Well. This was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose.
Here in Phoenix metro this week, someone found “666” swirled with frosting onto her child’s dinosaur birthday cake. Not just any birthday cake, either. The demonic cake was a COSTCO cake. See? I was right… Costco is evil. My Costco-induced panic attacks are NOT due to Costco being a chaotic warehouse of a special kind of too much of a good thing is a bad thing hell in which you’re supposed to be able to find what you’re looking for, frothing over with the ricocheting energy of hundreds of human-shaped mice let loose in a gigantic maze with rows and rows of towering boxes and crates and a million little pieces of cheese laying around everywhere, throwing the mice into confusion as they can’t decide which one to grab first so the pattern within the movement of the masses is schizophrenic as some of the mice wander aimlessly in a retail overload induced state of zombification while others dart hither and thither with varying degrees of harrowing spontaneity as they’re driven by impulse triggered by the things their eyeballs hone in on and ultimately their shopping carts collide like bumper cars and things get knocked over, and since it’s a warehouse, all the sounds in the entire place are amplified and bounce off of each other. Oh, no… the cause of my panic attacks in Costco is clearly written on this ominous cake expelled from the bowels of their bakery last weekend.
This is the Costco dino cake design selected by the child’s grandmother.
The devil is in the details.
Might I add that the Costco in question is the Superstition Springs one, which is near the Superstition Mountains, and we all know that the Superstitions are haunted. I mean, of course the demonic cake came from that location. Maybe an evil spirit flew down from the Superstitions to embed itself into this cake. And maybe if you play the music in that Costco backwards, you’d hear demonic whisperings commanding you to buy everything in sight.
Needless to say, the child’s mother was aghast at the 666 “hidden message” (what a clever visual pun of Satan’s, hiding the sign of the beast in a cartoonish beast’s cake-frosting legs) and took action just as quickly as the person who discovered the Virgin Mary emblazoned on a grilled cheese sandwich. This cake incident is actually unsurprising… if you believe in God, then you believe in the devil, and from this logic it follows that if the Virgin Mary is going to appear on a grilled cheese sandwich, then sooner or later, Satan is going to appear on a birthday cake.
Anyway, the news source carrying the article seems to be a Christian outfit out of the Midwest (judging by the listing of news items in the sidebar, and by the announcer’s accent… broadcast journalists at national stations use non-regional diction); I couldn’t find a hint of this demonic dinosaur cake item in the Arizona Republic/AZCenteral.com or the East Valley Tribune or any other Arizona publication. I’m not sure why Yahoo News decided to pluck this article from the Examiner and insert it into its news feed that day, but they did, and that is how it came to my attention.
On that note, I’m off to get ready for work. Happy Friday, All!
There’s been an ongoing drama rattling quietly behind the closed doors of our domestic life these last few weeks, rattling like strings of dried-out teeth from an old skeleton. I would tell you all about it, except that it must remain hush-hush (for privacy reasons, I’m not allowed to talk about it).
Yes, a moratorium has been placed on all public discussion of said drama, but I can say that I’ve arrived at a conclusion based on all related events. I didn’t just casually arrive at this conclusion, either… I was forcibly propelled to it by simple logic. Sorry. I’m being vague, I know, and it seems unfair that I can tell you the punch-line as long as you don’t know the joke. But I do want to share the punch-line, because I’m resigned to the reality of it, and this has been no small feat.
The only possible answer to the gigantic WTF that’s engulfed the last few weeks is… Callaghan was an evil dentist in a past life.
Supporting my theory is the fact of Callaghan’s sinister antique dentist cabinet, which still lurks at the back of la bergerie on the property in France. The dentist cabinet. I wrote elaborately about it, as some of you may remember:
…it occurred to us to peek inside the beat-up old antique metal dentist cabinet that Callaghan accidentally got from a dentist office in Antibes. (Yes, by accident. It’s long story.)
NOW IT ALL MAKES SENSE.
I’d always thought there was something creepy about this dentist cabinet. The cabinet’s wide, shallow drawers had come filled with all sorts of little instruments and drills – dentistry’s accoutrements of bygone times – that Callaghan had removed for use on various projects. It could be, we thought, that the missing screws had made their way into those empty drawers at some point. Ghostly, pain-inflicting screws, I couldn’t help but think. I peered over Callaghan’s shoulder with a bit of trepidation; it wouldn’t have surprised me if the dentist cabinet turned out to hold supernatural properties, transforming everyday objects into tiny medieval torture instruments. Contents of its drawers were not to be trusted.
The first thing you’ll notice when reading this excerpt (other than the fact that I clearly had more time to write back then) is that this mysterious dentist cabinet came to reside with Callaghan “by accident.” To which I now say, knowing what I know from these past few weeks, that there are no accidents. That dentist cabinet deliberately came home to Callaghan, who, in his present iteration of being, hasn’t been able to brush the remnants of his past evil dentist-hood off his aura. “Paybacks are a bitch,” my friends. This is karma.
Poor Callaghan. At least now that we know the root of the problem, we know that what he needs is a shaman, not a dentist, as someone astutely pointed out. Yes, others, too, have noted that the only explanation for the epic f*ckery we’ve experienced recently has to be that he was an evil dentist in a past life; that’s how absurdly obvious it is!
(Note to self: Google “shamans who specialize in past-life sadistic dentistry of the medieval persuasion.” That should get us somewhere.
Last night, I went to yahoo.com to check my email, and when the page loaded, one of many headlines to catch my eye was one about Kim Kardashian’s recent photo-shoot in Paper Magazine. It wasn’t the same as the last headline I’d scanned on the subject, though. I’m not bothering to count how many different Kim Kardashian photo-shoot-related headlines I’ve glimpsed in the last few days.
“Look at this,” I said. “Yet another article about Kim Kardashian’s photo-shoot!”
“Really?” He asked, distracted. I looked over at his screen. He was reading something about the comet landing… like that matters! Everyone knows that Kim Kardashian’s butt pictures are more important.
“You’ve seen the pictures, right…” I prodded his memory. “You know, she did that provocative photo-shoot for that magazine, and now everyone’s freaking out about her butt.”
This was when I discovered that Callaghan was apparently the only person on the planet who hadn’t yet seen the pictures. Being the decent citizen that I am, I clicked on the article and found a link to the full spread to show him. His reaction? Two words.
“That’s spooky.”
Spooky?
“Why is it spooky?” I had to ask.
“Because look at the size of her butt!”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s like… this big,” he said, holding out his hands to frame an invisible Kim Kardashian butt.
“Well…”
“It’s the size of her butt compared to her waist,” he explained. “Why are you asking me this? You know that it’s spooky!”
“Because ‘spooky’ is a really specific adjective, and its use in reference to someone’s butt is unexpected,” I explained. “When I hear ‘spooky,’ I think of Halloween. Ghosts. Stalkers. You know. Spooky. It means scary in a quiet, obscure way.”
