Thanks to Pam, I can tell you about this hilarious 1930s marital scale. I’ll give you my score in a minute, after I’m done taking the test (I’m pretty sure I’m an abysmal wife by 1930s standards, but we’ll see). There were a few “traits” that I just had to share first. So you take this quiz, 100 questions, and you check the traits that apply to you.
Here’s the first one that caught my eye: “Asks husband’s opinions regarding important decisions and purchases.” Now, I checked it, because I do ask Greg’s opinion about important shit – but I kind of think that the quizmakers were thinking you checked with your husband because he was the husband, and not because you both are thoughtful and check with *each other* for stuff like that. Maybe I will take the quiz for husbands, and see if it says “Asks wife’s….”
“Doesn’t like children” – It’s fucking funny because it’s so true. And I know that’s going to mark off points for me, but fuck ‘em.
“Doesn’t want to get up to prepare breakfast.” – Oh man, I just wish you could have heard the round of snorting laughter that one set off.
“Dresses for breakfast.” – I guess they’re assuming you stay home all day and so can change into different outfits?
“Fails to wash top of milk bottle before opening it.” – What? Was this a real concern? (Some sort of pre-widespread pasteurization/sanitation thing?)
“Fair and just in settling the children’s quarrels with others.” – Ahahahahhahahhaha.
“Has meals on time.” – I kind of wanted to check this one, because I do try to have my meals on time, because when I miss them I get kind of bitchy, and bitchier the hungrier I am. But I know they mean “Has meals prepared and READY (for the hubby to eat) on time.” So, not always, since Greg does most of the cooking.
“Healthy or courageous and uncomplaining.” – I wasn’t sure what this even means, but I’m guessing it means if you’re not healthy, then at least you shut the fuck up about it and don’t bother your husband with your ill health? BOO. When I feel bad, bitches know about it.
“Is more than 15 pounds overweight.” – AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. My score is going to be sooooo bad. (Not that I really care, if these are the standards they’re judging by.) Also, I don’t think this “trait” is really getting at whether you’re healthy or not, but more whether you’re an attractive trophy for your husband.
“Often comments on husband’s strength and masculinity.” – What? Really? Is it bad that I don’t do this? Because a couple “traits” lower is “Often tells husband she loves him.” and I’m constantly telling him that. Do you think I’m fucking Greg up (even just a little) by not constantly telling him what a manly man he is? Oh wait – that’s another of those quaint outdated gender stereotypes about which I do not fucking care. Phhhhhhhhhhbbbbbpt!
“Often whining and complaining.” – I don’t know how often they mean by “often,” but I figured to be fair I’d better check it off. I’m a weenie, and I’m pretty vocal about it.
“On friendly terms with neighbors.” – Oh, that’s a good one. I don’t even know our neighbors, and that’s how I like it, because then I don’t have to be outgoing and shit.
“Personally puts children to bed.” – Another good one. I guess 1930s hubbies were too good for this shit, or something.
“Polite and mannerly even when alone with husband.” – I’m guessing that since I, at the very least, fart when it’s just me and Greg, I cannot check this off as a trait of mine.
“Praises marriage before young women contemplating it.” – Hee. That’s cute. I like how it sounds like it’s my duty as a wife to convince other young women to get married.
“Puts her cold feet on husband at night to warm them.” – Fuck yes I do! Well, when I can’t put them next to the cat. (Sometimes I use my rice pack.)
“Reacts with pleasure and delight to marital congress.” – Oh. Oh dear. Oh my. Here I was, finally getting into the 1930s mindset, and they go and ask me if I like having sex! Holy shit. This was not what I expected to see in this quiz. Are you serious, 1930s quizmakers?
“Religious–sends children to church or Sunday school and goes herself.” – I thought Sunday School was only for kids? So is this a case of the wording confusing me, or are they really saying grown ass women need to go to Sunday School?
“Saves punishment of children for father at night.” – Damn. That sounds a little…like it would fuck up your kids, if the dad didn’t do shit with them except handle their punishment.
“Seams in hose often crooked.” – Are. you. fucking. serious?! Also, where do I check for “Not only doesn’t even WEAR hose, but doesn’t shave”? I guess I should just check this off, since I’m sure not wearing hose and not shaving would be an even more egregious fault.
“Serves dinner but fails to sit down till meal is half over–then wants husband to wait for her.” and “Serves too much from tin cans or the delicatessen store.” – Holy shit.
“Slow in coming to bed–delays til husband is almost asleep.” – Okay, I almost always go to bed first. Occasionally I stay up late enough to go to bed when Greg goes to bed. But is this question going to be on the husband’s quiz? Or is it cool if he stays up late?
“Tells risque or vulgar stories.” – Awesome. Because our home is basically Toilet Humor Central.
“Uses slang or profanity.” – Whoa. That would be another “fuck yes.” I am just racking up the negatives.
“Wears pajamas instead of nightgown.” – !!!!
“Wears red nail polish.” – !!!! I get that that’s a little vampish by 1930s standards, but I would have thought a husband would, ahem, like his wife to be a little vampish on occasion. Escandalo!
