cat all damned day without so much as showering even when a person might not be SICK AT ALL. Insurance companies can bite my stressed out sick-time allotted behind.

Ahem, not that I've ever even thought of doing that and I swear that every single time I called in sick, I was 100 percent certified knocking-on-death's-door sick. Death's door. Yeah, that's the ticket.

There are few better ways to spend a Friday night than to go out for a few cheap happy hour drinks with a friend, and then come home, nestle into some comfy clothes, and get deeeeply embedded with a good book. Yes, I am a hardcore homebody.

I also can't say enough about J. Robert Lennon's The Light of Falling Stars. The characters are flawed and beautiful and human. His way with language is so simple and yet so affecting. Gotta stop blogging. Must. Keep. Reading.

Sap Alert

Since I moved into this new apartment, I've yet to call my cable guy and get myself hooked up. And I mean that in a literal "I need to get cable" way, not in the dirty way that sentence turned out. Maybe I need to do that too. MY POINT IS....

Without cable, I basically have three stations to watch and all of them are crappy crapperson. It has been night after night of watching crap family sitcoms with laugh tracks and bad reality shows that aren't interesting. (Internal voice: "Beth, couldn't you, say, LEAVE the house or do something besides watch TV?") Shut up, Internal Voice. MY POINT IS...

First there was the Oprah episode that reduced me to tears. Then tonight I just watched ABC's Extreme Makeover Home Edition where the Trading Spaces guy rebuilt a house for a family of TEN after the husband died of a BRAIN TUMOR. And guess who was there, sitting on her sofa, crying AGAIN with joy about this family's new home? Yup. You guessed it.

Tomorrow Maria Shriver is talking to Roy Horn about his recovery. This totally sets me up for a bad Kleenex-ridden habit that needs to be broken as soon as possible.

Oprah's Revenge

God, did I mock Oprah yesterday. I read about her whole car giveaway show and about some homeless girl who she gave a full scholarship to and rolled my eyes. Whatever Oprah. Clearly I was in the wrong studio audience yesterday because I was still on the B.O.-scented bus heading home.

And then. Then.

I got home and turned on the tube to watch the Oprah episode that I had so flippantly mocked. And sobbed like a little baby through the whole thing. My God, that homeless girl? Who only wanted more than anything in the world to HUG OPRAH? And there she was, HUGGING OPRAH right in front of me while my heart burst with joy for her? And the foster mom that was going to -- guh, guh -- be evicted with her eight kids and then suddenly Gail King was standing there on her porch with a giant check handing it to her while her hands shook? "It's a pretty good day today," Gail said to her and I sat on the sofa with tears streaming down my face thinking "MY GOD GAIL IT IS TRULY A GREAT DAY!" I am tearing up just thinking about it.

Damn you Oprah and your whole un-abashed generosity thang. You make life hard for us cynics.

But Who's Counting?

Can I just saw how freakin' GIDDY I am after installing a counter on my blog?

We are past 100 unique visits, people. Which is, yes, a micromillimeter in the big scheme of Internet publishing, but give me a break, I only put it up a few weeks ago. It's a big thrill to see my little baby get clicked on so much...even if its only by one person. Thanks to all of you who check out my weird world and actually....keep reading.

Ten Long Angsty Years Later...

Amazing how a song can transport you back in time. When I was in Denver I picked up some old CDs from a good amiga and since I've been back I've been listening to lots of goodies from the 1992-1996 years. Last night I popped in the Wild Colonials and found this song ("Heaven and Hell") that I LOVED back from college -- I mean this was the type of song where you obsessively listen to the track overandoverandoveragain because it's as though it is speaking directly to the core of your very SOUL. You get the picture, everyone's got a song like that.

And instantly, I was back in 1994. Full of angst and tears and grief because the guy I was so, so deeply in love with was (oopsie) coming out of the closet at the time. Wanting to drop out of school because I was so miserable being among the football-crazed Greek freaks. I scrounged up my journal from that time and found pages upon pages of angst and alienation and longing and self consciousness. Trying to be understanding and supportive, but feeling rejected and abandoned. So young. So clumsy and naive about so many things. It was a rough year.

So glad to have these ten years between my current self and the person I was then.

Strange Thoughts

Standing at Neumos last night listening to the ever-dreamy Decemberist Colin Meloy sing about Los Angeles and architects, the only thought I could muster was "Wow, he really looks like the hipster love child of Mo Rocca and the Verizon "Can you hear me now?" spokesperson guy.

And that's not a bad thing.

So much for the resolution to read all my books before buying more

$80 spent at Half Price Books last night. God, I am SUCH a dork. Let's just say it is seriously bad news for Beth to live two blocks from an enormous and well-stocked used bookstore. I may not have electricity in the next couple of months, but damn if I won't have my birch Billy bookshelves from Ikea crammed to the ceiling with pretentious literature!