“I am scared, Baby,” he said. “I’m scared by her butt.”
He went back to reading about the comet landing. I said, “Maybe they could’ve landed that spacecraft on Kim Kardashian’s butt.”
This morning, he sent me this picture:
One picture. Two stories. You can thank Callaghan.
Wednesday night after Body Combat class, I met Callaghan out on the floor, as per usual. [Side note: have I mentioned that I’m doing Body Combat class three times a week now, since our gym changed its group fitness schedule and replaced Wednesday night Boot Camp with another Body Combat? I love the extra Body Combat, of course, and the instructor is excellent, but “Find another way to get someone to kick my ass with a varied workout combining strength-training, compound exercises, plyometrics and cardio on a weekly basis during a day/time slot that works with my existing schedule” has since been a lingering, problematic item on my “To Do” list. I had relied completely on that weekly Boot Camp class for strength training, and one thing I’d especially appreciated was that the class was different every time. No two Boot Camp classes were the same, so your body never knew what was coming, and therefore, it couldn’t plateau. Plus, that instructor was excellent, as well.]
[Additional side note: Word did not recognize the word “plyometrics” when I keyed it in just now. This, I believe, points to a deplorable deficit in our system somewhere. I mean, what does it say about us as a society when Word doesn’t recognize “plyometrics,” other than the obvious conclusion that the people who develop that software must not work out?]
[Another additional side note: due to a recurring rib injury I was nursing at the time, I wasn’t even able to attend the last two Boot Camp classes, so I didn’t know it was going away until it was gone. I was still attending Body Combat because there I could power through the pain to the best of my ability and simply avoid the weight-bearing (push-ups) part at the end, but there was no point in attempting Boot Camp class at all with that injury.]
Anyway, so I met up with Callaghan – he lifts weights while I’m in class on Wednesday evenings – and as we walked out through the parking lot, he suddenly remembered he had something to tell me.
“Oh I talked to John tonight!” he blurted.
“John? John who?” I was thinking, John? Jean? Who is he talking about?
“JOHN, the Beautiful Calves Man,” he answered, leaving a silent “duh!” hanging at the end.
“Oh.”
“He told me that he’s a massage therapist,” he informed me.
“So are you going to get a massage from him?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Actually, I’m going to ask him if I can massage his calves.”
We laughed at his joke. But I had to follow up.
“To see if they’re real?”
“I’m sure they’re real,” he replied. “Why would he put so much work into his body and then get fake calves?”
I went online last night in search of a video about calf implants, figuring I should educate myself. This was the first one I found:
So clearly, there’s a niche of jokes about calf implants out there. In a weird way, though, the video gives me additional impetus to find time for another gym session each week. I’ll have to give this challenge some serious consideration.
It’s likely that many college towns in the States have one thing in common: herds of bicyclists under the impression that the normal rules of death don’t apply to them, protected by a force field that deflects danger, an invisible shield under which they can do any number of things at zero risk.
I’m thinking of the guy we often see around downtown Tempe, riding his bike, holding an umbrella – open, over his head! – and texting. No hands on the bike as he wobbles slowly along in oblivion. But hey… at least his umbrella’s protecting him from the harmful rays of the sun! He’s a comical sight, but he’s a disaster waiting to happen, and he makes me nervous. We call him the Umbrella Guy.
People do funny things while operating their various modes of personal transportation. I once saw a woman knitting while driving, and I knew someone who admitted to polishing her toenails while driving. I’ve seen people eating breakfast, drinking coffee and reading newspapers spread out over the steering wheel – on the freeway, no less. During one of several Defensive Driving courses I’d taken (I have a history of lead foot and was caught on camera several times – though one of those was an actual speed trap), the instructor cited a statistic saying that the documented “number one cause” of inattention-related accidents on the road is “(gender) men who are (activity) eating.” Surprise! Not people falling asleep. Not women putting on makeup. Men, eating. The image accompanying that part of the presentation showed a guy behind the wheel holding a big, messy burger in one hand and fries in the other, with a drink between his thighs.
That was something like six-seven years ago, and I’d bet the statistics are different now. I’d bet the number one cause of inattention-related road accidents now is texting, and it’s gender-irrelevant. Every day, I see people all over the place walking across streets, cycling, skateboarding and driving while texting, and I’m surprised that there aren’t more casualties.
Not that I’m above anyone for my own texting behavior, mind you. I sometimes text while walking, and it does happen every once and a while that there’s a street to cross while I’m doing it, though I try to be aware and keep it at a minimum. The biggest hazard I encounter while texting is more to my pride than to my person. I’m that texter who, due to my own carelessness, sends text messages to the wrong people… and this is how we arrive at Embarrassing Story Tuesday. It’s been a while!
Back in May, I helped to coordinate an academic competition at an event showcasing the work of students in our department. During the competition, Callaghan was en route from central Phoenix, contacting me periodically to tell me where he was so I could advise him on where to go, where to park, etc. (This was during commencement, and it was a clusterf*ck all around the campus.) Meanwhile, our faculty coordinator for the competition, who was sitting in the back of the large room – I was at the front of the room – texted me regarding something technical, and with my attention fragmented in the confusion of keeping up with the competitors and the judges and the score sheets and incoming texts and calls from Callaghan, whose goal was to let me know when he’d arrived so I could point him in the right direction, I accidentally sent some texts meant for Callaghan to the professor.
Because Callaghan called, and I couldn’t answer. Because the last text I’d sent was to the professor, and I forgot to switch back to my text exchange with Callaghan before texting him. I was beyond mortified when I saw that I’d sent the messages to the professor, who, incidentally, was the assistant director of my department at the time. I called him “Baby,” and I didn’t realize my gaffe until he sneezed and I went to text “bless you” to him.
I wanted to crawl under the table, I was so embarrassed. Moral of the story: it’s not always a good idea to do personal things while working in certain fast-paced, chaotic situations, even if it’s just trying to communicate logistical information to family members.
On that note, I’m off to get ready for work. Have a great Tuesday, All!
I’d insisted that I’d never write this blog post. I swore it to the point where it became an inside joke, but alas, it has come to pass… I’m writing about a lawnmower, and it’s Callaghan’s fault. He wins.
You see, ever since we moved into this house at the end of August, Callaghan and I have been debating what to do about our front and back lawns. Once we decided to keep the grass, we had to shift our focus to the issue of obtaining a lawnmower, and the never-ending lawnmower discussion ensued. New or used? Off the shelf or online? Online retailer or Craigslist or eBay or Amazon? Manual, thermal engine or electric motor? If electric, corded or cordless?
Riveting.