“Willing to get a job to help support the home.” – …Seriously? You’re going to put in all that shit about taking care of the house and kids, and having all the meals on time for your hubby, and greeting him with a smile in the evening after his hard day at work, and not schlumping around in raggedy clothes at home, and dressing for breakfast and shit – AND expect a bitch to work 9-5? This shit better be on the husband’s quiz, is all I’m saying. Homeboy better be helping out. (Speaking of which, weren’t spouses called “helpmeets” back in the day?)
And the results:
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1 As a 1930s wife, I am |
No fucking surprise.
HOLY SHIT! I went to check out the husband’s quiz, and get this: “Ardent lover–sees that wife has orgasm in marital congress.” WHOA, dudes. Damn. You are serious about that marital congress. (I mean, I’m not disagreeing, but I seriously thought that would be out of bounds for discussion in the 1930s.)
“Belches without apology or blows nose at table.” – Greg would have just lost a point there.
“Consults wife’s opinion re business and social affairs.” – They DID ask it – good on them, even if it they phrased it a little differently.
“Doesn’t interfere with wife’s correction of children.” – But….isn’t he in charge of all the punishment?
“Gives wife real movie kisses not dutiful “peck” on the cheek.” – Hee. Cute.
“Helps wife with dishes, caring for children, scrubbing.” – I like how the 1930s housewife seems to live in one world, where her husband isn’t expected to help out much, but then the quiz for husbands is for, I guess, Bizarro-World 1930s Husband, who *is* expected to help.
“Kisses wife just after her make-up has been applied.” – Is this a good thing, or a bad thing? A good thing because he’s not concerned about getting a little makeup on himself? Or a bad thing because he’s fucking up her makeup that she *just* did?
“Publicly praises bachelor days and regrets having been married.” – Awesome. (I’m being sarcastic, obviously. Who does that shit? Also, who does that shit without being introduced to the side of a skillet?)
“Well liked by men, courageous–not a sissy.” – Oh man. “Not a sissy.” We all know what that means. I guess it goes along with the “ardent lover” trait. I would also just like to point out that’s it totally possible to meet all the literal meanings of this trait, as well as the “nudge nudge” aspect of “well liked by men” (because I’m ten, okay?), and still be a “sissy” in that other way they’re getting at. See: Captain Jack/John Barrowman.
Ugh – I have a painful, throbbing spot on the back of my right hand, it feels like it’s near a vein and it’s grossing me the fuck out.
Anyway. Poor Chalupa gets to spend the night at the vet’s tonight. The vet decided to give her some subcutaneous fluids and an enema (or possibly a couple enemas, if the first doesn’t do the trick), so she’s staying there. The upside is, we don’t have to clean up after it. (I had enough of cleaning up poop juice and stains this afternoon when I mopped the bathroom, so I’m relieved not to have to clean up the aftereffects of the enema, which the vet described as “extremely messy” in a tone of voice that said “extremely messy” is putting it mildly.) The downside is, she looked so pitiful when I left the examining room and didn’t take her with me. However, we had a new vet today (I mean, new to us), and she took to him immediately, like crazy. I’ve never seen her act like that, and it was cute. And she should be home tomorrow, feeling much better. (Although I suspect she will be getting a bath before she comes home, too, and she won’t like that – but better them than me, say I. I can give her a bath if I have to, and she’ll get bathed good and proper, but neither one of us is happy at the end of it.)
Now I’m going to go see what I can find to put on my hand and get it to chill out.
GAGG: 189.62 miles
I got out and did some yard work before the new bed got delivered (so the delivery-men would have an easier time of getting up our front porch, and getting in the driveway), and damned if I wasn’t sweating buckets and buckets – more than if I’d gone to the gym for an hour – and it took about thirty to forty minutes, so I’m counting it.
The new bed is in the house and set up, and the old mattress taken away. It’s pretty fucking sweet. I’m in the middle of putting the sheets on it, though, and I’m not going to lie – it’s a total pain in the ass. But I bet it’ll be so worth it once the sheets are all on and the bed’s ready to be napped in!
I “get” to take today off completely. The original plan was for me to stay home for the bed’s delivery (sometime between ten and one, and I’d get a call about thirty minutes before it actually showed up), and then go in to work afterwards. But of course today would be the day Chalupa is obviously horribly constipated. From what I’ve googled about it, her symptoms being so noticeable today means that she was probably a little constipated yesterday and the day before, but her poops looked normal, and she seemed normal, so it wasn’t until this morning that it was obvious she was in a bit of distress. So she’s got a vet’s appointment this afternoon. When I made it, I wasn’t sure when the delivery-men would get here or be done by, so I asked for after two or two-thirty, to give them enough time, and all the vet’s had open was four-fifteen, so that pretty much writes off the rest of my day. Oh well. (And Greg had an appointment at five-forty-five that he had to cancel, because I’ve got the car, and there’s no telling how long the vet will need. Although hopefully not too long, because Chalupa really, really hates it.) Anyway, in the meantime, I’ve locked her up in the bathroom, with the window open to try and make it less miserable for her. In case you didn’t know, when cats get constipated, there’s also usually some mucus and, uh, not-yet-solid poop further up the tract than where the blockage is, and so they can strain and get the mucus and liquidy stuff out *around* the blockage, but can’t move the blockage. So, basically, Chalupa is playing Mr. Handy today, which is why she’s in the bathroom – because we all know how I feel about dookie, and at least if she’s in the bathroom, she’s not leaving little turdprints all over the rest of the house. She’s got water and wet food in there, too, in the hopes that it will help, ah, lubricate things and get them to pass. She doesn’t seem too unhappy, but I feel bad for her (especially when she tries to use the litterbox and can’t). I’m sure the vet will fix things right up, and she’ll be back to her usual fastidious self.