I brought my giant bag home and scattered my new purchases around me on the sofa and felt true joy. Sarah Vowell, Amanda Davis, some trashy UK Chick Lit, Michael Moore and a bunch of random travel essays about Ireland, Spain and Afghanistan....welcome home, kids.

Just Askin'

What is the dealio with this poncho trend for fall?
Why do I feel the need to mock them in public and then secretly long for one when I get home?
Worse yet, why am I feeling that I might be able to MAKE ONE?
Would I look like the cute hipster chick in that picture, or more like a scary six-foot-tall orange coming towards you?

(thanks to Not Martha for the link and getting my brain cookin')

Yee Olde Wedding Recap

So Beth is back after a week away and ready to report on the merriment and feasting that went on at the Medieval wedding of the decade:

Day One: Pick up my rental car. Flirty car rental guy offers me a convertible. I wet myself and accept. I am officially hot sh*t.
Day Two: Stop over -- in the convertible -- to Jenny's house to participate in Al Franken's Great American Shout Out. Bush seemed unphased by our screaming, but I notice that his voice quivers slightly about mid-way through the speech and know we've made an impact.
Day Three: Road trip to Pueblo for Yee Olde Medieval Wedding (YOMW). Bachelorette party that night. We will not speak of the bachelorette party again except to say that it featured kareoke versions of "Redneck Woman," "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" and "Hit Me Baby One More Time." A state trooper was also involved. That's all I need to say on that topic.
Day Four: Wedding rehearsal. Resting from kareoke night. Lots of water is consumed, as well as several Reese's Fast Break candy bars, which make me weep with joy.
Day Five: YOMW. Bride looks beautiful. The details are amazing. Friar Mike does a great job and it all comes together. Beth stands next to a guy with a very large sword and I don't mean that in a "wink wink" kind of way but in a literal enormous period weaponry type of way.
Day Six: Beth drives her mom around in the -- ahem -- convertible and buys mom an opera CD. The afternoon is spent driving around the suburbs with Puccini blaring and we feel totally cool.

Take THAT, Nordstrom Shoe Guy!

Do you hear that, Nordstrom Shoe Guy? That is the sound of me prancing around Seattle in my adorable new pink suede ballet flats. Or wait, is it the sound of me skipping around town in my equally adorable new black mary-janes? Whatever it is, it's clearly not the clomping and trudging that you would have had me doing in those heinous velcro walking shoes.

Special thanks to your ghetto step-cousin Nordstrom Rack just down the street for helping a girl out.

Also Gentle Readers, the blog's taking a break for Yee Olde Medieval Wedding of Rena and Austin, so that the blogging wench can drink mead and chow down on turkey legs with some of her friends from -- meep -- JUNIOR HIGH. Fifteen years have passed and we don't seem much more suave, but damn we haves ourselves some good times. Full report when I get back, and no I am not promising to post photos, unless you offer me a giant cup of mead and then we can talk.

Dear Nordstrom Shoe Guy

Open Letter To The Nordstrom Shoe Guy:

Hi there, it's me again. Look, I'm not sure what the disconnect was today. But when I come onto the shoe section floor and ask for something "in a ballet flat...maybe with a buckle or a Mary Jane style" do not -- DO NOT -- bring me some enormously clumpy shoes that my 65-year-old nursing instructor mother would wear. Were you freakin' kidding me? Do I seriously look like I would wear these? In what rustic, cruel world is this a ballet flat?

Word of advice, pal. If you don't have what I'm looking for, just tell me. Don't bring me a pair of the single ugliest shoes you have in stock just so that you come back with something. Also, don't be all cute and flirty and calling me "hon" unless you can deliver the goods because otherwise you're not being cute and flirty, you're just masking the fact that you can't find a decent pair of ballet flats to save your life.

Thanks!

Save Your $9

How is it possible that a movie about wife swapping featuring Peter Krause, Mark Ruffalo AND Naomi Watts could be both incredibly boring and painfully unsexy? And yet, that's exactly what "We Don't Live Here Anymore" was. Can I mention again that it featured BOTH Peter Krause and Mark Ruffalo? (Translation: HubbaHubbaHubba) AND it was based on some short stories from Andre Dubus? People, I was looking forward to this movie for WEEKS.

But there I was, in the darkened theater, actually looking at my watch in anticipation of when I could be freed from this boring, depressing, pitiful group of sad, sad people that I never got to care about except for when they would go away and the credits would come rolling up the screen.
One word movie review: BLECH.

Shameless, Shameless Plugs

Friends, if you're looking to get totally kablooey-style drunk on $8 -- yes, I said $8 -- then you all need to drop what you're doing and get your asses to The Chapel. The people are pretty, the martinis are $4, it's in a former funeral parlor, I mean, c'mon WHAT MORE COULD YOU ASK FOR? Two blackberry martinis and Bethy was a happy, happy girl.