We’ve talked about lawnmowers more in the last month than I’d ever thought about lawnmowers in my entire life, so when the discussion finally ended and Callaghan suggested, “Why don’t you write a blog post about the lawnmower?” I could only hem and haw a little, like, “Um… yeeeah, maybe I could write about the lawnmower,” then conclude with a confession, “No… no. I really have nothing to say about the lawnmower.” I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or rain on his lawnmower parade, but honestly, he might as well have suggested that I write about a feline rectal thermometer. That would be another thing you’d purchase only because you absolutely need it, and you need it in order to perform a particular task, and that task is unpleasant. Yard work of any kind is my Number One most loathed house-related chore. I blame the Army for this. If I didn’t rake so many billions of leaves during peacetime in Germany, I might be more tolerant now. Anyway.
The end of the discussion was uneventful. Callaghan picked me up for lunch one day last week and announced, “Our lawnmower will arrive on the 30th!” There was no prelude, and a prelude wasn’t necessary, since the lawnmower conversation had been an ongoing thing for weeks. He forged ahead with the technical details.
“It has a Briggs and Stratton engine,” he said with a slight shade of resignation in his voice, “But it was the best lawnmower for the best price I could find.”
I knew he’d been hoping for a good deal on a lawnmower with a Honda engine. Lengthy debates with his Dad and many hours of online research had led him to the conclusion that a Honda engine was the way to go, and this was the part that turned the whole lawnmower thing into a valuable learning experience for me. The world of Honda had suddenly expanded to the realm of lawnmowers. Callaghan’s Dad proclaimed that the Briggs and Stratton lawnmower engines are the absolute worst, and he cautioned him against buying one.
But Callaghan arrived at his educated decision to get a lawnmower that happened to be powered by Briggs and Stratton, and then he ordered it and eagerly tracked the progress of the lawnmower’s shipping progress. On Friday, he reported that the lawnmower had arrived.
“It’s here! We got it!” Unmitigated glee. I was happy for him.
“You mean it’s here at the house?”
“No, it’s here in Phoenix. But it says that they won’t deliver it until Monday. I’m calling them to ask if we can pick it up.”
On the phone, he learned that the lawnmower was stashed somewhere in the back of a semi, so it would be impossible to get it before Monday. We ended up cancelling the yard sale we’d been planning for Sunday. The front lawn was a jungle and not at all fit for a yard sale. Plus, an aggressive storm system was moving in quickly, and we didn’t know how long that would last. (It turned out to be a good thing that we cancelled, too, because the sprinklers came on automatically at 8:00am on Sunday morning. That would have been an unfortunate occurrence during a yard sale, slap-stick comic relief notwithstanding. We’re still figuring out the sprinkler system.)
Finally, Monday arrived. “Today, we’re getting our lawnmower!” Callaghan sang as we got ready for breakfast. This was yesterday. And indeed, the lawnmower made it to our doorstep in the middle of the afternoon. It was like UPS had delivered the Holy Grail.
Callaghan texted me:
A little while later, he messaged me a picture:
By the way, could someone explain why lawnmowers are often red? No, on second thought, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.
“You should totally write a blog post about this lawnmower,” Callaghan said, later, for the nth time.
“No,” I said, also for the nth time.
“Genesis thought it was a worthy subject!”
It took me a second.
“Genesis? As in, Phil Collins?” I thought he was joking.
“YES! He says, ‘Me, I’m a lawnmower.’”
“No way! Hahaha!!”
But he seemed to be serious. Later, my curiosity drove me into the bowels of the interwebs, where some things should stay deeply, deeply buried, like these lyrics from the old Genesis song “I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)” (first of all, WTF @ that title?!):
When the sun beats down and I lie on the bench,
I can always hear them talk.
Me, I’m just a lawnmower – you can tell me by the way I walk.
I am so not making this up:
I just can’t… I’m sorry, Genesis lawnmower song fans. I just don’t think this lawnmower thing works. And I apologize to the rest of you, too. What has been seen cannot be unseen, I know.
You know what does work perfectly, though? Take the Judas Priest song “Breaking the Law” and replace the lyrics “breaking the law” with “mowing the lawn.” There are some parodies already floating around out there – more than one person thought of it before I did – but seriously, it’s not even necessary to re-write the whole song! You can just replace those three little words and leave the rest of the song exactly the same. It’s brilliant:
There I was completely wasting, out of work and down
All inside it’s so frustrating as I drift from town to town
Feel as though nobody cares if I live or die
So I might as well begin to put some action in my life
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn!
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn!
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn!
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn!
So much for the golden future, I can’t even start
I’ve had every promise broken, there’s anger in my heart
You don’t know what it’s like, you don’t have a clue
If you did you’d find yourselves doing the same thing too
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn!
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn!
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn!
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn!
You don’t know what it’s like
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn
Mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn
If you’re not familiar with this song, you can listen to it here:
Can’t you just hear him chanting, mowing the lawn, mowing the lawn?
Anyway, I should totally play this for Callaghan while he’s out mowing the lawn for the first time. We’re both Judas Priest/Rob Halford fans, so it’ll work on several levels. For now, though, I’m lawnmowered out.
It seems that I started noticing the Eiffel Tower printed on clothing and other things right when we moved back to Arizona last November. That’s when I became aware of the trend, anyway… the Eiffel Tower could have been a popular motif in apparel and home décor fashion for much longer.
At first, I was charmed to happen upon the occasional Eiffel Tower, because the Eiffel Tower is one of my favorite things about France. It’s actually my favorite monument of the monuments I’ve seen in the world, as you may recall me mentioning before. Hence, I own more than a few Eiffel Tower-emblazoned things, myself. A sleeveless t-shirt here. A light sweater there. A French friend gave me a small photo of the Eiffel Tower in a white frame (from the store – I chose it)! A small ring holder in the shape of the Eiffel Tower sits on the dresser. The first Eiffel Tower in my collection, the drawing that Callaghan bought for me when we were there one day (at the Eiffel Tower), hangs in our living room, and of course, there’s the token Eiffel Tower magnet on the refrigerator. And that’s just a sampling of examples. There are more.
So, I started seeing Eiffel Towers plastered all over tarnation last November, but in the almost-year since we’ve been back in AZ? Instead of trailing off into the oblivion that follows a robust trend, the Eiffel Tower not only pressed forward, but it exploded into a frenzy of mass marketing. It’s everywhere, on everything, all over the place… especially, it seems, in the kind of discount stores we favor, such as Target, Marshall’s/T.J. Maxx and Ross. There’s no shortage of Eiffel Towers in these places. If you want it in your house or on your person, you may have it, and for very good prices. The quantities and varieties of Eiffel Towers migrating to the United States from China are staggering.
When I brought this up the other day, Callaghan said, “Yeah. I’m trying to get away from there, and the Eiffel Tower is running after me.”
Here, enjoy some random Eiffel Tower store sightings:
The Eiffel Tower on hat boxes.
The Eiffel Tower on canvas.
The Eiffel Tower on a hook board.
The Eiffel Tower on bathroom accessories.
The Eiffel Tower on a knit top.
And, while we’re at it, let’s not forget the fleur de lys (more ubiquitous now than ever, as well).
