DAILY PHOTO, 02 FEBRUARY 2006

I don't know what this is about and if you do, let me know

THURSDAY, 02 FEBRUARY 2006

On my way home from work today, sometime between Fulton Street and Borough Hall, I managed to find a headache and a blister and scoop both up and the two of them together conspired to take my soul and throw it on the floor and as anyone who's had that happen to them before can attest, the only thing to do when this happens is ditch all plans for exercise and eat two bagels and three bowls of Cheerios. Which I did. And it was fabulous.

My next stop, after taking the kitchen by storm, was my sweet spot on the couch, a spot I plan to inhabit until my husband peels my fatt lard butt off the couch to get me into bed, because if I move before then he'll steal it from me and I'll spend the rest of the night teetering perilously on the slight space between his armpit and the edge of the couch. Because all I want to do tonight, for the rest of the night, is watch T.V. and veg out.

Incidentally and having nearly nothing to do with anything, the Residency Director at the University of Oregon where Brandon has applied to law school (one of the many) is named Tee V. I kid you not, people! That sort of rocks doesn't it?

And speaking of T.V., the night goes as follows. First, we have the Food Network hour, wherein I will watch Sandra Lee and wonder why she is such a lush and the husband will make a comment once or twice pertaining to her bust size and/or ho-ness. And seriously, when you're adding extra butter to already-buttered microwaveable popcorn and the only thing edible-looking is the nightly cocktail (and I don't even drink!) you know you're in for it. Seriously. Did she get that job on the merits of her boobies alone? I'm just wondering.

At 6 comes the Martha/Project Runway flip-flop. I'm seriously in love with Project Runway and thankfully Brandon will humor through 45 minutes of it before needing to do something incredibly manly to self-correct. Usually this involves belching. I'm willing to risk it. The fact that this morning in the Metro, this free paper you pick up at the Subway stations around the city, they had an interview with Santino, Nick & Chloe about NYC fashion week makes me think I might be in on something that you non-New Yorkers might not know... like the final three? But then, I only watch the reruns, I don't have the physical stamina to watch it live. Is it live? So I don't really know what all we all know pertaining to the amount of designers still in the running. Is it four? I'm completely losing track of what I'm talking about, really. Anyway, the moral of the story here is that I am really tired, chock-full of carbs (Chock Full O'Nuts is a coffee company I learned this week, and does not in fact produce mixed nuts. There you go) and ready to ease my brain into the nothingness that is pre-primetime television. Here I come!

Grassy windmills of Pennsylvania

DAILY PHOTO, 01 FEBRUARY 2006

Come back! Come back!

TUESDAY, 31 JANUARY 2006

*It has recently come to my attention that I SUCK. I should be sending emails to my commenters, huh! And didn't know it! I swear! Did I lose you all? Can you come back? I'll be better this time! I promise! Comment!!

Driving in the city

DAILY PHOTO, 31 JANUARY 2006

These are the people in your neighborhood

TUESDAY, 31 JANUARY 2006

There are a lot of shady characters living on the streets in Brooklyn where we live. There�s this one guy in particular who is like homeless for real, not just homeless during the day when he can make a dime off it, but homeless 100% and, did I mention, totally bat-shit crazy. He wears towels strapped to his legs and quilt-batting strapped to his head and carries a coffee cup for change, full of coffee I might add, jabbing it in your face and saying, �Hey! Morning!� and �Huh-huh-huh-huh.� He does a sort of dance with one knee up and one arm over his head; it�s a bit of a bouncy jig. Brandon once put a bit of change in his cup, heard it �plop-plop� into the liquid, and then decided against ever doing it ever again.

There�s a Pakistani man around 60 years old or so who sells the New York Post at reduced rates after 3 p.m. He isn�t homeless, per se, but he hangs out with the homeless guys who live on Court by the Duane Reade. He yells, �NEW YORK POST!� at you when you walk past and sounds really, really angry. He only has one front tooth, and really long nose hairs, and sits by the New York Times dude, who sells the New York Times for 25 cents, so when you walk by it�s a big black man and a smallish one-toothed Pakistani yelling over each other. �New York POST! NEW YORK Times.� I try to walk past as quickly as I can, but every now and then I spend too long walking past them and their yelling gets me into a funk and I feel like yelling out �NO THANK YOU!� back into their faces.