Also, Al Franken is organizing the Great American Shout Out next week, encouraging folks to gather round and scream when Dubya takes to the podium at the Republican National Convention on September 2. Organize a party -- vent your frustration -- and then take the money you saved on those drinks at The Chapel and send it to John Kerry pronto.

Back to School

It's winter here in Seattle and I've had to dig out my sweaters, coats and other warm clothes. Even the electric blue cookie monster socks that are reserved for only incredibly cold nights came out. I am pissed. I am still ghostly pale. I am not ready for summer to be over and I am FOR SURE not ready to be digging out those warm cookie monster socks.

I am also upset because this funkay weather has illustrated to me how ill-prepared I am for Fall. There are no cute chunky cardigans in my closet. No adorable boots. No tweed of any sort. The back to school retailers would be extremely disappointed in me.

It's a shame when a girl gets caught unaware like this.

Unlucky Number Seven

Seriously, what IS with the number seven bus, or as I like to call it, the Nutjob Express? My commute home gives me access to every freak in all of Seattle it seems. Is there a discount of some sort if you're short a few marbles? There was a guy that got on at one point in a wheelchair and a hospital gown. A HOSPITAL GOWN. Surely that can't be a good sign, right?

What's weirder is that the morning commute is full of well dressed yuppies. I feel totally underdressed on my bus in the morning.

Bonus points to anyone who can write me a haiku about the number seven bus.

I Need My Blankie

I am reminded of when I was back in high school and read The Exorcist...scratch that, I read less than half of it and got so utterly freaked out that I had to stop reading immediately...ANYWAY...For the next six terrified months the only way I could get to sleep was by convincing myself that I would be safe from demonic possession (and the like) if I just stayed under my comforter. As long as I was totally covered by the blankie, I was safe. This is the only way I could sleep. I realize that's a little strange for a then-15 year old, but HEY, you do what you have to when battling the FORCES OF SATAN.

And so last night, after some deeply disappointing news, I crawled into bed at 6:53 p.m. and pulled the covers up over my head and stayed there until the alarm went off 12 hours later. Sometimes you just have to stay under the safety of the blankie until the bad news passes over you.

The King Is Satisfied**

Amen and praise be to the Gods at Purina for making Fancy Feast, which is apparently the only substance on this earth that passes the test for my royal orange highness, who has been on a no-eating kick/protest/tantrum for the past month.

An entire can! In an afternoon! This is more than he's eaten all month. I will have my fat cat back if it kills both of us in the process.

** Beth is clearly experimenting with titles for her blog.

Why Married People Freak Me Out

So there I am, at the grocery store with the rest of humanity on a Sunday afternoon. And I've been following this guy and his four-year-old throughout the store as we both go through our shopping lists. And this guy keeps calling his wife throughout the shopping experience with all sorts of questions and worries and concerns:

"We have another problem. They don't have the type of turkey you wrote down, but they do have a smoked version...is that okay?"

"Hi, it's me again. They don't have the 64 ounze size of cranberry juice, just the 32. So should I buy two or do you want me to wait?"

And so on.

Swear to GOD I came THISCLOSE to losing it and suggesting to this guy that he hang up the phone and head to the parking lot and grow a pair and make a decision on his own about the damned cranberry juice for the love of us all. But I didn't. I just gawked at him and made him feel self conscious while he waited for advice about the turkey.

God, I'm going to die alone, aren't I?

Sometimes I love the state of Washington SO FREAKIN' MUCH. Even our bears are cool.
Also, I provide an exerpt of a conversation had with The Wonder Cat last night:

Beth: Thomas, what's the deal? Why won't you eat? That's really annoying.
Thomas the Wonder Cat: (closes eyes)
B: I mean, seriously dude, I can feel your hip bones.
TTWC: (purrs)
B: Are you just stressed about the move? Because that, my friend, is over. Comprende?
TTWC: (stares at me)
B: Then WHAT IS IT? Are you sick? Do you have a brain tumor? Oh my God, what is that lump , is that a tumor? That's a tumor, isn't it? You're going to die, aren't you? Please don't die. I thought we agreed you were never going to get sick and never get old and never die. Now you have some sort of inoperable brain tumor. You can't go back on your word like that, you orange freak. I'm a horrible mother. I'll never move again, I swear. Ever. What the hell is wrong with you?? EAT, DAMN YOU!
TTWC: (purrs, licks my nose)
B: Siiiigh.

Beth takes her blog into uncharted waters as she introduces PICTURES. No one is safe, not even a lobster sneaking Oreos in New Orleans.

My stepsister had a baby this week. So my dad called to give me the news and was trying to figure out what my relation to this baby might be. After several guesses, I just blurted out "he would be my step-nephew. I'd be the step-aunt."