I’m not sure if it’s the Eiffel Tower, specifically, or the city of Paris itself that’s all the rage right now. The Eiffel Tower has become synonymous with Paris, so it could be either. And honestly, I don’t mind that Eiffel Towers jump into my face every time I turn around. I could be ambushed by worse things, for sure.
So I’m not complaining here… I’m more nonplussed than anything, and maybe I feel just a little bit like the plethora of Eiffel Towers cheapens the experience of her somehow. It’s like seeing your lover’s face depicted, suddenly, on clothing worn by other people. Poor Eiffel Tower! If monuments were songs, she’d be the most over-played one by a mile. Being everywhere takes the edge off her splendor; it’s hard to be one-of-a-kind and de rigueur at the same time.
On his part, Callaghan is in disgust. He loves the Eiffel Tower as much as I do, and he likes all of our Eiffel Towers, but he rolls his eyes at the herds of Eiffel Towers roaming through stores.
It was a dark and stormy night bright day two months ago when Salazar vanished. In case you didn’t know, Salazar is the identical twin brother of Umberto. I clearly remember posting this picture of the forlorn Umberto to my instagram:
The twin donkeys were close, and Salazar’s disappearance was an utter calamity. Umberto has been devastated, and I, myself, having gotten used to their company after working a good part of the summer in otherwise near-solitude, have also been missing Salazar.
As people began milling around the workplace more toward the end of summer, I’d occasionally ask after Salazar. No one seemed to have a clue as to his whereabouts. In fact, for reasons I can’t fathom, no one seemed to even take me seriously.
Salazar remains missing to this day. Meanwhile, this notice has been affixed to our prominent yellow pegboard:
It was there when I got to work yesterday morning. I walked past it all day, and I couldn’t help but think, If that pegboard is now functioning as a message board,I ought to add a notice of my own.
A missing adapter in need of his medication can’t be the only hapless thing to deserve a “Missing” notice on a gigantic bright yellow pegboard that one encounters immediately when entering our space. Surely, Umberto deserves to have a flyer made to help find his brother.
As luck would have it, le graphiste extraordinaire was up to the task last night. Thanks to Callaghan, I shall be bringing this notice with me to work this morning:
But here’s the twist: Callaghan also found that he happens to have the very same kind of adapter as advertised in Cooper’s “Missing” notice. (These things happen when you’re unpacking after a move. Random things turn up in odd places.) He found it with Ronnie James, who was sitting at the table with a look of expectation and a mysterious vibe about him.
HAI. I CAN HAZ UR ADAPTER.
The result of which, of course, is this second notice that I’m bringing with me to work today:
And that, my friends, is why it’s always a good idea to lock up your stuff if your desk is out in the open. This is really more of a cautionary tale than a tale of woe. You’re welcome.
I’ve been more scarce than usual online these last two weeks, and I haven’t been sleeping as much as I should. This has less to do with the rooster named Moe next door and more to do with the fact that I’m semi-obsessed with unpacking the whole house within a ridiculous (self-imposed) time-frame.
One consequence of not getting enough sleep is a tendency to see things, as in, to look at something and see something else. I’ve been taking quite a few second and third looks lately, checking to see if what I’m seeing is really what I’m seeing.
The other day, I stepped outside and saw this:
Callaghan fiddling with the backyard sprinklers.
After I realized that Callaghan was trying to troubleshoot a broken sprinkler, I went to grab my phone. He was so intent on figuring out the problem that he wasn’t aware that I was taking pictures as he adjusted the stream of water. He thought I was just being weird, laughing for no reason. (I can’t imagine why he’d think that.)
He didn’t get why I was laughing…
Then there was the time I spotted a questionable box in a jewelry store, tucked away behind the counter. This was on Friday afternoon, when I finally – finally! – had an opportunity to take my watch in to get the battery replaced. (I cannot tell you what an immense relief it was to address this issue. My watch had been dead for almost two weeks, and it was maddening to reflexively glance at my wrist fifty times a day only to see “5:20” every time.)
So I’m standing there and my eyes wander behind the counter, and this is what I see on the floor behind the sales representative:
Alarming discovery in the jewelry store.
…a box containing a puppy in 14 pieces, “country of origin CHINA.”
The jewelry store lady didn’t see the humor in it, but how was I supposed to know that a jewelry store was using stuffed animals for promotional (or whatever) purposes, especially when there were no stuffed animals in sight?
Then there’s this:
This trio of characters is the first thing I see when I walk into work every day.
This scene changes every day, sometimes several times a day. I never know what I’m going to see when I walk in.
Ever since Callaghan started lifting weights seriously… so that would be since March… he’s been in the habit of commenting on the size of the calves he sees on men in the gym. His remarks are always in the context of the proportion of the guy’s calves to the rest of his body, usually to the effect of, “I saw this guy and I don’t understand why guys refuse to work their calves! This one guy’s upper body was massive, but his calves were like twigs! I never forget to work my calves. I don’t want to look like that.” After which we spend a half hour or so debating genetics vs. strength-training for calf muscle shape and development, the merits of various types of calf exercises, plastic surgery (faking it with calf implants) and sheer negligence in training the calves.
Random calves in action at the gym.
I’ve gotten so used to Callaghan vocalizing his observations that when he starts a sentence with “There was this guy in the gym,” I already know that the guy’s calves are the subject of the sentence. Also, I know that there’s a 95% chance that his remark is going to be unfavorable. Every once in a while, he’ll tell me about a guy he saw with well-proportioned calves. And there’s one guy in particular whose calves he greatly admires. I remember the first time he mentioned him.
“There was this guy in the gym,” he began. He’d just come home.
“…and he had skinny little calves,” I finished for him.
“No! His calves were beautiful!” he exclaimed, surprising me. He went on to effusively praise the beauty and magnificence of not only the guy’s calves, but of his entire physique.
After that, every time Callaghan saw this guy in the gym, I heard about it afterward.
Then Callaghan started working full-time and had to cut back significantly on his weight-lifting. He still does the Body Combat classes with me twice a week, but for now, he’s only lifting weights on Wednesday evenings (while I’m in boot camp class), and sometimes once on the weekend, usually on Sundays.
“I haven’t seen the guy with the beautiful calves in a long time,” he said at one point. But on Wednesday night last week, when I met up with him after our respective workouts, he gushed, “You know how I said I haven’t seen the guy with the beautiful calves in a long time? He was here tonight, and he came up to me and said, ‘Hey, I haven’t seen you here before.’”
“Hahaha!!” I didn’t know why I thought that was hilarious, but for some reason, I did.
“His name is John. He introduced himself. I asked him, ‘Wow, what do you do to have beautiful calves like that?’”
That was exactly what Callaghan said. Imagine it in a French accent. Quite a pick-up line!
“What did he say?”
“That he has to thank his Mom. So I wanted to ask if his Mom had big calves, too,” he said, starting to laugh. “But I didn’t. Although I don’t think he would’ve minded.”