And now I’ve got to finish making up that beast of a bed, and let Skeeter out of the bathroom. (He was in there while the bed was being delivered, and I’m sure Chalupa would be at least slightly happier if he wasn’t in there with her, getting all up in her business like the noseyparker he is. He’s at least had the decency not to pick a fight with her, though, so maybe he’s not so dumb after all?) And then I think it might be naptime. (I didn’t sleep so well in the wee sma’s, because 1-Chalupa woke me up throwing up several times, and 2-I couldn’t get back to sleep after cleaning it up because I was so excited about the new bed.)
GAGG: 188.62 miles
We went to the gym yesterday, and I got on a bike for 45 minutes while I watched an episode of Doctor Who. (That was almost a mistake, since it was an episode with more than the usual amount of sad/poignant moments, and I almost got a little bleary-eyed in the gym.) We also got a new mattress, box springs, and bed from the Original Mattress Factory. I can’t tell you how psyched I am to be getting a new bed, and it’s getting delivered on Tuesday. (Also? When I say “bed,” I mean the whole shebang, but apparently the “bed” is just the frame? Weird.)
Greg started talking about mowing the lawn, because it’s pretty overgrown, but I convinced him to let me do it, since his allergies are so bad. I thought if I waited until 4:30ish to start, it might be cooler, but I just spent 45 minutes out there, and 1-I only got somewhere between one third and half the front yard done, depending on how you consider it, although that was a lot, and 2-the heat just about killed me, and I’ve been in the house, in the AC, for twenty minutes now, and I’m STILL sweating buckets and red all over. Fucking LAME.
I finished reading Anne of Avonlea this morning, and have been watching Anne of Green Gables, too, trying to figure out what exactly to do for my costume this Hallowe’en. I need to go ahead and get started. Anyway, now I’m going to go watch some more of the movie, and work on my scrapghan, after I stop sweating so much. Maybe later this evening I’ll go back out and do some more yardwork, but I seriously fucking doubt it. Although I am planning on getting up EARLY tomorrow morning, to mow before work. Kate told me that’s the best time to mow in the summer, before it gets hot, but I have my doubts. I think probably by the time there’s enough light to mow by, it’ll be uncomfortable at best, and any earlier and I won’t be able to see the yard. Which wouldn’t be a huge problem, except up near the road people throw shit in our yard all the time as they walk past, and while most of it is styrofoam containers or paper cups or empty chips bags, I wouldn’t want to mow over something metal or glass and have the mower throw it back at me. So no mowing in the dark.
And now I’m going to go sit on the couch, with the fan pointed RIGHT at me, and drink a gallon or so of water.
Here’s a picture Greg took with his phone last night, of Chalupa in her new favorite hangout:
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That’s clean laundry in the hamper. But she likes it so much, I don’t have the heart to chase her out, even if she is shedding hair all over the clean clothes I haven’t put up yet. (And Chalupa sheds like crazy, too. I think it’s nerves.)
We went out this morning and looked at beds, and it looks like we’re going to get a new one from the Original Mattress Factory. We liked one of theirs best of *all* the ones we looked at today, plus it’s the best price (comparatively), and the mattress can be flipped, which is another plus. I am so fucking excited about finally getting a new bed!! Holy shit! The mattress we have right now is a full, and it’s somewhere around 12-15 years old (so full of dust mites), and there’s no box spring, and it’s on wooden slats – so basically, any new bed is going to vastly improve the quality of our sleep and probably have a huge effect on Greg’s allergies and my asthma (not that it’s been a real problem for me in a while, knock on wood). But the OMF mattress is also the right combination of firmness and cushy (but not too cushy) pillowtop, so I think the improvement on our sleep quality is going to be closer to “phenomenal.”
I also spent a while online one evening this week learning about different breeds of cattle, and I thought it was interesting enough to post about. Unfortunately, most of the good pictures of the different breeds are pictures breeders have posted of a specific cow/bull of theirs, and they seem to be a little testy about people using those pictures. So I’m working on the post, but I’m trying to figure out how to put up some pictures without pissing anyone off, but I’m also too lazy to write and ask permission to use the picture (which seems a little silly for a little old blog post that gets like no traffic), and too cheap to pay $75 a pop for the “generic” breed pictures I’ve found offered by a couple photographers. I’m looking for free and/or fair use pics, which I’ll admit I haven’t previously given much thought to, and I guess I should. Anyway, so that’s coming, as well as the last New York post (well, I hope there’s only one post left to finish it up, but if it’s too long I might split it), and then a post on what I did last Saturday and Sunday, since that was pretty awesome, too (and immensely cheering after the loss of the camera and laptop on Wednesday).