To which I got a stern conversation about using the word "step" and that "we're" all family and "we" apparently don't use the "step" word anymore. For example, he went on to explain, when (my wife) and I sign cards to the kids, we sign it "Love Mom and Dad," not something like "Mom and (my name here)."

Now look. I know I'm being a bit of a whiny brat about this, but the fact that my dad refers to himself as "Dad" to anyone other than me, makes me feel like a little peice of me just got chopped off.

Week One of South Beach is done and I don't feel transformed beyond recognition. People are not stopping me on the street telling me I look fabulous and visits thus far by potential soul mates/male supermodels have amounted to zero.

Still, I'm not giving up. But I can say that I've learned the following:

1.) Sugar free Fudgesicles are not as disappointing as one might think.
2.) Sugar free Jell-O, on the other hand, tastes like chemicals and is a foul, foul invention.
3.) While it makes perfect logical sense to have a salad plus a serving of vegetables for lunch and dinner, it's haaaaard to do when you're tiiiiired.
4.) Cooking is haaaaaaard.
5.) Cutting up vegetables is haaaaaaard.

Basically, I've learned that I'm incredibly, incredibly lazy when it comes to preparing healthy balanced meals. I'm also a really good whiner.

I am FASINATED now with the idea of blogging. You may be thinking, um, Beth, dearest, you've been blogging for several months now, what's the deal? And I reply, Gentle Reader, with this. I recently uncovered the blogs of two people I know. Actually, I don't know these people at all. I know of them. It's like discovering your florist's blog, or the blog of the woman who sold you mascara at the Stila counter. And DAMN if I can't stop reading about the personal lives and secrets of these people that I don't really know.

I follow about five blogs pretty religiously on a daily basis, but they're not people I've met or have any contact with (Ramblin' Dave being the exception). So it always struck me that I was just reading the funny site of some wise crackin' person in New York (or San Fran, or wherever...) as opposed to accessing someone's personal day to day existence, if that makes sense. The voyeuristic aspect of blogging (both reading and posting) sort of escaped me because I felt so removed from the people I was reading about. But its the voyeurism aspect that's the appeal, I think, at least when it comes to personal blogs. This may all seem very obvious and elementary. I knew it to a degree, I guess. But it seems particularly clear today.

These people -- and damn, myself included -- have put themselves out there to share with the WORLD their day to day existence and embarrassments and dramas and opinions for anyone to access and comment on or just lurk and read about for hours on end. What a bizarre little medium and bizarre society for feasting on it.

You know what's cool? When you're walking home from the bus and randomly you just trip yourself and FALL DOWN onto the sidewalk, scraping your elbow and knee and palms just like you were six years old. And then, when you pull yourself up and investigate what might have tripped you (a twig? Rocks? Human femur?), you don't see anything, which means it was purely your own God-given GRACE that let you just splatter on the sidewalk.

Yes, I am indeed very cool.

It's been a pretty mellow and asocial weekend, which is usually fine by me. But by this afternoon I was going insane in da membrane with boredom and loneliness, so I decided to head out for a walk. This is, after all, why I moved -- to wander through an actual neighborhood and admire people's gardens and stare nosily into their living rooms.

I wandered into two bookstores near my house (yes, two bookstores, near my house, you heard me), the first of which had several cats wandering about that were literally the size of toddlers. You could ride these things around to various sections in the store, I'll bet. Second bookstore was toddler-sized cat free, but was playing Wilco's "Jesus, etc." which is by far the best song in the universe (**) and instantly transported me back to the summer of 2002 when I was on a road trip pulling over for gas in Jerome, Idaho at a gas station/video store that featured two dozen taxidermied animal heads on the walls.

** Okay, it's a tough battle between that and The Smiths' "There is a Light That Never Goes Out," The Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" and "Punk Rock Girl" by the Dead Milkmen. There's no good answer here.

Note to self when you find a cute pair of shoes in the back of your closet that you haven't worn for six months and you think "Gosh, those are CUTE, why don't I wear them anymore?" please FOR THE LOVE OF GOD stop and think and remember why, otherwise, you'll be hobbling around by 9 a.m. cursing those blasted shoes and remembering all too well why they were thrown into the back of your closet in the first place. Got that?

Also, snaps go out to Julia Child, who died today. Sniff. Not sure why exactly, but she's always been a role model of sorts for me. Is it because she was six feet tall? I still recall watching her on the small black and white TV in the kitchen with my mom. Also please please please when I die, let my obituary have a headline like this one.