So we know that in this case of the Guy with Beautiful Calves, it’s genetics at play… and maybe it’s the beginning of a beautiful new gym bromance for Callaghan. The immediate effect of this whole thing, though, which I find kind of distracting, is that now I’m always checking out the lower legs on the males of our species. Yesterday, when I was talking to a guy at work, I found myself staring at his calves and thinking, he has nice calves! I laughed, but not out loud.
As recently as eight months ago, my elevator phobia – a spin-off of my claustrophobia – kept me out of elevators at all costs. Now, because of my job, I take the elevator every day, numerous times a day. This marks a great personal victory for me, even though I still always choose the stairs whenever possible.
So, as a somewhat recovered elevator phobic, I thought I’d put together this handy Elevator Phobic’s Guide to Taking the Elevator, in case it can be of use to anyone.
1). When the elevator arrives and the doors open, look inside first to check for sewer roaches before getting in. You just never know, and the last thing you need is for your recently-somewhat-alleviated phobia (elevators) to be revived by a clash with your one remaining phobia (roaches).
Being weird in the elevator to show you my “I see a roach” face. Derp.
2). Always have your cell phone with you before stepping into the elevator. Make sure it’s charged.
3). If there are other people in the elevator with you, quickly check them out to evaluate whether or not you could take them in a fight if you had to (which I do automatically all the time, anyway, no matter where I am… it’s a reflex). If you do find yourself in a situation that necessitates self-defense tactics, the elevator would be a convenient place to be if you’re like me and you fight best on the inside because you have short limbs.
4). If you’re unsure about the integrity of the elevator, bring a bottle of water in with you. It never hurts to keep a protein bar or nuts with you, either.
5). If the elevator arrives and neither the “up” nor the “down” signal lights are lit, err on the side of caution and don’t get on. Wait for the next one. An undecided elevator is an elevator that might decide to get stuck in the middle somewhere.
6). Mentally listen to Steven Tyler singing “Love in an Elevator” while you’re in the elevator. It will bring some levity to the situation.
7). Minimize your time in the elevator as much as possible. I almost always take the elevator partially, up from the second floor and down to the second floor, rather than ground floor to ground floor. Between the ground floor and the second floor, I use the public stairs.
8). Arm yourself with knowledge by studying the control panel in the elevator as soon as you step in (well, after you size up anyone who may be in there already. Priorities, you know). That way, in the event of a stoppage, you’ll be more likely to able to find the appropriate buttons even while you’re in a panic.
9). Valium, or something similar. Just… whatever it is, have it with you. Frankly, if I could, I’d harpoon myself with whale tranquilizer if I got stuck in an elevator alone. I would just want to be out.
10). If there are other people in the elevator, amuse yourself by trying to figure out which person would be the devil, à la M. Night Shyamalan’s delightful film Devil.
My weekend started on a serrated-edged note of dark humor when, during a business meeting at a restaurant, my dinner companion and I snorted over a particular menu item:
Free-range rabbit on the menu.
As you can see from this photo of the menu, the restaurant offers rabbit with the assertion that the rabbits are “free-range.” Fantastic! Happy little bunnies hopping hither and thither over a grassy knoll.
But then we read that the rabbits are “slow-roasted” and “hand-pulled.” Hand-pulled? We exclaimed in unison. My visual instantly went from happy little bunnies to torn-apart bunnies. The menu’s brief description concludes with a touch of poetic, seductive frill, the “black trumpet mushrooms, thyme, Pecorino” part elegantly cloaking the macabre “slow roasted hand pulled” part. Perhaps they thought that starting with the nationality of the rabbit would smooth the way for the rest of the description… better these misfortunes befall a Canadian rabbit than an American one, though the dish is Croatian, not Canadian.
Coniglio Pljukanci: “Canadian free range & slow roasted hand pulled rabbit…”
Following this template, Callaghan and I – ever on the look-out for ways to amuse ourselves – later came up with a list of menu items featuring animals humanely kept before their inevitable demise:
Boeuf Bourguinon: “French grass-fed cow, guillotined, braised and immersed in a Burgundy wine sauce…”
Jaegar Schnitzel: “German open pen pig surrounded by barnyard friends, then bled out through the throat and filleted…”
Lamb Stew: “New Zealand petting zoo lamb executed by firing squad, cut into chunks…”
Kobe Beef: “Japanese cow tucked in at night with a bedtime story, then slaughtered & grilled…”
There’s probably something slightly wrong with us for having so much fun with this, but in my defense I was more reminded of Dr. Jonathan Swift’s satirical essay “A Modest Proposal,” in which he advocates the killing and eating of babies and children as a way to alleviate the poverty problem in 18th-century Ireland:
A young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee, or a ragout.
He had many ideas, in fact, and applied a great deal of thought to the matter:
Excerpt from Dr. Jonathan Swift’s “A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Poor People From Being a Burthen to Their Parents or Country, and for Making Them Beneficial to the Publick” (Eighteenth-Century English Literature, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich College Publishers, 1969)
On that note, I’m going to go put something together for lunch today. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, anyone?
While most people would agree that Ronnie James and the Nounours have distinct personalities that make them very different from each other, many wouldn’t realize, at a glance, the depth of the differences, which are largely intelligence-based. (Poor Nounours!)
What should be obvious to all who meet them is that our fur-kids carry a peculiar resemblance to the dragons in the How to Train Your Dragon movies. The superficial resemblance is there, for sure… we’ve always thought that Ronnie James (aka the Wrah-Wrah) is a dead ringer for Night Fury, and there are two older NOT UNLIKEs out there to this effect. Then, earlier this week, we were sitting in a waiting room flipping through magazines when I stumbled upon a photo that accompanied a review of How to Train Your Dragon 2, and Lo! The creature had “Nounours” written all over it! I quickly took a picture so you could see. You’ll note that the resemblance isn’t so much superficial as it’s energetic. With their similar expressions, Nounours and this creature seem to share… an I.Q. (Poor, sweet Nounours!)
Callaghan made these NOT UNLIKEs using our most recent pics of our Sons-Who-Have-Fur. You’ll see the likeness of the Wrah-Wrah and the Nounours with their dragon counterparts, especially in their dispositions:
Nounours on the left. Dragon from “How to Train Your Dragon 2” on the right. NOT UNLIKE.
Ronnie James on the left. Night Fury from “How to Train Your Dragon” on the right. NOT UNLIKE.
Dragony energy all up in here! Now we need to actually watch these movies. Callaghan’s seen the first How to Train Your Dragon, but I haven’t, and we want to see the second one based on its excellent reviews. Lucy hits the theatres today, though, and we’ve been so looking forward to that one! We’d rather spend our scarce movie theatre ticket bucks on sci-fi action flicks. We’ll look forward to a How to Train Your Dragon home movie marathon one day.