There�s one homeless guy that Brandon likes in particular. He�s a big black man who sets up camp outside the HSBC next door to our building. He wears a blue sweat suit and calls Brandon �Baby.� He tries to get spare change indirectly by sparking up a conversation and relying on the goodness of people instead of out-right asking. Brandon, always up for a conversation, engages the guy and they exchange pleasantries, and always the guy ends up sans change and I end up feeling bad for the guy. I figure Brandon shouldn�t talk to him unless he intends to pony up. The conversation is this guy�s good, it�s what he�s selling. One night, after saying hi to him on our way to Target (the source of all things good) the homeless guy stood up and said �That�s nice baby, but next time bring me some change, dude!�

Once in a long underpass at the 42nd Street subway station I passed a homeless man with a sign that said �$2 bucks to chew me out.� THAT, if I had more time, is something I�d pay for.

Then there�s Key Food Ken. We call him that because he�s always standing near the Key Food on our block. He is in LOVE with our dog (I mean, can you blame him?) and when we walk past he says, �Is that my puppy?� To which I say under my breath, �No, you crazy idiot, he�s MY puppy.� Then he picks up Peter (a personal-space no-no, don�t you think?) pets him, and when Peter gets excited and starts wiggling and licking and nipping, Key Food Ken holds him still and tells him not to be crazy. Every time I want to let him know that he�s invading my space and that I�d like him not to touch my dog anymore, thanks, and that, hello, if you�re going to pet my 4-month-old terrier you�d better be damn happy with the wiggling and the licking you jerk. Instead, I grit my teeth and let him pet the dog and then get the hell out of there as fast as I can. Later, down the block, I check the dog for fleas. You just never know with Key Food Ken.

Today I wised up and took Peter around another block to avoid Key Food Ken. Success! But on our way home, we walked on the other side of the street, and when I saw Key Food Ken was out and about I grabbed Peter�s leash extra tight and we booked it, ducking behind Newsstands and Hot Dog carts so we wouldn�t be seen. When we were safely out of sight I high-fived the dog and did a butt-wiggle. This kind of stuff just doesn�t happen in suburbia, folks.

Ghandi Pan

SUNDAY, 29 JANUARY 2006

Our puppy isn't eating. Yesterday afternoon we filled his bowl with smallish brown rock-hard kibbles, put it on the floor with a "voila!" because that's how he likes it, and then there it just sat, sat all day and all evening and all night, and then this morning when we would have normally given him a fresh bowl of food it was all still just sitting there, his lunch from yesterday, untouched.

When this happens Brandon gets down on his hands and knees, scoops some kibble lovingly into his manly hand, and the puppy eats and licks and kisses Brandon and they have beautiful male bonding. But this time, even the intimate love between a man and his dog is not enough to spur him to eat, and thus the bowl is still, sadly, full.

He will eat his treats, of course, because there is nothing in this world more divine and holy to the puppy than his Scooby Snacks and no matter what state of non-hunger he may be in he will jump in the air and then sit obediently with his tail wagging insanely and his face upturned with cherub-like excitement waiting for a treat. And then he'll gently caress the treat in his teeth and bring it to his blanket, which was once Brandon's blanket but which was made undeniably his the third time he peed on it as a little dude. So, he brings his treat to his love-making lair (this is also where he humps his horse until we realize what he's up to and grab the horse, shake it in his face and scream, "No sex till you're 18, young man!") and will lick it, bite it, and climactically, eat it.

So, with cheese-flavored Scooby Snacks and the occasional carrot his only nourishment after day 2, Brandon and I have concluded that he is, in fact, fasting for a very noble, yet unknown to humans, cause. It's probably canine rights or the political state of the Hamas in the middle east (he did once pee on a very important newspaper, so don't think he's not well-read), but I suspect that really his protest is something closer to home. Peanut butter and marshmallow fluff.

I've been bad and have been eating peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches for a snack every afternoon, while the puppy looks on lovingly. I've been known to give him a small corner of the bread crust, a corner with mostly peanut butter and not too much marshmallow fluff, because he looks at me with those damn puppy eyes and I am a fool, a damn fool. On Friday when I was having my snack I decided the puppy shouldn't be eating marshmallow fluff and declined to give him the requisite crust corner. Peter Pan showed his disgust by peeing underneath my chair and pooping under the table, all in the span of 5 minutes.