Right now, Greg wants to show me some frames/headboards/footboards he’s found online, so I’m going to go look at them. Laters!
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, HUBBLES!
It’s been an awesome two years, and I love the shit out of you, you old goat!
OUR CATS KILLED A MOUSE LAST NIGHT!!!!
They are officially proper cats, now. I guess now I have to stop giving them shit about being worthless and not contributing anything to the household.
(Please note: I would much rather the mouse hadn’t come in the house at all, and could just be living out in our yard still. But since it came in, I am quite a bit relieved that the cats actually figured out what they’re supposed to know how to do naturally, and that for the first time I did not have to pick up a wounded or mostly-but-not-totally-dead mouse, have it wiggle around while I’m holding it, and have to figure out what to do with it, since the cats hurt it but didn’t finish it off.)
New York, part deux. (I forgot to mention in the first part that after the Progressive Nation show, on the way back to Brian and Carol’s, we stopped by a deli for some food. It was delicious.)
Thursday, we slept in a bit, then Michel came and got us, and we went to get lunch with Danny in Williamsburg, at Wild Ginger. It was pretty fucking delicious – I got some sort of pumpkin curry stew with fake chicken, and it was awesome, and Greg and I split a pot of peach black tea. There was a douchebag a table away from us, and he was just an ass: he complained about how “meat-like” the fake meat looked (like, hello, that’s the point, dipshit); he wanted a ridiculously detailed run-down on everything in each of the dishes before he would order; he criticized the food (for instance, he ordered a salad that was marked clearly on the menu as having a ginger-citrus-soy dressing, and then whined to the waitress that “soy isn’t a citrus, so why would you mix soy with citrus!”). The last straw, for me, that wrote him off as a douchebag for now and eternity, was when he said smarmily to the waitress, “You’re still learning English, aren’t you?” Um, no, asshole, her English was fine. Everyone else understood her fine, and she understood them. What a fucking dick. What a fucked up thing to say. And the poor waitress wants some sort of tip (although my guess is his tip would be tiny no matter what she did), so she has to stand there and take it politely, instead of giving him the smack down he deserved. Anyway, so that guy sucked, but two thumbs up for Wild Ginger, and a billion thumbs up for that waitress – she was great to us, plenty of water refills, but not too obtrusive, and she handled that douchebag like a pro.
We walked Danny back to work, then hopped on the subway, intending to accompany Michel back to work, but my stomach decided it would like to blow the fuck up, so we had to get off a stop earlier than her, at Union Square, and hit up a bathroom. I never in a million years thought I would say this, but thank fucking god for Starbucks. I seriously would have crapped myself if it weren’t for them. Thursday afternoon, we basically killed time before the Paganfest show by taking the Starbucks Tour of New York, no lie. I did use one automatic toilet (simultaneously awesomely futuristic and terrifying high-tech and confusing), and we stopped in a deli for a while to get some drinks, do a bit of crossword, but mainly so I could go to the bathroom. But for the most part, we just hit up all the Starbucks we could find between Union Square and the venue, and also doubled back at one point to meet Brian and Rob, who took us to Art Bar (I used their bathroom, too, and I got another margarita, or was it two? I think it was two) and Johnny’s Bar (also West Village, and I had one or two kamikazes), and then we went to Taim Falafel & Smoothie Bar for a quick and delicious dinner. Also, I ran into a Starbucks near Art Bar before we met Brian and Rob, and saw Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio – who was getting stopped on her way out of the Starbucks by a table of people who misrecognized her. (I heard one of them say, “I love your work!” and she said thanks, and then one of them said something else, and then she said, a little frigidly, “No, that’s not me.” and walked out. And, again, I’m not familiar enough with her work to stop her in a Starbucks and be all, “I love your work!…But I can’t name any of it, um…”, and I didn’t want to stop her when she was clearly a little ill and on her way out, so there you are.)
Anyway, back to Taim, I was pretty shitfaced and had to piss, so I walked around by myself and found a Starbucks fairly nearby to piss in, and in getting to that Starbucks I walked through what appeared to be a movie location. There were tons of dudes standing around with huge film cameras and lights, and tons of trailers with mobile suites and toilets, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized, in terms of actors or directors or anything. I also wasn’t really looking, since I was concentrating on walking and getting to that bathroom. (I was pretty shitfaced, and walking without weaving was a bit of an issue, I’ll be honest.) I made my way back to Taim just in time for our food to arrive, and it was delicious! I got the harissa falafel pita, yum! Danny met up with us somewhere in there, but I forget exactly where. Before Taim, though, that’s for sure. Or maybe he met us *at* Taim – I think that’s it. He wasn’t there right when we got there, but then I went to Starbucks, and he was there when I got back. Right.