So, ahem, drum roll please, I have officially made it through Day One of the South Beach Diet. Yes, I know this takes away all my hipster street cred by lumping me in with the low carb lemmings, but you know, who DOESN'T want/need to lose 10 pounds? Wouldn't that really make me all the more fierce? See how I imagine things to go in about a month when I reintroduce alcohol into my diet and enter a dark smoky bar:

Ironic hipster #1: Hey, who's the tall, blond in the corner? Damn, she is witty.
Ironic hipster #2: Don't know, man, but she seems slightly...smaller than last I saw her.
IH #1: Smaller, yeah. That's cool.
IH #2: Yeah.
IH #1: Think I need to buy that lady a beverage (heads towards me with a devilish grin)
Ironic hipster #3: Where did Mark go?
IH #2: Mark?
IH #3: Ruffalo, dude, he's in town shooting a movie. Didn't you know who you were talking to?

See, it will all fit into place soon enough...

Life without TV continues to turn me into a reading BEAST.

This weekend I finished Where Is The Mango Princess? which was about a woman whose husband suffers a major brain injury after a boating accident. All weekend I kept thinking about the brain and the body and how the two work together and how much there is that our brain does that we don't even think about. At one point in the book the author says that our body is literally just a "pile of meat" that our brain singlehandedly controls. I mean, THINK ABOUT THAT. That is some crazy stuff, man. Your heartbeat, your memories, your personality, your ability to swallow...it's all up there in mission control and you don't control any of it. Then I starting thinking about a friend-of-a-friend's-friend (if only it were that simple) I knew about five years ago that had a brain injury and wondered how he is now.

And now I'm in the middle of Rescuing Patty Hearst which is about a woman whose mother suffers from schizophrenia and kidnaps her children for three years to their summer home to prepare for an imaginary war. Clearly I'm all about the mental illness/trauma these days, which can't be a good sign.

Also compelled to note that ONCE AGAIN I have been bitten by some mutant angry spider/insect scary thing while I sleep, this time on my wrist and today my hand is puffed up like some weird inflatable fake hand. I feel like John Merrick. I AM NOT AN ANIMAL.

I was feeling mighty, mighty blue tonight; a little crispy around the edges.

So I sat in my chair for a good ten minutes staring blankly at the floor like a mental patient and then got up and went to the store, because when a girl's feeling depressed the last thing she needs is to open up a refridgerator and see nothing in it but capers and Thai hot sauce. Ain't nothing you can make with those. On my walk I saw:

1.) A woman getting the keys to a new BMW, which made me very happy and proud for her, even if it is a pretentious status symbol there was still a part of me that thought "You GO girl in your pretentious Euro car, you've earned it."
2.) An electric blue dildo. (NOTE: It was in the window of a sex store, not lying there on the street or anything)
3.) A corgi waiting outside of the store for its owner with a ridiculous grin on its mug.
4.) A hip little fabric store, where three adorable prepster men were actually sitting at sewing machines and actually sewing.

I feel much better somehow.

If you've ever found yourself thinking, "Hey, I wonder what that guy Steve from Blue's Clues is up to?" -- I can happily say that I have the answer to your question here.

And then if you've ever thought, "Hey, I wonder why the heck Beth is looking up that guy Steve from Blue's Clues?" -- I can sadly say that I have no answer for you at all.

My new neighborhood is, let's face it, a little scrappy. People are edgy and peirced and gothed up to the hilt. Everyone looks a little beaten down by life. I wore capri pants to work on Friday. I'm feeling a little out of sorts. More precisely, I'm feeling like an enormou-dork that stands out like a sore thumb. I feel like some suburbanite that's trying to be cool ("Hey, how about that local popular music band, eh?"), all the while people are rolling their eyes at me while they listen to Skinny Puppy on the number seven bus.

I love my neighborhood, but GAWD I need to toughen up. I am SUCH a geek.

God DAMN but I am productive when there is no television to watch. I feel like I'm on some sort of retreat where I am forced to actually read and think and call people and get stuff done. There's no distraction from Queer Eye or Designed to Sell or the Clorox informercial on how bleach is produced. Tonight I actually sat in front of my window with a steaming mug of tea and watched the sun set into a pinkish orangy sky. I've read two books today. TWO books in one day -- I mean, how insane is that? I listened to CDs. I read a magazine cover to cover. Its like being on vacation in a very accomodating hotel with all of my possessions. My brain feels quiet and restless without the background noise. It's hard to realize how much baaaad TV I used to watch, how many hours I wasted sitting on the couch watching infomercials and Simpsons reruns. It kept me company, more than I really care to admit.

I'm actually thinking of not hooking up my cable permanently. Maybe I could go for a few months and see how it goes?

A lot of things freak me out, and high on that list are spider bites. Because more often than not, they happen while you're sleeping which means that a spider was crawling around your bed -- on YOU -- in your pajamas -- while you sleep -- and then....oh...see, its just all too icky and scary to contemplate. You get the picture.