I have a sneaking suspicion that were I to scrape a tablespoon of fluff from the jar and stir it lovingly into his meat-flavored kibble that all would be right in this world. But dang it, he's already got me putting on my pants while standing on my bed so he can't attack my jeans and bite my ankles, and the marshmallow fluff is just where I draw the line!

And they call it puppy love

SATURDAY, 28 JANUARY 2006

We went on a nice long walk this evening with the puppy. The weather here has been unbelievable. It couldn't have been colder than 45 or so, and there was an amazing breeze that was actually warmer than the standing air. We walked down our street and up a few brownstone-lined streets, our pace slow and easy. We walked to the promenade and looked at the sprawling city across the river, watched the sun set, and, when Peter could no longer walk a straight line and was so distracted by every wadded napkin, gum wrapper and cigarette butt, he refused to take another step, preferring instead to lick the concrete and eat a few fallen leaves.

We took a seat on a wooden bench outside the neighborhood Connecticut Muffin and people watched for a while. Brandon loves to people watch. It was early nighttime now so we could see into apartment windows and check out artwork and fireplace mantles. Just then a woman with a black labrador walked past. Peter immediately stood at attention. He's not used to a lot of dogs, and while he has perfect manners, you never know what the other dog will bring to the meeting, so we tightened his leash and eyed the lab warily as he passed. As soon as the lab made eye contact with Peter Pan his ears perked up and his eyes got this manic glow as he pulled against his leash. Peter responded by jumping to his feet and staring intently at his new buddy. The owner of the lab either didn't see or just wanted to get home and kept tugging the lab behind her. Finally, she put a treat under his nose and suddenly the lab's attention went straight from "puppypuppypuppy" to "treattreattreat." But for a few wonderful seconds, Peter and this lab were engaged in a very intense, meaningful relationship.

After the lab left I asked Brandon how he thought that non-verbal converstation went between Peter and the lab. He thought about it and said, "Well, the lab said, 'Hi, are you new here?' and then Peter Pan said 'Yeah! I'm a puppy! Wanna lick my face? I have a butt-chode!'"

Strangely, only two of these figures are cardboard

DAILY PHOTO, 26 JANUARY 2006

War, what is it good for

THURSDAY, 26 JANUARY 2006

Today I got in my first semi-political argument with my mother, a woman who, bless her soul, is a Republican. It needs to be noted here that I'm not technically a Democrat, after all I voted for Bush in the last election (a decision I've come to regret more and more with each passing day) but living in New York City you can't help but be liberalized a bit. And I quite like it, thanks. The topic of our argument wasn't clearly defined, but among the high points were welfare programs, war, and the intelligence quotient of public leaders. And when I say argument what I really mean is I tried to avoid talking about it while she spoke her mind and I secretly disagreed with everything she said and expressed this with "ehhh"s and "errrrhh"s.

This is not because I don't like to argue, or because I'm not good at arguing. On the contrary. I can argue over nothing for hours and when it's all over and other people involved have lost their will to care I will feel fired up and ready to run a couple laps, something I am NEVER ready to do as I have fat ankles and a jiggly bum. (A coworker used to call me a "skinny fat chick," to which I thought, hey, at least I'm skinny.) But I have learned that there is definitely no point in arguing with family, ever. EVER. And thus, I don't like to argue with my mom. No sirree. I leave that to my sisters, who are sadly dummer than I.

My mom is the type of woman who can do it all and not break a sweat. I grew up watching her scrub the floors with a wet dishrag, bent over at the waist, straight-legged, and wearing heels. AT THE SAME TIME, PEOPLE. The weekend of my wedding Brandon volunteered to go walking with my mom on her 5-mile route and came home whimpering with shinsplints. The woman can out-walk a man twice her height, no sweat. I knew this would happen, as I was stupid enough to agree to walk with her once and nearly passed out after about two blocks. She gave birth to four babies with no drugs and in under ten hours. TOTAL. FOR ALL FOUR COMBINED. My little brother came in 28 minutes. YEAH. The woman is a powerhouse. And even though she didn't finish college and I did, and even though she doesn't read a lot and I do, I know that she could beat me to a bloody pulp in any confrontation we ever engaged in. And when she tells you to do something you do it before she snaps her finger at you and then points at your face. That finger is as frightening as a shotgun. Someday I'd like to be just like her. Only maybe not a Republican.