Then we made our way to B.B. King, for the Paganfest show. We got there at the end of Tyr’s set, which was awesome because we didn’t want to see them anyway. It was crazy crowded – I’m pretty sure it was way over capacity. On top of that, they had roped off part of the venue where there were tables and booths and shit, so that people could sit and eat and waitresses could get to them. What? At a metal show? Someone was smoking crack. Anyway, we got in where we could, and then some pissy dude came and yelled at us to move, and clear out a walkway, so we did, and then he continued to fuss at me for standing on some stairs, even though 1-we cleared out the walkway and he hadn’t said shit about the stairs, and 2-there were like fifty other people around us that he wasn’t saying shit to. Of course. Finally we just shoved our way further in to get away from him and shut him up. (Later, I saw him walking past people who were blocking that walkway worse than we were, and of course he didn’t say shit to them. I think he’d finally given up, and I can’t really blame him for giving up, but he had to know he’d give up eventually, so did he really need to be such a dick to us? Also? Towards the end he was only fussing at me, and not at the four dudes I was with, which I felt was totally shitty and probably because I was a girl. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing any other girls on the outskirts of that group on the stairs, they were mostly a couple people in, so maybe it was gender-based. I know dudes at a metal show can be kind of scary and intimidating, but fuck that dude some more for hassling me if it was because I was a girl.)
Anyway, so Eluveitie was up next. (And I STILL don’t know how to pronounce that – oh wait, it’s “el-way-tea.” Thanks, wikipedia!) At this point, we were at the back of the crowd in front of the stage, and immediately behind us were some mostly-empty booths. The booth right behind us, two girls and a dude were perched on – not ordering food or drinks, just chilling, trying to get a better view by perching on the top of the booth. And one of the girls was a total bitch. I cannot emphasize enough what a raging bitch she was. First of all, of course they’d roped off just in front of the booths, with those little fabric cordon thingies. Anyway, she apparently thought that little fabric border thing was enough to keep the moshers from coming near her. Oh – also, there were signs that said “no moshing,” so I was all happy, thinking I wouldn’t get slammed into, since moshing is fine and all but I don’t want to be involved? Silly me! No moshing at a metal show? Who does B.B. King think they’re kidding? Anyway, so people started moshing, and like the two rows of dudes in front of me (including the guys I’d come with, since of course I was hiding behind them from the moshpit) weren’t really moshing, but were more of a barrier. If you’ve been to a show with a moshpit, you probably know what I mean: the dudes on the fringes of the pit, who aren’t really averse to moshing, just aren’t moshing right this minute, and are more than happy to shove the moshers back into the center of the pit, and don’t mind getting slammed into. Usually the closest I will get to a mosh pit is behind these guys. I wear glasses, I have facial piercings, I have a low tolerance for pain, and I’m a fucking pussy. I know this. Anyway, so there were like two rows of dudes standing between me/the booths and the mosh pit, and obviously from time to time those dudes got slammed into and pushed backwards towards me/the booths. Well, that bitch wasn’t having it, and kept tapping Brian and Rob on the back (I say “tapping” but it looked more like a stabby sort of tapping) to let them know that if they spilled any beer on her she “wouldn’t be happy.” As if they cared, really. I mean, again, you’re at a metal show. I would also prefer not to get beer spilled on me, but it’s pretty much guaranteed when you’re right next to the mosh pit. After she told them this, she would tell the dude with her (her boyfriend, I guess) what she had told them, I guess because then if they spilled beer on her and made her unhappy, her boyfriend was going to deal with it? Anyway, so I was already stressed out from that dude fussing at us; and from the moshers pushing into the people in front of me, who then pushed into me; and then from this bitch fussing at Brian and Rob and generally being stank. And then she started bitching every time I got bumped into their table, and it was all too much for me, so I got the fuck out of there, and went to the bathroom for a bit of a panic-and-stress-induced cry. Which fucking sucked, because I just wanted to have a good time, but whatever. And also Greg got out of there with me, which made me more upset because he’d probably rather be in the moshpit. We ended up sitting pretty far in the back, on the right side of the venue, near the bathrooms. Greg stayed back there with me for most of the show, but went back up for Ensiferum’s set. It was an awesome show – Eluveitie, Turisas, and Ensiferum. (It would have been even more awesome if Korpiklaani had been on the American leg, too, but, you know.) It is also most likely my last metal show. Which kind of sucks, since listening to music isn’t quite the same as seeing it live (and, usually, hopefully at least, it’s better live). But I don’t like getting slammed into, trampled on, or even – let’s be honest – getting touched by strangers all that much, and I guess these days there’s not so much a moshpit and the rest of the venue, as it is the whole venue is the moshpit. Whatever. I don’t know. I’ll just listen to that shit at home and be a crotchety old lady, but an untrampled crotchety old lady. (Yeah, “old fogy” would probably be more to the point, but I prefer “old lady” to “old fogy,” so you’ll let me pretend, right?) Anyway, the music was fucking awesome, and the bands were incredible.
After Paganfest, we stopped by a pizzeria and got some pizza, which was fucking magical at almost midnight. *Just* what I wanted. Then Rob caught a bus (I want to say he lives in New Jersey?), and we took the subway* back to Brian’s place (Danny went to his home). Carol was there, and told us she met Michael Emerson that evening. (Ben Linus from Lost, one of the other people I would lose my shit over and actually approach if I saw them out and about. He’s incredible.) She was walking with a friend, I forget where exactly, and they passed him, and then went back to tell him how awesome he is, and according to Carol, he is exceedingly nice. (I’m not really surprised, for some reason. He just seems like he would be.)
