Carthage

Watching Enchanted

Patrick Dempsey: Blah blah blah I am Mr. McCynical!

Gene: Whoa!

Me: Holy cow.

Gene: Is that Sam Seaborn?

Me: No. It's the lead from that show that McTighe was on.

Gene: Ok, but I'm not crazy, right? You're hearing Sam?

Me: They're voice twins!

Patrick Dempsey: Blah blah blah princesses aren't real.

Gene: Ok, I guess they do sound a little different.

Me: Be awesome if Rob Lowe WAS in this though.

Gene: Totally.

Sam Seaborn and McDreamy: voice twins?

The rules

I spent about an hour yesterday looking for rules about what to wear to weddings, though I do think most rules surrounding weddings are bullshit. (Startling, eh? Yes, this is shaping up to be one of my edgier posts. I also think water is wet, and opening your eyes helps you see.) Nevertheless, it's important to know rules before you break them, and occasionally there's stuff that makes sense, like not wearing white because it would be embarrassing if the bride's slightly blind grandmother mistakes you for the bride. (Hey, Grandma, see above on the eye-opening rule.)

There is nothing like spending an hour looking at wedding guest attire rules to make you feel vain and superficial. Almost every advice column you will read on this subject ends in "Of course, no one will be looking at YOU," which makes you feel like kind of a shitty person for even spending this much time thinking about what you wear. As if by even considering your outfit for the day you've already concocted a major plot to upstage the bride, at whom everyone WILL be looking.

I'm not anywhere near this marriage business, but I will just say this: if I ever do get married, please think about what you'll be wearing to my wedding. Feel free to put a lot of thought and effort into making yourself pretty. Because a five hour reception where everyone stares determinedly at me and only me is about the worst thing I can imagine.

The weirdest part of the whole business is I cannot imagine the brides are on board with these rules. Because honestly, who throws a party for their friends and then gets bent out of shape if the guests wear floral dresses to an evening event or a black cocktail dress in the afternoon? So basically I'm just going to wear something non-white that I like the look of and the rules be damned.

If, however, you are not so free-thinking, here are the results of my research:

For a daytime wedding, you dress as you would at a garden party. Colors, sundresses, florals, these are all good. For evening, you wear cocktail dresses and darker colors. If there's a dress code listed on the invitation then you follow that. That's it, that's all you have to remember. And anyway, everyone will be staring at the bride like they are saber-toothed tigers and she is a wounded woolly mammoth. No one will be looking at you.

Free Stuff!

Those of you who have begun to enjoy taking the torturous path through our household labyrinth of broken televisions, various computers and general clutter will be disappointed to hear that I am indulging in some spring cleaning. For the rest of you, coming over is about to become fun again.

As often as we march, ladies, we never seem to be able to take back the night. But by God I am going to take back the apartment if it kills me.

The first wave of stuff was cleared out yesterday, and I emerged with a few giveaways. Katy has first dibs on the rugs if she wants them, but if she passes then any of you are welcome to them:

Small rug, 40" long by 23" wide, not counting fringe. Comes with no-slip mat cut to size.

Medium rug, 63" long by 45" wide, not counting fringe. Comes with no-slip mat cut to size.

Michael Graves coffee maker. This makes about 6 cups. It works fine, but the hot plate heats up slowly -- it takes about half an hour for the coffee to be hot.

Watch this space, as I will continue to post giveaways as the cleaning progresses. I'm also getting rid of several bags of men's and women's clothing and a stack of old cookbooks. If you want any of that you will have to move fast, as it's going to be donated to charities and the library tomorrow.

I will have an eye to the comments and my email, so let me know if you want anything.

DIY Project Day

As Gene is just about done building me a new computer to replace my 1950s vintage laptop, I am getting serious about making space for my work in the house. (I considered just changing my career altogether to suit the apartment -- become a TV repairman, say -- but ultimately decided to stick with what I know.)

My dad helped me buy and transport a little oak desk that is small but fits perfectly into my corner of the dining room. And the smallness of the desk is actually good. It doesn't permit a lot of clutter if I want to keep using my keyboard and mouse, which means I have to deal with paperwork as it comes up. Unfortunately, sometimes there's stuff I can't get to right away for whatever reason. Rather than piling it at the forgettable bottom of a paper stack, I wanted to buy this:

Memo clips

I could hang papers from it, and plus, so cute! But then I remembered that $15 is too much to pay for cute plastic farm animals (they stick you with shipping), so today I took a trip to Cliff's to see what I could do about this on my own.