You know how it is when you search for something online, and within days, that very thing pops up in your Facebook news feed while you’re scrolling through it? I found it disconcerting when it first started happening, but now, I’m accustomed to it. I’ve gotten used to the internet spying on my web-browsing habits and keeping track of my site visits, though I’m not less annoyed by it.
But I have some reassuring news to share: the internet is not as all-knowing as it appears to be, and it’s nowhere near as adept at learning about you as you might think! There are grave flaws in its insidious little system, bugs in the mechanism behind the personal-habit espionage that goes on every time we enter the ether that is the internet. I know this because I visit at least one Arizona State University web page per day, yet earlier this week, an ad for Alabama State University gifts inserted itself into my news feed and passed before my eyeballs as I scrolled through. Why? Because ASU.
Not my ASU! My alma mater is Arizona State, not Alabama State.
YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG, robotic internet spies. I have never searched for Alabama State anything! Ha!
So, if you feel that you’re being overly-surveilled online, take heart. The robotic internet spies can’t tell the difference between one “ASU” and another – they don’t know if the “A” is for “Arizona” or “Alabama.” They don’t know that we’re the Sun Devils, not the Hornets, and they actually don’t know anything at all. This is not a complex epistemological matter. Arizona and Alabama are two very different states, and the robotic internet spies don’t know that.
This is not to diss Alabama, mind you. I’m just saying that there are big differences. For instance, in Arizona, if you accidentally dump a full container of water on yourself in the car during the summer, it’s no big deal because after you exit your car and walk across the parking lot to the store, your shirt will be completely dry. The hot, dry air works like a gigantic clothes dryer when you cut through it. In Alabama, on the other hand, it’s humid… so if you dump water on yourself in the car, you’re likely to be even wetter by the time you get to the store.
Somehow, I’m reminded of Sheriff Joe, our sheriff who decided against running for governor. I think his decision was a sound one, and not just because “Governor Joe” doesn’t have the same ring to it as “Sheriff Joe” AT ALL. I have suspected for a while now that Sheriff Joe, aka “America’s Toughest Sheriff,” has been secretly working out a zombie apocalypse plan for Arizona. How else would you explain the mysterious statement he made when he announced that he wasn’t running for governor:
“I cannot in good conscience leave the sheriff’s office now, since that would be necessary if I declare a candidacy for governor,” Arpaio said in a press release. “Currently, I have several sensitive investigations in progress and am facing many challenges in my office. Because of this, I will not desert the people of Maricopa County who have elected me six times. Further, I cannot desert my dedicated employees.” (source: The Entire Internet)
Obviously he’s talking about the zombie apocalypse! There are zombies all over his statement, and it’s true… if there’s no Sheriff Joe, who will lead us when it hits?
I just keyed “sheriff joe zombie apocalypse” into my search engine. I can’t wait to see what ads will show up on my FB feed now.
The other night, Callaghan and I were sitting next to each other on the loveseat when he picked up my hand and lifted it to his lips.
“Mmm, I love your skin and your temperature,” he said, kissing my wrist.
“My temperature? Haha! That’s a new one!”
“See? Original.”
He didn’t start laughing with me, and that threw me off. He was unusually mild, oddly emotionless with his statement. He kissed my forearm up and down, and I was reminded of a cartoon character – Foghorn Leghorn, maybe? – eating corn on the cob, like a typewriter. Sexy! I stifled a giggle.
“Mmm. Good temperature. I’ll keep you,” he murmured dramatically. His words and actions were comical, but his demeanor was serious.
Well that was strange, I thought, looking after his form as it walked off and turned the corner into the hallway.
A little while later, he passed by me where I was still sitting on the loveseat. He paused, picked up my foot, and kissed it.
“Yes. You’re the right temperature,” he said, releasing my foot and continuing on his way to the kitchen. His tone was definite, as if confirming to himself the veracity of his earlier assessment. His tone almost had an air of scientific assessment.
At that point, I had to wonder:
–Not only is Callaghan not into feet, but he just barely tolerates them. Feet are not one of his erogenous zones.
—Ergo, singling out my foot for a kiss is something that would be classified as a distinctly un-Callaghan-like act.
My mind immediately went to:
—OMG he’s been abducted by aliens.
–Or, he IS an alien… an alien from a planet where the standard of beauty is temperature-based. The aliens gauge a human’s temperature by pressing their lips to his/her extremities, thus measuring attractiveness.
–Who or what is this person-like thing, and what did it do with my husband? Why is it assessing my temperature?
–WHAT IS IT PLANNING TO DO WITH ME?
I was just confused because this soft-spoken Callaghan was not the Callaghan I knew. So neutral as to be matter-of-fact in the blandest of ways? Not the Callaghan I knew. The Callaghan I knew was loud, boisterous, growly and silly.
One thing’s for sure: if it was just him being in a weird mood, he certainly does get points for originality. Of the various sorts of compliments I’ve received in my life, my temperature hasn’t been one of them.
I passed the alien magnet test with the allure of the incomparable temperature of my extremities.
This is how I must look to an alien, what with my temperature all hanging out everywhere, you know.
HEY! I just thought of something… in the film Edge of Tomorrow, the aliens were in Paris, FRANCE. **SPOILER ALERT** The master alien was found hiding beneath the Louvre, which happens to be Callaghan’s favorite place on earth. Now it’s all starting to make sense….
Sadly, we had to give up our 1999 Toyota 4-Runner, Stevie. She was sweet and quite amazing for her age, but a few months ago she’d started stalling while idling, just at random. Even more disconcerting, the frequency of the stalling episodes was increasing along with the intensifying heat. The day Stevie stalled mid-turn, we knew we had to replace her with something reliable, because the REAL heat hasn’t even hit yet! I wasn’t feeling confident driving her, and I didn’t want to find out how she would react when the temperature climbs up into the 110-115 range.
You don’t mess around with potential car trouble in the summer in Arizona. That is one of life’s absolutes.
Such as it was that we found ourselves at a car dealership a couple of weekends ago – a Chevy dealership, because I’m predictable like that. What can I say? I learned to drive in a Chevy truck, and my last vehicle was a Chevy truck. From Corvettes to trucks, I love Chevrolet. So does Callaghan. After a full day of deliberating and negotiating at the dealership, we leased a new (very pale, silvery-blue) Equinox and drove her off the lot.
Since then, we’ve been bouncing names around, trying to decide what to call her. My first idea, “Samaire,” caused Callaghan to burst out laughing when I suggested it. Of course, in that same second, I realized why.
“Samaire” is pronounced like the French sa mère, which constitutes the second part of Putain desa mère! – Callaghan’s favorite expletive to yell when other drivers on the road annoy him. “Samaire” would be a terrible name for our new vehicle. If we were to call her “Samaire,” Callaghan would always be yelling that she’s a whore, because “putain” is French for “whore.” Her feelings would be hurt.