*I think New Yorkers just say “train,” but I prefer “subway,” since it is a subway train. I’ll give you “pop” for “soda pop” instead of “soda” – I usually say “soda” out of habit, but I like how “pop” sounds better, I don’t know why. But to me, “trains” go aboveground, and usually I think of them as covering more distance, like a longer-term trip. Anyway. There you go. Actually, I think someone (I don’t remember who, because I was probably drunk) actually corrected me at one point, saying they were “trains” instead of “the subway,” but to whoever it was, I say, “Dookie.”
Friday morning, at like nine-fucking-a-m, four people from the Department of Agriculture came to spray Brian and Carol’s backyard for, uh, some sort of beetle. The Asian longhorn beetle, I want to say. They were 1-very polite and 2-just doing their job, but I was still a little disgruntled, since I had not planned on being awake that early. (I like how I say “that early,” like I’m not usually at work at nine down here. But it was vacation.) But I managed to sit on the couch and keep my mouth shut while I rubbed my eyes, so hopefully I came off as sleepy and not stank. Although at first when they came, and Greg was talking to them, I misheard and thought it was four random people asking to use Brian and Carol’s bathroom, so I stuck my head out the door to yell to Greg that he couldn’t let them in without checking with Brian or Carol first. But they weren’t talking about the bathroom, but the backyard. I guess I don’t hear so clearly when I’m half awake. Huh. Anyhoodle, so they sprayed, they left, we went back to sleep, and then Michel came by later to pick us up, and we all went back to Williamsburg for lunch with Danny. We went to Samurai, a sushi place, and I had a piece of inari, and a three roll combo: avocado roll, vegetable roll, and…I forgot what the name on the menu for it was, but it was basically tempura-style sweet potato sushi. And it was THE BOMB!
Also? I think I might have seen Rich Juzwiak (aka Rich FourFour) walk past Samurai while we were eating, and I would have run out to pester him (since he is actually someone I *would* stop on the street), but he walked past pretty quickly and there was actually a bit of a crowd out there (at lunchtime, too, whodathunk) and I was stuffing my face at the time. (I would have been pretty mortified if it really, really was him, and he turned around to see me yelling “Rich FourFour!!!” with food falling out of my mouth.)
After lunch, Michel helped me and Greg move our stuff from Brian and Carol’s to her and Danny’s apartment. We hung out for a bit, she went off to work, and we collected Danny from his work, and went to…I want to say it was called Sound Fix Lounge, because they were having free PBR and well drinks until seven. I had two rum and cokes. We met up with some other people there, too – another Brian, who also moved up from Chapel Hill; Brian and Carol; Zack (or possibly Zach, I’m not sure), another Chapel Hill/Carrboro transplant, and one of his roommates, whose name I totally can’t remember right now, but he somehow knew Greg. I’m a little fuzzy on the connection, but I think they both went to the same high school, just not in the same class? I also have a vague nagging feeling that I’m forgetting a couple people, but I don’t know. This is one of the reasons why I don’t normally drink very often: because I like to remember stuff. (Not that I blacked out in New York, because I haven’t ever blacked out. Just that, my memories are a little fuzzier than usual to begin with, when I’m tipsy, and then like a week passes and oh look, I can’t remember shit when I’m trying to blog about it.)
After Sound Fix, we decided to swing by Duff’s (this metal bar) for more drinks and then get dinner, but Danny needed to get something he’d left at work. Brian and Carol went home to do something, I think they were having dinner with friends, IIRC. Danny, Greg, and I agreed to meet the other Brian, Zack, and Zack’s roommate at Duff’s. At this point, it was like…eight o’clock-ish? Eight-thirty? And I still hadn’t had dinner, so you know I was more than a little cranky.
Anyway, we get to Duff’s, and guess who’s not fucking there?! Those bitches who were going to meet us there. Right. They didn’t even call. (If any of them ever read this – hi, guys! It was awesome seeing you! But seriously, it’s one thing to diss, it’s another thing entirely to diss and not even call.) Danny called them, and it turns out they decided they were too hungry to go to Duff’s, so they’d dissed to go somewhere else and get some food. I was like, “Are. You. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME??!?!?!?!?!” About to strangle a bitch. Just kidding. But not really. My blood sugar was low, I don’t know. I try to be reasonable, but after a certain point it’s really not in my control anymore, I just feel so fucking bad (like sweaty and dizzy and hot and miserable and nauseous), which is why I start nagging about getting some damn food before I hit that point. But anyway, we’re at Duff’s, Greg and Danny get a PBR, and I get some water. (If I’d gotten another drink, and gotten drunk again instead of just tipsy, I might have chilled off on the omg-I-need-food-I-will-cut-a-bitch front. I also might have gotten drunk enough to puke, so I went for water.) Danny and Greg decide that after they finish their beers, we’ll go to SMAC.