I have one right now, on my arm - all red and itchy and I. Can't. Stop. Scratching. It. This only means I'll be shaking out my sheets and pajamas for an hour straight tonight. Hate those 8 legged bastards.

All. Moved. In. PHEWWWWWW. Be it ever so humble, there's no place like....a box-laden disaster area that is my new home. Right now it feels like I'm living in a hotel room that just coincidentally has all of my things piled into it. There's no homey feeling yet or any sense that this is actually my place.

On a major kick now to find a houseful of brand new beautiful, hip, funky furniture that doesn't require self assembly. Anyone out there, say, giving that away for free?

I'm so worked up over the move. My heart is actually racing. You'd think I was scaling Everest or something by the amount of anxiety and stress and overthinking that's gone into moving a one-bedroom apartment. Jesus Beth, I keep telling myself, you used to move twice a year in college, what's the big deal?

Change is hard and downright yukky to deal with sometimes. I feel like I'm leaving the past eight years behind me, which is both wonderful/liberating/exciting and daunting/terrifying. It's a new beginning, a new opportunity and I find myself resistant and wanting to just stay in my bed in my same old apartment for another eight years. Why is that?

I just want the comfort of my things back. Note to self for the next move -- do NOT, for the love of God, DO NOT pack up your stuff a month early with the hopes of being "organized" and "proactive." You will miss your picture frames and your banana bread recipe from mom and your candles and your Kerouac books. Trust me on this one.

The Martha in me rises up again. So far this week, to counteract the boredom of not having my things available, I have made both pickled green beans (Hello, Bloody Marys anyone?) and oven dried tomatoes that I'm saving in olive oil. I feel So. Damned. Domestic.

Now however I've got tomato juice and olive oil splashes all over the bottom of my oven, making for a very smoky smelly mess. Time to meet Mr. Oven Cleaner and make friends, I think.

Can I even emphasize the self control it took NOT to buy this book today -- The Malcontents: The Best Bitter, Cynical and Satirical Writing in the World? I mean, how perfect is that for me? I'm feeling smug because I had the good sense to realize that two days away from a major move I am likely not going to have the time or energy to read Voltaire and Twain, even if they are brilliant and bitter.

Well now THIS is interesting...a Netflix type set up for designer handbags at Bag Borrow or Steal. Not sure how necessary it is to rotate out a Prada handbag for a Fendi every couple of weeks, but then again I guess that's part of the fun.

Keys to new place are coming this weekend...now I can sit in the middle of my empty new floor and gaze at the possibilities.

Can I get a show of hands from anyone who's ever totally LOST IT at work and started blubbering in front of their boss like a ridiculous little girl? Cause...I mean...well...not that I've ever done that. That would be totally humiliating, right? I'm just asking because I'm....curious, okay? Oh nevermind.

Clearly a looooong relaxing vacation is in order, which brings me to Guava magazine, this funky fresh find I found for independent women travelers. Go Guava!

Oh, and a GIANT happy birthday to MY MOM, who will likely never read or experience this blog. Still, I'd like to send good vibes her way today, even if she doesn't know it -- sometimes those are the best kind.

Duuuuuudes, the View-Master is 65 this year. 65! Does that make you feel old or what? They have gotten quite high tech since last I remember them...check 'em out.

Strange (or comforting...or something...) to see that Winnie the Pooh is still a hot seller even 25 years after little Bethy stared into her own clunky red View-Master with Pooh and Piglet. Props for this reel, which features "Rescue Heroes" with a rather hunky looking fireman on it.

Oh, and for those spelling geek kids out there, I bring you the virtual Speak 'N Spell!

 

On my bus to work today someone actually said to the driver, "Hey, did you know there's a pigeon on this bus?" And sure enough, there was -- just sitting on the floor catching a ride to the Westlake Station.

I have to think this forecasts a strange day ahead. How could a bus-riding pigeon not?

Think I am losing it. Just found out I am not going to be able to move for another week and a half. This is my own fault for packing everything up so far in advance. I look around and all I see are boxes. More boxes. I miss my stuff. I miss knowing where everything is. I'm tired of reaching for something and realizing "Oh right, that thing you never use that you thought you could pack away? The thing you now need right this minute? It's gone, honey."

I have no food because -- again everything is in boxes and why buy food when you're moving in a few days....except....now I need serious food because I can't live on dry cereal and bottled tarragon for the next ten days. WAAAAAAH. Moving sucks.

Almost feeling human again after 100 degree weather yesterday. That was unreal. Couldn't move. Couldn't pack. Couldn't blog. Just laid in bed with the fan going full blast for most of the day feeling sweaty and salty and nasty.

Did have to get my behind up and out for a lovely wedding that was quite fun and felt comfort in the fact that at least I didn't have to -- heh heh -- wear a lacy taffeta wedding gown in the mid-day sun all day.