“‘Sa mère!’ means, like, ‘F*ck!’ – you know?” Callaghan said, launching an elaborate discourse on the versatility of the expression.
And here I always thought that since mère means “mother,” putain desa mère was somehow the French equivalent of Samuel L. Jackson’s trademark word, even though that’s not what it actually means… putain desa mère translates as “his mother the whore,” according to Callaghan.
Well, all that aside, I’ve never had trouble naming a car before we brought this girl home. After two weeks, we still had no idea what to call her. Yesterday, just as we were discussing names such as “Libbets” (after Katie Holmes’ character’s name in The Ice Storm), “Jorie” (after Jorie Graham, a postmodern poet whose work I particularly like), and “Persephone” (the Greek Queen of the Underworld, and also the Goddess of spring/vegetation), we went to get the mail. In the mail was a large yellow envelope from the Motor Vehicles Division, and inside was obviously a license plate.
“Yay! Let’s play the license plate game!” I said when I saw it.
“What is that?” Callaghan’s education in American culture is an ongoing process.
“It’s that game where you look at a license plate and quickly say the first word it spells or brings to mind.”
“Maybe it’ll be her name!” He said it just as I was thinking it.
We opened the envelope. The license plate read:
New license plate for the new girl.
“BUGSY!” We shouted at the same time, cracking up.
See how that works? Just as we’re talking about how we don’t know what to name her, her name arrives in the mail! Et voilà.
I took a critical look at my blog over the weekend and said to myself, “Self, your blog needs a design overhaul.” I clearly remember sitting in the Little House in the Rhône-Alpes in France back in the fall of 2012, selecting and setting up my first theme and writing my first post. Now it’s 18 months and 161 posts later, and I’m in a totally different place in more ways than one. My blog should reflect that, I thought.
I decided on a new theme, found a dusky photo of Tempe Town Lake I’d recently taken from half-way up “A” Mountain (representing our downtown Tempe neighborhood), and, early yesterday morning, asked Callaghan if he would be so kind as to lend his clicking finger to an impromptu photo-shoot, because what better way to start your day than to go outside and take a million pictures of your overly-detail-oriented partner? (I wanted Virgil’s cute cactus garden in the background!) I also updated content where updates were needed and just generally cleaned things up a bit. We threw it all together last night. It took less than an hour, but the minimal, streamlined result pleases me very much.
So that’s the main thing. The only other thing I wanted to tell you about today was… and this is random (with so much going on all over the place, this week already feels more random than usual, and it’s only Tuesday)…
You know you watch too many horror movies when you hear the low tinkling of a classic lullaby from a back corner of your apartment, and when you cautiously venture forth to investigate, the following dialogue takes place:
“Are you listening to a creepy lullaby?” I called to Callaghan, who was somewhere.
Or it’s the ghost of a child. This apartment complex is probably between 50-60 years old, so a lot could have happened.
“I’m watching sleeping puppies and kitties! Haha! I’m almost done, Baby.”
He was in the bathroom with his tablet, watching cute animal videos!
It was Brahms’ “Lullaby and Goodnight,” and actually, I did have an eerie experience involving that particular nursery rhyme when I was a teenage babysitter. But that’s a story for another time.
When Callaghan decided to create an Etsy shop for his art, we got right down to brain-storming names. “First name, Last name Art” wasn’t doing it for us, and neither was “Callaghan Art.” He wanted the word “Art” in the shop’s name, but he didn’t want to use his legal name or his former professional nom de plume.
We mused on the possibilities for a few moments.
“How about,” I ventured slowly, “‘PHA!’?”
It seemed like a logical suggestion, as Callaghan’s been signing his drawings, paintings and illustrations with “PHA!” since he was six years old. He’s gone through phases of signing in other ways, but he always goes back to “PHA!” – in fact, in the four years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him sign any other way. “PHA!” is his original, default signature.
Callaghan’s signature on one of his latest works.
“True! I’ve been signing as ‘PHA!’ my whole life,” he said enthusiastically. “I can call the shop ‘PHA! Art’.”
Silence as his words lingered in the air.
“Oh… no,” I said, the realization hitting suddenly. “You don’t want your shop to be pronounced…”
“PHAART.” He finished my sentence with a low, drawn-out utterance, then repeated it: “PHAART!”
We were in the truck, on the road, laughing wildly into the hot, dusty wind.
It reminded me of Samuel L. Jackson raising hell on Twitter while watching basketball, as he did last week during the Spurs vs. the Thunder playoffs game, and the Pacers vs. the Heat: “Muphuggaz,” “MUFUKKAS,” “Muthaphukkaz,” “MUTHAFUQQA” and “Muhfugga!!” are just a few examples of the creative spellings he comes up with (for his signature word).
He doesn’t just use it for sports, though!
For Callaghan, “PHA! Art” would indeed be an unfortunate business name. Since you can’t use exclamation points in usernames, his URL would be “www.etsy.com/shop/phaart,” and his email address would be phaart@something.com.
“Maybe you could just use ‘PHA!’ by itself,” I suggested.
He hasn’t decided yet for certain, but we know that “PHA!” will likely be a part of his shop’s name somehow. I’ll report back once his shop is up and running, lest your curiosity slay you.
Aging doesn’t concern me much. Sure, I’m aware in terms of health and wellness, and I tailor my routine and lifestyle as needed, but what I mean is I don’t go around “feeling” my age. Thus, when I recently started getting spam like this:
and this:
…in my email, it kind of threw me off.
When I got the first one, I blinked and re-read it a few times, and then it was like, Seniors! Okay. I get it. Then I thought, But why did this spam come to my email? Followed by, Oh… right. Duh! I was born in 1968, which my email knows, because when I’d created my account, it demanded that I enter in my Date of Birth. “Seniors” generally refers to the 50+ crowd,* so I guess once you’re within five years of it, you get picked up by the radars that detect your impending age-based qualification for the senior dating scene. Qualifying as fresh meat a potential member of the senior dating pool means that you qualify for all the spam and junk mail that goes along with it, including the junk mail warmly welcoming you into the AARP fold.
(I snort, but I do plan on joining AARP when I’m 50. Discounts all over the place as an achievement award for 50+ years of surviving life’s… ups and downs, shall we say? Sign me up!)
My Ex was 10 years older than me, and when he started receiving AARP stuff in the mail at around age 48-49, he was not happy. I, on the other hand, thought it was cool.
Anyway, the trickle of senior dating site spam into my email inbox has begun, to my great amusement. At worst, it’s disconcerting. I just don’t feel or think of myself as belonging to an age demographic that would prompt spam from senior dating sites.
I’m a “near-senior,” and the spammers know it… because they know everything about us.
If I was single and looking to meet people on dating sites (senior or otherwise), I would have to go all out and embellish my profile with inelegant, poorly-lit, mirror-reflected selfies, like these ones that I took yesterday:
Complete with an old ASU t-shirt.
