celtic grotesque, almost

Baby, it's like...I can't tell where I end and you begin, or where I end, except that it really, well, it kind of hurts.

SOMEday...

I must have a brilliant baby. (Yuka, you still have dibs on any and all retarded berbies issued forth from this womb. Fret not.)

I needs me a smart 'un for to teach it to say things like this:

Scene 1, Ex-act 0:
A three-year old is learning to play catch. The adult is throwing balls gently, lobbing them with a soft arch. The toddler misses as the audience looks on, but then...

Toddler: Hey! I caught something! And this time it's not viral!

bacon strips displace brain in heat wave

1) The thought I'm most excited about for the entirety of the day is: Victorian squid wallpaper. (It's important to note that the squid be in an elaborately flourishing Victorian style, and not the remains or photos of squid from the Victorian Era. Thank you.)

2) My Creative Team and I are pretty sure that while dogs dream in b/w, and we dream in high-resolution CMY color, Paris Hilton's dreams occur not in b/w but the monochromatic hue of pink, and all actors within are drunken chihuahuas.

goodie sara brown

The Puritans' search engine of choice:

Goodle

myspace, it's like you really 'get' me

Why that IS how I'm feeling! Mood-less and then some!

You amaze me, even if outwardly that is not apparent.

But you know this.

You always know how to cut to the quick, scamp that you are.

Now wipe that smile off your face and sit here stoically with me, for hours - effortlessly, and emphatically expressionless.

"thriller" ending takes on newly dubious element

This is the world in which we live, but putting this in a time capsule would likely not convey to the only partially-informed future generations its full awesomeness.

fo' pope shizzle

This guy? Hilarious.

As is this photo. I swear this is how it appeared on msn.com, so any Fun With PhotoShopping was not my doing. There's something distinctly Blazing Saddles about this, though.

Wait. Is Mel Brooks the pope? (Can we just switch him in? It'll be so much better.)

The best part is that it's true that there's only one true church - it being the world. There's also only one god, because it doesn't matter what you call it. By definition, if there IS only one, everyone is praying to The Same.

The superAwesome part is the demonstration of what piddliness is at the heart of institutionalized (and I do mean that) religion.

flight + rap + acoustic guitar

Something we can get behind, if only because getting in front would require a lot of looking over our shoulders.

friday in july

Polsky has moved - partially against her will - to the Upper West Side.

Marie is still in France.

Still.

KR is being Ophelia off in the mountains of Colorado.

But at least we have talk of an Office Falcon, octopus-squid lovin' (a more romantic thought than mere evolution), astronauts needing some sugar, and this:

post-Sweden: some rarely blogged sincerity

Sweden appealed to all the quiet peace in me. Granted, 'the public' may not be aware but this part is just as strong as any other inside, and provides at least as much happiness as Entertainer D. So many things reminded me of my dear little Gramma Hilma, especially people's twinkles. And there's water and things to explore everywhere; better yet, much of the exploration is near or via water. We found shire-likes, moss everywhere, and a kind of tree we're calling a willow birch (note: and watch out, willow birches, because you are ear-marked as my ideal tree to give birth against, Viking style...though I don't think anyone thinks I'm serious, give me half a chance to slip off and do it old school, and I'm out). Even the rocks are smooth and rounded in their craggliness, kind of like giant old people faces peeking out of the ground to go snuggle into while they tell you how there's really nothing to ever worry about, it'll all be okay.

So for ten days I lived with music being made around me one way or another, light in the sky that moved from a gray petulant enough to make pink sexy to a golden layer gently laying over the horizon in hours typically black, and a fairly perpetual reassurance from the water, though I don't know what it'd say..."I'm right here, you will not dehydrate, and if need be, just jump in me. I'll take you...away." Maybe not. But it's soothing anyway, feeling it close by. And until you've been dancing with the swirling fallen leaves (not that I have since I was little either), don't knock my dippy love of this stuff. M'kay?

Walking in the woods drummed out my favorite little verse from when I was 15, by Lord Byron (slightly edited):

"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
Rapture on the lonely shore,
Society, where none intrudes;
By the deep Sea, and Music in its roar,
I love not man the less, but Nature more.

(That's where I tend to stop, but it continues, so in the interest of moderate accuracy...)

From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."

But what's to conceal? Strip down, man! (Because you're not fooling anyone. We've been totally onto you for some time now.)