BLECH

WEDNESDAY, 25 JANUARY 2006

So, we saw the juggernaut that is "Spamalot" today and, being of british-humor type, I loved it. Brandon (though every time I looked over at him during the show he was all smiles) swears up and down that it wasn't very funny and David Hyde Pearce was a bit of a letdown (Dr. Niles Crane singing about Jews not funny?!) and while a part of me goes into a slight panic every time he mentions something about it he didn't get (I married a non-Python. Could it be? How did I let this happen?) truthfully I know he loved it and also thought it was worth every penny just like I did. Though $200 bucks for two and a half hours of television actors prancing around in chainmail is pretty steep, I still say I'd pay it again. And the dude who sang "That's on e-bay" in that commercial was in it, and that to me was cooler than Hank Azaria and David Hyde Pearce put together!

My department at work was moved from the 14th floor to the 13th floor (lucky 13... I'm waiting for something to drop on my head every minute I'm at work now) and this is the exciting news of my life. GREAT. My security card wouldn't let me around the 13th floor, which I only discovered after I'd gone to the caff to get lunch and found myself trapped in the stairwell. But don't worry! They're fixing it! Ahhh. I wonder when I'll give up this charade of working full-time, because it isn't fulfilling, doesn't give me a sense of purpose, and I am SO underpaid. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I were in a field that I found interesting... say a field I studied in college... say copyediting, which would give me such waves of happiness, but hello! Online job searches suck. Online job searches are the opiate of the unemployed masses. And you can quote me on that.

I can only give my word that I will be interesting tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then definitely the day after tomorrow (a silly movie with that twit from Phantom of the Opera who has dead, dead eyes) and all you can really do is trust me on this. I'm interesting usually! Come back! Ahh.

This is where he finds all the mittens

DAILY PHOTO, 25 JANUARY 2006

Oregon coast, a long time ago

DAILY PHOTO, 24 JANUARY 2006

You goin my way?

TUESDAY, 24 JANUARY 2006

I can't remember what movie it was or maybe it was just a book I read once but it dealt with people who die on the subway, and since New York is such an impersonal city and people generally follow the "You don't look at me, I don't look at you" rule of etiquette, everybody assumes they're sleeping and the body rides and rides and rides. No, it was a movie. A Tom Cruise movie? Maybe Kevin Bacon?

Well, it happened last night. For real. I know, huh?

Luckily, I don't ride the Q train, and to be honest, if it were to ever happen anywhere it really would have to be the Q train it happened on, or the E maybe. That train is GHE-TTO. This stuff never happens on the Number 4 train, nuh uh. Noo way.

Lovin an elevator

DAILY PHOTO, 23 JANUARY 2006

Triple toe loop, toe loop, toe loop

MONDAY, 23 JANUARY 2006

Embarrassing confession: I think Skating with Celebrities kicks ass.

His future's so bright, he's gotta wear shades

DAILY PHOTO, 20 JANUARY 2006

Thank jeebus it's Friday

FRIDAY, 20 JANUARY 2006

I knew my puppy was a genius almost immediately. I had picked him up at the Indianapolis airport, an airport which contained a shocking amount of middle-aged women with feathered hair cuts and cute animals on their turtlenecks, and while our flight was scheduled to take off at seven we didn't actually board the plane until half past ten. Peter's breeder had assured me that he'd had nothing to eat or drink since noon that day and thus would not need to use the restroom in any capacity until he was either a. given food or b. watered. Around 8 I realized that I myself am incapable of not eating and not peeing for 8 hours and how cruel was it for me to deny it from my poor puppy? He'd been sleeping (I secretly think he'd been given something because that pooch SLEPT LIKE A LOG that first night) so I gently woke him up, gave him a little bit of water, which he sort of looked at like it might be an alien life form but tasted nonetheless, and then I put down the puppy pad, an instrument of elimination he'd soon become VERY familiar with. I knew I was facing tough odds. This here was a ten-week-old furball whose previous pee experience involved brothers with wetness-absorbing fur and an entire kennel of pee-space. I gingerly put a puppy pad down and hoped for the best. My little tyke took one look at his puppy pad, assessed his bladder, and went and peed square in the center. I jumped up and waved my arms in the air and did a celebratory butt-jiggle with alternating knees in the air, attracting more than a small amount of strange looks from the Indiana natives. Then I called everyone in my phonebook to them my dog was a peeing genius!