Watched Celebrity Poker last night that featured the cast of Arrested Development. Love the show, love Jason Bateman, but dang if it wasn't snoooooozeville to watch them play poker for an hour. No witty banter -- no hilarious hijinks? David Cross had a few random and weird comments, but that was the extent of it.

I think it all could have been veeeery different if they had the guy that plays Baxter and Liza Minnelli (those two MAKE the show) pony up to the bar.

Also, what is Dave Foley DOING on this show? So much talent and he's spending his time talking to Hank Azaria about a straight flush? And can someone please tell me who the heck is Peter Facinelli and why is he on every single episode of celebrity poker?

Happy Birthday to yet another one of my junior high friends that enters into the thirtysomething experience today -- Have a fabulous day, Momma! May you find a single orange construction cone on an abandoned street in the middle of the night and saw it in half with the people you love!

On another note, I haven't slept a solid night in three days because of moving anxiety. Head hurting. Dark circles looming under eyes. Wheeeee!

 

Time once again for Frequently Asked Questions!

Q: Are there any good drinking games that I can play while watching Dawson's Creek?

A: Yes. I suggest that you set yourself up with a few episodes, your beverage of choice and take a drink whenever:

* Anyone uses the term "soul mate."
* Dawson touches his enormous forehead.
* A person crawls into Dawson's bedroom window.
* Anyone cries. Bonus sip if this person is Dawson.
* Grams says "Oh, Jennifah!" Bonus three sips if Jen replies back with "Dammit Grams! I don't want your judgment, I just want your understanding!"
* Pacey speaks in his really really bad Bawstan accent.
* Joey tucks her hair behind her ears and bites her lip and looks worried.
* Mr. Leery, AKA Meathead, is on screen. Five extra sips if Gail "Deep Conditioning Hair Treatment" Leery is on with Meathead. You'll need it to numb the pain.

I think you'll find yourself very happy by the end of the episode.

Anyone who knows me knows about my love of napping. I can block out a good 2-3 hours on a Saturday afternoon curled up in bed, snoozing away in perfect bliss. Which is why the folks at Metronaps are after my own heart -- napping stations for mid-afternoon escapes? Hello?

I rarely find myself in the Empire State Building is the main problem...and they're designed for 20 minute "power naps" which any professional napper worth her salt will tell you is totally worthless. Still, an interesting concept -- props to ljcfyi for the tipoff.

Okay Nordstrom Shoe Guy, I get it. I have big feet. Don't look at me with that snippy pursed mouth of yours and sneer that you don't carry those cute Steve Madden mules with the kitten heels in my size.
 
I mean, I was just askin'. No need for the attitude. I'll be taking my giant feet online where I'll shop without the 'tude.

Let's give a big ol' mature thirtysomething Happy Birthday to my friend Raquel Rashell, who leaves her twenties behind her today. Hope you TEAR THROUGH the years with laughter and joy and good good stuff.
 
Have a fabulous day, girl -- you deserve the best. Welcome to the old lady club.
 
 

Happy, happy day. As I was scurrying around doing errands today, I found myself absolutely obsessed with finding a bowl of Pho soup. Had to have it. Would die if I didn't have it. That type of craving.
 
I recalled about a year ago I had gone to this little restaurant in a strip mall when I was coming down with a foul, foul headcold. Sniffling and shaking and feverish, I ordered the soup...handed over my debit card and was told you had to buy at least $10 worth before you could use a card. I think I started crying. I definitely lost it. All I know is that the guy took pity on me and let me pay without the minimum.
 
So I returned to my little strip mall place, happy to give this nice guy my business again and satisfying the craving all at the same time, plus adding in a little squid with garlic sauce to the deal. DELISH!

Dear Caregiver Whom I Occassionally Reward With Snuggles:

Are you dense or something? That cheap-ass Safeway-brand cat food SUCKS. I mean, it really really SUCKS and that's coming from an animal that licks his own behind. You seriously couldn't have spent the extra three or four dollars for the Whiskas that I so much prefer? Have I offended you somehow?

Look, I've got my pride. I don't like having to meow and stare up at you pleadingly every single time you go into the kitchen in hope that you'll get the hint and toss out this foul cardboard masquerading as "food." But I've also got my huge hairy orange belly to look after. And sister, it's shrinking up from the crappy food.

I deserve better.

Sincerely,
Thomas the Wonder Cat, AKA Mr. Snuggle Bear, AKA Little Buddy, AKA Schmoopie, AKA Bunny Bun Bun

Isabel "Weezie Jefferson" Sanford died on Monday. I not distraught or anything, but it's still sad. She actually had a pretty interesting career outside of The Jeffersons.

It's also sad when you mention to someone that Weezie died and they reply back, "Sorry, I think that was before my time," making you feel about a billion years old. This aging thing, man, it hits you had strange times.