I bought four clips, four 3/4" keyrings and a length of chain, for a total purchase price of $5.67:

I threaded the clips onto the rings, then threaded the rings at intervals along the chain. This lets the clips hang at the right angle so the papers will hang flat against the wall and I can see what they are.

Next step: put tiny nails into the shelf that runs along the top of the wall, so I can hook the chain over the nails. Note the marvelously girly tool chest. When I got my first non-dorm non-parent place, the Moms made sure I had a tool chest to take with me. She said every woman needs her own tool chest. The best part (for me) is that Gene somehow does not own his own hammer, so every time he needs to hammer something he has to go into the tool chest with the Disney princess stickers on it.

And voila! My very own paper hanging cord, which I made my very own self. Now all I need are the cute sparkly butterflies from Cliff's that can be wrapped on either end to pretty it up and I will be so happy.

The crap collection holidays

I've been thinking about April Fool's Day. I don't really enjoy being tricked, so I find it handy to have all the tricking compressed into one day. In fact, I think we should start rounding up more unpleasant stuff and cramming it all into one day a year. Naturally, I began my brainstorming with some of the irritating things I myself do which can and should be curtailed through my new holiday system.

May 14: Drunk Day
I think that boring, rude, angry or messy drunks (such as myself) should only be allowed to get drunk in company every May 14. This wouldn't prevent Ilk from being forced to listen to a forty-five minute gushing recitation from me about how much I loooove Gene, but at least he would only have to sit through one a year.

December 8: Plot Day
Let's reserve December 8 for people who want to tell you the plot of their dreams, or of any media they've recently seen or read. Everyone knows most dreams are boring, but I bet many people don't know that it's very, very dull to listen to an episode of a TV show explained in great detail. Exceptions can be made if you're responding to a question, but the question better be "What is that show about?" and not "How was the new show?" or "Did you sleep okay?"

Relating a dream about a TV show is never okay, not even when I have serial dreams about being on Gilmore Girls for seven nights running.

"But then Rory was a ghost and they were kissing..."

Image from here.

December 9: Art Day
December 9, the follow-up holiday to Plot Day, will be there for people who want to show you their art. Visual art is usually ok, because it doesn't require a lengthy time commitment, but people who want you to read their novels or poetry are going to have to wait until the 9th. Unless they are Jason or Sean, or can prove themselves worthy of being classed with Jason and Sean. (This will also prevent me from requiring people to read my blog in order to catch up on my life. Which was a bad system anyway, considering how spotty my posting schedule is.)

This very fun image is from here.

March 25: St. Shutterbug's Day
On March 25, everyone can pull out their vacation pictures from the previous year and show them around. I actually like photos that people just post online, because I can go through them at my own speed and without shaping my face to look more interested than I maybe am. But otherwise, unless I like you a lot, your photos are exceptionally artistic, or you're posed with a good-looking celebrity, I just don't want to sit through an in-person viewing with you.

February 12: Critic's Day
Let's set aside February 12 for us to openly criticize one another's wardrobes, lifestyles and music preferences. Some of us will always want to be wearing a glittery cartoon character t-shirt, and some of us will always be bothered by that, so everyone gets a day to voice their concerns. Remember, you're making someone feel bad here, so your "it's for her own good" justification only applies on opposite day. And that, of course, is July 19.

Blame Canada

Michele and I have returned from our week-long roadtrip to Vancouver, and boy, are our credit cards tired. We cut a swathe through the secondhand and vintage stores of the Pacific Northwest, buying up their 1960s minidresses and shimmery stockings in relentless pursuit of the perfect spring wardrobe. Tremble before us and fear our power, for we are consumers and will consume you and all you stand for. Your wares will become our wears. O tremble.

Or you can just look at our pictures, which are here. If you are interested in such things, note that the descriptions, viewed by clicking the picture, are more interesting than the captions.