HOLY SHIT – I can’t believe I forgot to mention that the whole plan this entire time was to eventually hit up SMAC!!! That’s like half the reason right there I was so stank: not only was I fucking starving, but I had been looking forward to SMAC, like, a month and a half before we even got up there. You just don’t know. I was so fucking excited. People would ask what we were doing in New York, and I’d be all, “Seeing Dream Theater, seeing Paganfest, and eating at SMAC, motherfuckers! Hell yes!” You really need to take a moment and go to that website and look at the menu: DELICIOUSNESS. It is a restaurant devoted to mac and cheese! (I hear there’s another restaurant that does only different versions of mac and cheese, but I haven’t been there yet, so I can’t say anything about that, although it’s probably awesome, too, because, hello!: mac and cheese, fool!)
But we’re still at Duff, right, so – Danny and Greg are going to finish their beers and then it’s SMAC-time! There’s us, the bartender, and then I think two metalheads, maybe three, sitting outside near where we were (because the inside was TINY), and there’s a suit who’s also drinking, and he’s talking to the metalheads. And I’m gonna say it, he was a tool. He just sucked. He was talking about how he’s, like, in his mid-forties now, and he’s finally got it all figured out, so he’s living like he’s in his twenties (apparently he was busy fucking around in his twenties and didn’t do whatever you’re “supposed” to do with them, so he’s doing that now, and having the time of his life), and fuck all the haters that tell him he’s trying too hard, and all the twenty-somethings that think they have it figured out really don’t because he does, and yada yada yada. Ageism sucks, but it was obvious to me that this guy’s problem wasn’t ageism so much as toolism. Also, either he was drunk and talkative, or he liked to hear himself talk, or – and this is what my money’s on – both. So of course he says some shit about fuck England or something, and Greg has to butt in and say something in agreement. And I’m thinking, “The fuck are you getting this guy started for? He is going to talk FOREVER. And I bet he’ll be a close-talker, too, christ.” And I’m starving, right? So I just say to Greg, “I’m not trying to be a bitch, but don’t be starting conversations, let’s just finish those beers and get some food.” It might have been said a little testily, but I think I was pretty nice about it, and I was fucking starving anyway. But apparently I was wrong in thinking I’d said it quiet enough for the suit not to hear, because oh he did, and then he says something – I forget the exact wording – but he basically says I’m a bitch.
Are you fucking kidding me? Number one, I already admitted as much. Number two, you do not fucking know me and I wasn’t talking to your ass, so shut the fuck up. And of course he said it in that smarmy “ha ha, I’m making a joke, but actually I’m serious, but I’m going to pretend it’s a joke so if you get mad about it, I can call you a bitch again” kind of way. I didn’t say anything at the time, because I was already in a stank enough mood that I was afraid of what might come out of my mouth if I told him off. In front of some metalheads who were drinking (so, might be drunk and quick to anger), who most likely didn’t know the guy, either, but might have been a friend of his, and they could definitely take me in a fight, since I am, as previously stated, a pussy. Whatever, I don’t care. Because Danny and Greg finished those beers up with a quickness, and we left. But the suit will show up again, so just keep him in mind. Actually – you know who he exactly reminds me of? Mark Winslow, Dabney Coleman’s character in Modern Problems. Watch that, and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.
So, we’re heading for the subway, and a couple blocks up, we happen to pass some other bar (whose name I forget), and just guess who is standing outside, smoking? If you guess one of those dudes that dissed on meeting us at Duff’s (which, remember, is a couple blocks away), you’d be correct! Hoo boy, did Zack look sheepish – as well he should. He convinced Danny and Greg to come in for “just one drink.” Guess how that turned out? Yeah, it was a couple. But no one died, because that bar had good-sized bowls of cheese puffs on the counter, and Danny, Greg, and I utterly demolished TWO of them, shamelessly, in about half an hour. So I didn’t have to bite off any heads, or cut a bitch, I just had to shove cheese puffs in my mouth. I also had some drinks there – Zack wanted to do a round of Jagermeister, which I have only previously had in Red Headed Sluts, which are fucking delicious. Apparently, when it’s just the Jager, I fucking hate it. I drank about 1/3 of my shot, and gave the rest to Greg. (Also? I can’t do shots. I can’t. The end up all down my shirt, so I have to drink them, instead of knocking them back. Which means if they don’t taste good, they ain’t getting drunk. Not by me, anyway.) Danny tried to get me a Buttery Nipple (soooo! good!), but they didn’t have butterscotch schnapps (is it called “buttershots” or something?), so he got me another kamikazi.
So, finally – finally! – we get going and head to SMAC!!! On our way to the subway station, who do we pass? YES – the suit! And he is totally standing outside of a bar, clearly drunk, trying to pick up a young, blonde twenty-something who is OBVIOUSLY not at all interested, but he’s clueless. And her friend is a ways off, like, “Hurry the fuck up and get over here, without HIM.” It was hot.