It was extra perfect also that on our accidentally-themed day of death, following the Bronze Age Burial and visiting general graves and one specifically, as we walked through mist along the road to a rune stone, the little flowers Gramma would eat with us on walks sprouted up in our path. So we nibbled on a few of them, realized we couldn't make out the characters on the stone, and rather than think it was one of the duller inscriptions, J made up something dazzlingly gory. This, all, I loved.

For these reasons and more, it was not easy to leave. (Although I'm fairly sure my feelings would be different were it winter.)

mine are a proud and notably large-headed people

Yesterday before lunch I was so tired I was shaking a little, but per usual, some of us in our office feel the summer must be enjoyed. In a sort of beached whale version of a flash, I motioned for a Nap in The Park. Yay! Nap! Sleepy time!

We kerthunked ourselves down in the grass. As exhaustion had turtled my judgement, I'd overlooked that I was there with MB which = we will be perpetually talking. I think he'd just finished telling me the title of my autobiography should be Terrifying and Kind of Attractive: the DM story. Better would be if HE writes these stories, as his perspective on The Terror would be entertaining, at least in a sadistic sense. But I digress...

MB'd said earlier how he likes bald babies, and thinks they should stay that way much longer - like until they're eight at least. The catalyst of this thought train was this wobbly baby, a little over a year old. It's head was bald, and impressively sized. Later, MB starts talking in this high-pitched friendly voice. What!? Friendly? So I look up and over. The target was spotted, and it had its mother along.

MB: "Hey there. Come say hi?"
Giant-headed Baby: [Tip of tongue protrudes; stares blankly.] (This kid has a great future as a poker player.)
MB: "Although I can understand, Mom's pretty good too, probably."
GhB: [Lets go of mother's knees and reaches out, trying to take a step towards us but is being foiled again by that clever grass stuff; resumes wobbling, worriedly reaches for mother's knees.*]
GhB's MOTHER: "You look more like her parents than I do."
my ovum: Reinforce the walls! We will not be overtaken! Go not lightly into that dark night!
MB: "Ya, especially this one. [Gestures at me. Then whispers over at me,...] 'I mean, look at the size of that head.'"
GhB's Mother: "Are you Swedish?"
me: "Why, yes I am."
GhB's Mothers: "Her father is Swedish. His head is huge, too. He looks like you. [Pause.] I'm Portuguese."
me: "Ooo, what a cool mix."
MB: "That is awesome that your people are renowned for huge heads."
me: "Ya. And some other stuff." [Norseman death squint.]

*We should make knee puppets for moms to wear. Sure, it sounds cray-cray but studies will back me up. As will lonely knees.

powerful deli man

We were on our way to see Paprika and I went into some deli to get a juice (V8, long may it live). The guy behind the counter says, "You are a princess, the most beautiful princess."

"Thanks."

"No, no, miss. You really are. You ARE a very, very beautiful princess."

Apparently he has that kind of authority. So, hey, yay for me. I didn't have to buy it or marry for it. I am titled. Va-voom. My principality probably includes the Angelika Theater, and expands to I know not where. Next week I'll go back for a root beer and find out.

vague insult of chickens

We're ordering breakfast. My bud wanted eggs. I offered him mine, like my ovum.

S: "Do you think you could make an omelet with them?"
me: "I hope so. If chickens can..."
S: "I wonder. But I think I'm going to puke."

compliment?

I never know quite how to take this one:

"You look so amazing ON FILM."

week's highlights

1) Last Friday, Anne did what Anne does and was wanting to slap my posterior. I saw the look in her eye! So, I wiggled it in her face and told her to go ahead (yes, we'd been drinking and dancing). She swats me and instantly looks up and says, "How's Lauren been?"

Ass-ociation.

2) The other day, I was telling Anne how bad my next day was going to be...to the extent I was programming in a reminder to myself to eat at lunch. "What else could I forget that's vital?"
"Brush teeth. Bathe."
"Sleep."
"Remove tampon."
"No, I'm keeping that."

3) The coffee and tea companies are getting serious about their copy. The San Lorenzo Dark roast is "bold, dark, exquisite." Gimme summa that! And then there's the Lemon Blueberry PASSION tea. Hey, I have lemon blueberry passion! It's like we were meant to BE.

crying from desire

This has never happened to me before, though I've sort of wanted it to. It's true, too; my eyes are watering from Want.