To this day Peter Pan is a peeing champion. He can pee dead-center, off-center, and when he's feeling particularly smug and assured he'll pee right on the outer lining of the puppy pad, getting not one drop on the actual pad itself, but not a drop on the floor, either. Then, sometimes, he pees on my white quilt, and that's when I drop to my knees, apologize for neglecting his feelings, and take him on a walk/give him a treat/proclaim "I'm not worthy!" and let him chew on the legs of his favorite chair to his heart's content.

Today The Husband and I came home from work at the same time. This means that instead of the puppy getting 100% of our attention when we first get home on two separate occasions, he got just one burt of attention from both of us at once, and frankly, both of us half-assed it. This must have pissed him off, 'cause he pissed off in the middle of the hallway. I wasn't there to see it, but The Husband could see it from the bedroom. (Incidentally we can see the stove, the bathroom, the front door, and the living room from our bedroom. These are the joys of NYC living.) He asked me to clean it up and then told me to be careful not to step in it. I immediately froze in mid-step on my way to what I considered "the hallway" to await more instruction on where exactly the pee was. The Husband came out of the bedroom, took one look at me and burst out laughing. Folks, I was standing right in the middle of the pee and hadn't realized it. Now I was pissed me off. The pee, the laughing, the three Pop-Tarts I had just stuffed in my face and the subsequent guilt and regret that accompanies so much glorious starch and sugar... So I did what all slightly annoyed wives would do given a pee-soaked sock and a scorching need to feel vindicated: I peeled off my wet sock and threw it at The Husband's face. This made him mad and soon we were bickering and making snotty noises at each other while I cleaned up the pee. Finally I pulled out the always effective silent-treatment/avoiding-eye-contact double whammy. To be ornery, The Husband positioned himself smack in front of my face and stared at me with the intensity of a raccoon eyeing a trashcan. After nearly a minute of this he yelled, flustered, "Why are you ignoring me? Can't you see me staring at you?" To which I replied, "CAN'T YOU SEE MY SOUL CRYING?!?" Then we giggled and snorted like a bunch of losers who'd stepped in pee and been slapped by a urine-soaked sock. *Update: It is 7:10 pm and all the Pop-Tarts are safely in my slightly swollen, but very happy, tummy.

Two daddy's girls

DAILY PHOTO, 19 JANUARY 2006

Me and my dad.

My favorite is Cherry

THURSDAY, 19 JANUARY 2006

Today I got home from work in a funk. It was one of those days where I never totally woke up this morning and no matter what I ate I never felt full. Girls, you all feel me, right?

Finally at 3:18 (12 minutes before I'm off work) I decided that enough was enough and that it was time to take matters in my own hands and blow that joint like Kate Moss. I came home and ate two Pop-Tarts, which for those of you who are similarly afflicted with junkfood-itis, means I actually ate four. Damn you Kelloggs and your poor packaging! A serving size is one pastry! There are two pastries in a single silver package! And 200 calories per pastry! 800 CALORIES! DAMN YOU, KELLOGGS.

I was partially relieved, though, because finally the box was finished and I knew I could no longer be tempted by their crispy frosted top and their mooshy insides. Pop-Tarts are one of those things that my mom never bought us as kids because they wouldn't last an afternoon. Pop-Tarts are one of those things I'd avoid with tightly shut eyes as I walked down the cereal aisle. The cereal aisle is bad news for me. I don't much get into ice cream or donuts or cookies, but Cheerios, maaaaan, Cheerios are the greatest and I can eat a whole box in one sitting. And that's plain Cheerios. Don't even get me started on Lucky Charms or Wheaties. Ohh Wheaties. And Frosted Mini-Wheats! I digress. These cereals, and Pop-Tarts, are things that just cannot exist in my home, and so once I had stuffed the last of the Pop-Tarts in my face in one big piece I knew it was over, and I'd never buy Pop-Tarts again.

Then, The Husband came home and said, "I have a treat for you!" I love treats. I think I even squealed. But my delight turned to a mixture of excitement and dread when I looked at the bag he was carrying and saw the unmistakeable logo on the front. POP-TARTS. DAMN YOU, HOLBROOK! Then he made me one and forced me to eat it. Which means he made himself one and I managed to steal three quarters of it and stuff it in my face before he could object. And now I cannot rest until they are ALL GONE, purged from this house! Which means I only have 7 left to get through before I can rest at peace again.