Shop Talk

I submitted a short story for publication today. I have never submitted my fiction before. It took me about half an hour to write, and while I know I ought to sit on stuff for a week or more and then revise, I didn't think my sudden burst of confidence would hold out that long.

This wasn't my best work by any means. That's why I was able to submit it. A rejection won't be as awful as if they were rejecting something I was super attached to. I trust I'll get over that problem as I get used to doing this.

It was about robots.

I submitted a short story today.

This is not my robot.

This little light of mine...

I always figured I'd grow out of my distaste for wearing makeup, like how after you achieve a certain maturity level you no longer own backless shirts or have friends in Santa Barbara. (Then later on you hit another level where you do have friends who live in Santa Barbara, but these are old rich yuppie friends who own homes there, not college kids packed eight to a room in Goleta.)

Only recently did I realize that it's not a maturity thing. You start wanting to own and wear makeup at the same age that you realize how shiny it is. After all, the word "shimmer" is right there in the names of many, many makeup products. Lip shimmer, shimmery eye powder, body shimmer that you put in your lotion to make your skin all sparkly. Most girls knew about this way back when you could choose between shimmer and glitter, but for me it's all new and exciting.

I got all crazy and bought a shiny lip gloss a few days ago. Now my lips look like little lengthwise jewels all the time, and they smell like apples, which attracts both fellas and insects. I'm working my way up to some shiny eye business, so that whoever I'm talking to will become dazzled by my gemstone eyelids and have to lie down for a moment while I slyly steal their wallet. I will use the cash I earn from my sparkle crimes to procure more shining makeup for myself.

I'm going to try not to become a Tammy Faye Bakker face, but it might be hard to help. The shine must go on, after all.

This is not my face.

Missed donut

Every now and then I troll the missed connections, because if my public ever decides to speak to me I want to be there to listen. I was reading today because I've been unusually outside-the-house active this week and wondered if maybe someone noticed and wanted to buy me a donut. And also because Dianna's recent post reminded me about it.

Imagine my excitement when I saw this headline:

Kristen L. - m4w

OMG! This is actually for me! A donut buyer! But then:

"You used to work at a restaurant that starts with A, maybe you still do. Trying to track you down to see if we can spend some time like we used to, but won't put much about that here. Speak up and we'll see"

Sigh. No donut for me.

Edward Sandwichhands

I was walking home from the bus stop last night feeling, I thought, colder than I have ever felt. As I strode up 16th Street, certain I was about to lose some fingers, I passed Ike's darkened little shop and my chilblained brain thought, it's ok. If I lose my hands to frostbite, Ike will help me.

What did I mean by that, I wondered when warmer? This was all I could come up with:

Edward Sandwichhands

Child:
Where does snow come from?

Narrator:
Once there was a famous inventor named Ike. Left to his own devices in his lonely shop on 16th, Ike created many things. One of these was a man. Sadly, Ike closed for the day before he could finish creating the man's hands, because he closes early most weeknights no matter how hungry you are. He called the man Edward, and instead of human hands, he gave him sandwiches.

After Ike left, Edward was discovered by a resident of the town, who took pity on him and brought him to live in his typically gay Castro residence.

At first the neighborhood feared Edward. His hands were made of carbs, which could be dangerous to the physically fit residents of the Castro. However, they soon learned that Edward was gentle and shy, never attempting to force his carbs on those who did not want them. After a little while, his neighbors began to make use of his wonderful sandwich hands, nibbling them here and there as a snack in between meals, or taking large bites out of them when they had forgotten to bring lunch, or had had a difficult workout at Gold's and were super hungry.

All of this snacking took its toll. Before long, Edward's hands had been devoured completely! Still, the neighbors looked at him hungrily, wondering if his elbows or knees might be made of delicious sandwich. Fearing for his life, Edward fled to the only place he felt safe: Ike's Sandwich Shop on 16th Street.

Child:
But what happened to him?

Narrator:
The next morning, Ike returned to his shop. His creature was pitifully pleased to see him. "Now you can give me some real hands!" he cried. But Ike smiled and gently shook his head.

"Vegan meatball sub," he whispered, holding up bread. "Vegan meatball sub."

And now when white flakes fall from the sky, all the Castro residents know that some lucky neighbor is snacking on Edward's sandwich hands, and the crumbs are floating down like a benediction from sandwich heaven.