Damn but I do love David Sedaris. His latest essay collection made me laugh so hard tonight that my purifying oceanic clay mask cracked into a million tiny peices.

Grudges are funny things. You carry them around with you for years and years, like precious little gems. You cling so desperately to them, holding them near and dear to you out of fear, out of a desire not to get hurt again. And it's often not until you let go of them that you realize how much those little grudges have weighed you down.

Lesson learned: Sometimes you have to just bury the hatchet and leave it behind you. It's just not worthy carrying around all the time.

Okay, so I may have gotten a little overzealous about Jam Fest. While I did indeed make more than a dozen beautiful pots of strawberry and raspberry jam, there is still an entire half flat of blackberries and blueberries sitting in my fridge awaiting....something. A pie? A cobbler? Muffins?

I need to think of something and fast -- the only problem is that I out-Martha-ed myself with the jam and I'm in no mood to cook anything for a while now. Hmmmm. Time to consult some cookbooks...

Damn, but if our culture just can't get enough garden gnomes these days. Those little suckers are EVERYWHERE and I guess that's not a bad thing. Or is it?

If you feel strongly that gnomes should be liberated, go here.

If you'd rather just experience a new gnome every day, go here.

Get on down with your bad gnome-y selves now...

Preparing for Jam Fest 2004 this weekend, where I'm going to hunker down with about 100 pounds (kidding!) of fresh blackberries, raspberries and strawberries and attempt to make about a billion pots (maybe not kidding!) of jam.

Will you be one of the Chosen Few to receive a souvenier from Jam Fest 2004? I'm not against taking bribes of coffee and/or beer from the locals to see if I can't get you up on the list.

Thanks to LJC for her easy instructions on how to make jam here.

So this is depressing -- book reading is apparently becoming a lost art in America. A report by the NEA finds that Americans (surprise surprise) aren't big readers -- it finds that less than half of us read literature in 2002.

This saddens me. I admit I'm an enormous book geek -- I'm passionate about books and words and language and punctuation. Talk to me about the semicolon and I'll get all shivery. Books and writing are intrinsically part of who I am and how I experience the world. A life without books in it is just...empty in my eyes.

I once had a friend who, when looking at my overstuffed bookshelves, comment that she'd rather live certain experiences rather than just read about them. That's fine, I guess. But for me reading about experiences and living them are closely intertwined. Literature chronicles our lives, our cultures and our experiences -- it makes the world a more fantastic and imaginative place to live, which in turn helps us to view and experience it in different ways never before possible.

I'm buckin' the trend. I'm a rebel with a literary cause. I'm heading to a bookstore this weekend and doing my part to get between the pages of a good novel.

Hold the phones. Hold everything. BREAKING NEWS ALERT!

While I have yet to confirm this personally in the stores, I have been alerted by Concerned Blog Reader #590-J that they are reintroducing PUDDING POPS. This is huge, people!

X-Entertainment, an amusing site on its own, profiles my beloved and long-lost pops here.

Falling asleep on top of my laptop. Six a.m. flights SUCK SO MUCH. Might very well be in bed by before 8 tonight.

Panic has started to set in about moving. To counter this, I'm debating about doing a giant strawberry/raspberry jam-fest this weekend. I've not been very Martha-like lately. Too tired to think about it now though.

My eyes hurt. ZZZZZZZZZZ.

Things that are good to do when visiting the homestead:

The popcorn shrimp platter at Red Lobster
Go check out the fancy new Wal-Mart
Stroll by the creek you once waded in as a child
Ice cream cones near said creek
Two words: The Mall
Iron Chef on the Food Network (theme: Giant 9-pound Lobster)

Trip to Denver was good, but remind me again why I selected flights that leave at 6 a.m.? A few observations/suggestions about the people I've seen on flights during this trip:

* No animal-themed clothing, people. Ever. I don't care how much you like deer/wolves/kittens/horses, if you're over the age of 12 you don't get to wear them on your clothes.

* Enough with the tapestry luggage already. That goes double for the woman with the tapestry luggage with kittens on it.

* If you see a group of attractive upstanding college-aged guys wearing suits in the airport at Salt Lake City, remember the old rule that "it's probably too good to be true." Sure enough there were more than a dozen Jehovah's Witnesses on the flight.

Good News/Bad News about moving:

The good news is obvious -- it's a new place, new scenary, new neighbors, a fresh beginning.

The bad news, especially when one moves into a smaller place, is that one becomes overwhelmed and freaked out over the massive amounts of sheer crap that accumulates over the years.

The good news about that is that the crap accumulation (CA) leads to a massive purging and dumping of said possessions. Which, if one is thinking positively, will lead to a feeling of tranquility and zen-like simplicity. Maybe. Sort of.

I have to get to Goodwill before this ideal little fantasy wears off and I want to become reunited with 20 boxes of knick knacks.