So we got to SMAC, and it was fucking delicious. Honestly, I think this was my favoritest meal while we were in New York, and it certainly lived up to all the pre-trip anticipation. The mac and cheeses all come to the table in skillets, and there are three sizes of skillets, and we each got the middle size. Danny got the Mediterranean (goat cheese, spinach, olives, roasted garlic), Greg got the Garden Lite (cheddar, parmesan, cauliflower, portobellos, garlic, broccoli), and I got the best of all: the Napoletana (mozzarella, tomato, basil, and tons of roasted garlic)!! (Although Danny says the Parisienne is amazing, but I thought it might be too adventuresome for me, for my first time at SMAC – it’s got brie, figs, shiitake mushrooms, and rosemary. I was also interested in the Masala Mac, but decided the Napoletana was the most tempting.) The best part, though, was that I couldn’t finish all my mac and cheese, so I got to save it, and then later in the evening when I was munchy I had more SMAC!! Awesome. While we were in SMAC, there was a couple there, and the girl was telling the guy (apparently it was his first time, too) that once he tried the mac and cheese (they got the Cheeseburger), he would understand why she had been talking about SMAC all day. I felt like she was a kindred spirit.
So, after SMAC, we rolled up to the Pioneer Theater to catch a screening of the new (or new-ish) Troma movie, Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead. Lloyd Kaufman was there to introduce the movie, and do a brief q&a (very brief, since there weren’t many questions), and hand out some free shit (none of which we got, but whatever). Some douchebag in front of us apparently thought he was the One True Troma Fan, or some shit, because he was talking about Troma in kind of a know-it-all way while we were waiting for Kaufman, and then during the q&a, someone asked what inspired Kaufman to make a movie about zombie chickens, and La Douchebag got all huffy and had to correct the guy that it was “Chicken zombies! NOT zombie chickens!” Whatever, dude. It irritated me because it seems like if you’re a fan of something, it’s in your best interest (and the best interests of whatever you’re a fan of) to encourage other people to learn about it and become fans. For example, this would mean that more people would go to see Troma movies, which means more money for Troma, which means more Troma movies. This is why I don’t understand and don’t like pissy fans being dicks to other/fledgling fans. But I think it was Brian who suggested later, and I think rightly so, that this douchebag was probably one of those people who are fans of obscure shit just so they can be the only person “in the know” about that obscure shit, and lord it over the rest of us. Lame.
Anyway, other than that douchebag, Poultrygeist was pretty amusing, and everything I’d expect from Troma. Although 1-I don’t really understand why it’s so rebellious and system-bucking to show tons of naked chicks, but not to show tons of naked dudes, and 2-I honestly enjoyed Sick and the Dead much, much more. Sick and the Dead had boobs, too, don’t get me wrong. But it didn’t have Lloyd Kaufman introducing it and making some comment about how they were all about sticking it to mainstream filmmaking and rah rah boobs. Basically. I mean, I’m not necessarily anti-boob, and there’s definitely a tradition in b-movies, I get that. I think I’m just rankled because Kaufman was pointing to the boobs as, like, indicative of Troma’s…progressiveness, I guess, although that’s not quite the word I want. But anyway, when you throw in tons and tons of boobs and naked chicks, and it’s pretty obviously because the majority of your audience is straight dudes who want to see that shit (and straight white dudes at that, probably, since I didn’t see any non-white peeps at that showing), you’re not really bucking the system. Just saying. But really, Poultrygeist was amusing, it was fun, but Sick and the Dead was fucking awesome. That’s my two cents.
After Poultrygeist, we went and picked Michel up, since she’d just gotten off work. Then we went back to Danny and Michel’s, I had my SMAC leftovers (fuck yes!), and went to bed.
This is long as shit, so I’ll finish the trip up later. And then I can finally tell you about last weekend, which was awesome, too. I use that word alot, don’t I. Shit.
P.S. AND! Get this bullshit: I considered staying home to get caught up on all the tv shows I’m behind on (Lost, Doctor Who, and Supernatural, and probably some others), and I decided to go to the gym instead, even though I fucking hate it.
What is WRONG with me? Did I get bodysnatched? What. The. Fuck.
GAGG: 178.72 miles
I thought I would go work out tonight after work, even though that meant hitting the gym around 9ish. Also, I haven’t been sleeping well lately (because every time the cats jump I wake up, worried that someone’s breaking into the house, and then I have to go check; this shit happens several times a night, something like every hour just about, because I’m insane like that) – anyway, I’m not sure if it wore me out enough to ensure a good night’s sleep, or if it stimulated me some more right before bedtime so I won’t be able to sleep. I guess I’ll find out soon.
Anyway, my first mistake was trying out one of the ellipticals. Yeah, I made about two minutes, and then I was like, “If I do ten minutes of this shit, I will not be able to stand on my own power, and someone will have to carry me out.” That was on the lowest possible setting. I wasn’t out of breath, and my knees didn’t really *hurt*, just were giving out and felt like jelly. BOO.
So then I got on a bike, trying to get my thirty full minutes in, and apparently I picked the wrong bike, and it was in SERIOUS need of some WD40, because the pedals weren’t rotating smoothly (and I’m talking about independent of the resistance on them), they kept sticking, and that killed my knees.
Basically I did about 14-15 minutes total, between the two, and had to call it a day. And honestly, I’m not entirely sure how I got from the car to the computer, nor how my knees are going to carry me from the computer (in my craft room) to the bed. Plus I probably ought to wash the sweat off, which means a bath, since there’s no way in hell I’m standing up through a shower. This is fucking lame. And now I’m too tired to blog about anything more interesting than this shit. (Sorry.)
But at least I went to the gym, right?