Kris Goes to the Zoo

This morning I woke up and saw how the morning glory vines were starting to cover the windows. Not to be one of those writers who sees symbolism everywhere, but it seemed like a good time to get out of the house for a while. So I went to the zoo.

Now that is a good time, the zoo is. Tiger attacks aside, there's nothing better than being there on a beautiful sunny weekday when you've mostly got the place to yourself. Also, this is maybe weird, but it's really nice to go to the zoo alone. You can spend as much or as little time looking at each animal as you want, and you don't have to feel guilty that you don't read any of the informational plaques.

My favorite are the giraffes, for obvious reasons. Like me, the giraffes are tall, strange, non-violent and perpetually hungry. However, the lions were also pretty good today:

You can see more photos from my day here.

Ay!

I went to the Bark & Whine Ball last night at 8th & Brannan. This is the SF SPCA's annual fancy-pants fundraiser where dogs and their people get all gussied up to eat tiny food and genteely sniff one another's bottoms. My bus got stuck or something (or, as Jason might say, slipped off the solid gold roads my taxes pay for), so I wound up walking the six blocks to from Market to the party.

On the way, high-stepping in my sluttiest of cocktail dresses, I passed an urban tough of the typical genus: head shaved, pencil mustache, big black leather jacket. "Hey, little girl," he called at me. "Hey, baby!" Alas for me, my standard reaction of full ignoring was compromised, as I was distracted by the tough's dog, a tiny chihuahua rigged up in some kind of argyle dog sweater.

"Aww," I melted. "Hey, little girl! Hey, baby!"

And so the cycle of abuse continues.

This is not my chihuahua.

Bend over for tax time!

I made just over $7000 last year, which puts me in the millionaire's circle for people who can almost afford to starve to death in style. Given that I made an annual income that would just barely allow me to make my rent in a residential hotel in Topeka, shouldn't the feds be giving me a tax break? Instead of charging me almost $1000 simply because I'm self-employed?

"Freeze! Let go of those bootstraps, missie, niiiiice and easy. Nobody's pulling herself up on my watch."

I gotta think I've made a mistake somewhere on the four forms I had to fill out. Sigh.

To the tune of the Gin Blossom's "Found Out About You"

Original lyrics here.

Found Out About YouTube
All last summer in case you don't recall
I had a laptop, barely ran, and often stalled
Is there a line that I could write
Sad enough to make you cry
Complex websites make the whole thing die

The months roll past, my data disappears
Wish I had an iBook like my peers
But now I've got a new machine
All thanks to my fella Gene
And there's a whole e-world I've never seen

Whispers out at BoingBoing
They're saying that Digg digs your website
I found out about YouTube

People said this shit was where it's at
And you can see the cutest fucking cat
Just post online and you're a star
The internet knows who you are
I can't believe I missed so much so far

Whispers out at BoingBoing
They're saying that Digg digs your website
I found out about YouTube

I'll be spending all my hours now
Browsing through this library of wow
Endless rehashed Office clips
No Viacom permission slips
Streaming past in 1 and 0 bits

Whispers out at BoingBoing
They're saying that Digg digs your website
I found out about YouTube
I found out about YouTube
I found out about YouTube

Our troubles are all the same

I miss having an office sometimes. (Well, no. My offices were mostly not places anyone would miss. But my memory of working in an office has been replaced by episodes of The Office. I am nostalgic for that televised camaraderie that I rarely experienced in real life.)

I work with and for people, yet I have no colleagues. It's weird. I want that mutual exhalation at the end of a hard day when everyone kicks back and drinks a $2 beer at the local. Failing that, I wish I had a regular crew that drank together. I don't want pub night, I just want a bar I can walk to where we go every week and drink for a couple of hours together.

I WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW MY NAME.

Or I want to drink a gin and tonic with fresh lime every summer night. If I can't have friends then let the gin and tonic friend me.

Seriously, I wonder why we don't see each other regularly. Shouldn't we all be having brunch every Sunday or drinks every Thursday or dinner every Tuesday night? If I have to rely on a G&T to be my friend for all those meals I will be fucked. Up.

Nature's best friends:

This is not my drink.