But it's a worthy cause. Meet the cocoa bar. Specifically, it was this that did it to me - : rasberry truffle cake :. As if that's not enough to liquify my brains and have them run down...well, nothing sounds good here and I do not want to ruin my appetite, but the point is that the new one is right by my darling LZP's.

Okay, the thought of doing our margaritas-to-go and eating some of these chocolates and then some blood orange and grapefruit gelati with Pelle in the dogpark just made me get misty with anticipatory joy. Oh sunshine, we've missed ye.

iscream, lover

I've never been able to talk dirty to a lover, but judging by the filth that was just coming out of my mouth as I sat un-observed talking to my ice cream, I think I know what I need to imagine if I want to possibly pull off Le Dirty Parle.

the ghost of william's testicle

I admire the aplomb with which my dear friend (with the help of his many and wonderful friends who are not me) handled his diagnosis of testicular cancer and resulting surgery. It's not surprising, but typical. Still - appreci-a-ti-on.

Apparently this was bothering me more than I was aware, however, and made itself be known in dreamland last night - and, fittingly, in a most appropriately annoying way.

IN THE DREAM, Balls (long ago referred to as TMS, in keeping with blogging naming constraints) was there. I call Balls Balls because he would say it as an exclamation, and he climbs crazy high things and is generally balls-out. Of course, initially it was to try to get him to stop exclaiming, "Balls!" but we know how those things play out. One of the last times I saw Balls, I believe between trips to the Himalayas and to partake of the TransSiberian Railroad, he was all chatty about wanting to have kids. As I recall, I had spontaneous and temporary Parkinson's develop, being unable to stop shaking my head 'no' as he talked. ("Hello sweet baby. I know it's my fault who your dad is. Or was. Since he died trying to backflip off Everest. And Aunt Emi and Aunt Anne totally have alibis. Wink wink. Urm, sorry, though. I goofed. You got me.") Also, he always had at least 1/8" of facial hair. Why? Why?! And usually at least 1/4". Outside of the Arctic Circle, no one should have facial hair - or certainly not on a regular basis.


Anyhairroot, Balls has shaved (so many layers of meaning - totally), and is attempting to make himself appealing as a mate. As he keeps talking, I start making a case for how serious reproductive stuff is, and tell him about how William had this particular cancer, and his funny photos, and how so many people began judging his sperm and leaving comments as to their appearance/destiny. Balls is un-phased, and counters. He has had this testicular cancer so had his manstuff frozen. All I have to do is agree and he can have me knocked up with more surety than an average male. (This would appeal to him, so the thought will never be shared. With him. Who doesn't know diddly about this blog.) More insidiousness ensued, but unlike so many other things I'd gladly forget, this bit my brain has mercifully blocked from memory.

hey hey hey, it's may day

Remember how nice it was when you were little and you'd wake up on May Day and be all, "Weeeee! Where are my lace doilies?! [Then, more manically...] I must make May Day baskets for all our old neighbors and leave them on their front doors, and it will be a total surprise and make them so happy and and andAND AND..." [spinning girlishly, giggling and being in love with the sky and sun] "I have to start picking flowers THIS INSTANT."

Then the careful selection of which blossoms had reached their prime and it was justifiable to sacrifice, keeping them watered as the bouquets were prepared, and then matching them up in what were essentially floral death ceremonies. (Oh, stop. I know, I know - such the Romantic. Sweet youth!)

Finally, walking them discreetly down the block, a smaller crop each year, as I realized how few of our neighbors I actually considered worthy. Halloween? Carefully noted. "You-a give me a leetle sumthin' sweet, and I'll-a give-a you a leetle bit a dees [flowers]..." Then, in the end, the disappointment that the purity of the sentiment was getting colored, and probably at least ten to thirty minutes of self-criticism before resolving to Put Things Right and put some bouquets even onto the doors of total strangers.

To regret later.

Yay! May Day!

good at being pretty and that's all they see

That's our house.

I love it that I just found this note on my bedroom floor (sounding so much spicier than it is), have absolutely zero idea of where it came from, and after reading, "You are so beautiful that I want to kiss you," my first thought was, 'I wonder if this is mine or if it was for KR or JS.' There's no telling. It could've gotten swept in under the door. The paper? Somewhat familiar looking. The handwriting? Girly. The wording? Unspecific.

Go to it, supersleuths. Nancy Drew, we need you!