…and Nounours’ leg on the bed behind me!
At any rate, I think I’ve decided that I’m over the “plotting my mid-life crisis shenanigans” thing. It was more fun to think about it than anything, though getting behind the wheel of that Corvette was assuredly very fun, and my mid-life crisis window of opportunity is still wide open. That being said, the time has come to anticipate and plan for SENIOR STATUS mayhem!! I have been alerted by the spam in my email.
What should I do first? Maybe I’ll carry out my life-long threat to train for and enter amateur figure competitions, because now I could compete in the “Masters” level category (in bodybuilding and in other sports. “Masters” in athletics means “Seniors”). Heheh.
Happy Friday, All!
~~~~~
*I don’t think there’s a standard, across-the-board age requirement for “senior status” in the States. I think in order to qualify as a “senior citizen” in the U.S., you have to be of retirement age, which is still 65… but you only have to be 50 in order to join AARP, whose acronym yet stands for “Association of American Retired Persons.” (By the way, adding on to that contradiction, could someone please explain why an organization calling itself the “Association of American Retired Persons” has a section called “Job Resources” in its sidebar, with links to pages like “Job Hunting Tips,” “Job Search Tool,” “Start a Business” and “Life Reimagined for Work”?)
In the last year, Callaghan’s drawings have taken a turn for the dimensional. Using ink on a particular type of plastic sheeting as his medium, he’ll do a drawing in parts, cutting everything out, applying color, and then positioning the parts like puzzle pieces, overlapping them in some places and gluing it all together. He gives the resulting “assemblage drawing” a kind of 3-D effect by stacking layers of small pieces of the plastic and strategically placing them beneath various components of the picture, creating differing heights throughout.
He did a brilliant portrait of my parents using this method, as well as my Valentine’s Day red roses and a stunning tribute to French author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, among others.
My Valentine’s Day roses
But allow me to arrive at the point, lest you think this post is nothing more than a shameless plug for my husband’s art!
Callaghan recently completed and submitted his designs for the 2015 Carnaval of Nice float competition, an annual project of considerable effort and magnitude that takes place in the spring of each year. As I’ve mentioned here before, the Carnaval team creates its parade floats based on the themed designs of the winning drawings. This year, Callaghan employed his new assemblage-drawing method, which meant that when he called me into his studio to check out his progress, I often only saw parts of the completed pictures.
He started with the King (there’s always a King and Queen of Carnaval leading the float parade). He dressed the King as Elvis, since the theme of Carnaval 2015 is “La Musique.”
He drew a few pieces of the King, cut them out, and then called me in to show me his work.
“Oh, cool… Elvis is coming along nicely!” I commented. Then my vision focused on the pieces of the unfinished Elvis and my brain made a connection (as it does sometimes, eventually). “Wait… is that his package?” I asked.
“Hell yeah it’s his package!” Callaghan declared. “Tight white pants.”
Pieces of Elvis.
Of course it’s normal. It’s just that, for one thing, I was surprised because Callaghan doesn’t usually draw male genitalia. Also, when you see a floating leg sans torso, an exaggerated crotch bulge acquires an identity of its own. “Elvis the Pelvis,” I guess, right?
A few weeks later, Callaghan started to work on the L’aigle Niçois (“Eagle of Nice”), another important standing character in the parade, since the Eagle is the symbol/mascot of the city of Nice. Again, he called me in to view his progress.
“No way,” I said, cracking up. He’d drawn the Eagle’s lower half like this:
Pieces of Eagle.
“That eagle… it has an actual camel hump! Hahaha!”
I could see the point where Elvis was concerned, but the eagle? Quite a package, indeed. I guess that’s one way to wrap up a big project!
Two things that always attract me when I’m browsing through retail clothing racks:
1). Anything gray.
2). Anything featuring the Eiffel Tower.
(Which is actually an appropriate combination, considering that I’ve never seen Paris when it wasn’t cold, gray and raining… even in June.)
But I mean, I love the color gray, as you likely already know if you’ve been reading here for a while. Gray is to me what sparkly things are to my inner four-year-old, and the Eiffel Tower is my all-time favorite monument… so when the Eiffel Tower lights up and gets on with her sparklicious self late at night, my inner four-year-old and I float away on an invisible carpet woven of delight-bordering-on-euphoria. Many a time I’ve waited, shivering, on a chair at an outdoor café under the black Paris night sky, warming my icy hands on a cup of hot chocolate while staring at the Eiffel Tower. When she finally starts sparkling, it feels like she’s sparkling just for me, because I’d been staring at her so hard. (Speaking of hot chocolate, if you ever visit the Louvre, I recommend that you go upstairs to the Café Richelieu and treat yourself to a cup on the lovely terrace overlooking the pyramid. The hot chocolate at the Café Richelieu is decadence redefined.)
“Yeah, and I know why,” Callaghan said when we were talking about my Eiffel Tower obsession love. This was last week.
“Why?” I wanted to know what he thought he knew about me.
“It’s obvious! The Eiffel Tower is a phallic symbol.” He looked pleased with himself as he said it.
But his words gave me pause.
“Um… the Eiffel Tower is a girl,” I said. “La Tour Eiffel.” Was I really pointing this out to my French husband?
I’d never seen the Eiffel Tower as phallic, or otherwise male in any respect. She’s a she. She’s elegant and strong and magnificent, and if I come across an article of clothing depicting her, I’ll usually at least contemplate buying it if it’s in the realm of possibility.
So when Chantal was visiting from France (she left on Saturday) for a couple of weeks and we went browsing through Ross one day, it wasn’t surprising that I walked out with another Eiffel Tower shirt, thus prompting the Eiffel Tower conversation with Callaghan, who was ever so surprised when I got home and showed him my purchase. I reasoned that I didn’t yet have a sleeveless Eiffel Tower t-shirt, so it made sense to get this one. Plus, it was all of $6.99 (who doesn’t love Ross), and the graphic is in shades of gray. Triple win!
On Wednesday evening, I came home from work, threw the Eiffel Tower shirt on over a sports bra and shorts and headed out to Boot Camp class at the gym. Because the Eiffel Tower – who is a girl – kicks ass.
Here’s the Eiffel Tower waiting for class to start:
At Boot Camp class with the Eiffel Tower.
Later, I snapped some pics wearing the shirt with a couple of different attitudes, because this particular Eiffel Tower asks for it. Also, it’s been months since my last silly “picture of me in a t-shirt” post (inside joke), so why not go ahead and derp my way through a couple with the Eiffel Tower?
Hi. You must be here because you wish to read about last week’s Fiasco of the Week, because you know there was one.
This one involved a stench hovering like a putrid cloud near the corner of our bedroom, near my side of the bed. I noticed it as I was falling asleep one night early in the week. It was a distinctively organic smell, so I just assumed that either Ronnie James or Nounours had had an accident or sprayed, neither of which they’d ever done (since we’ve had them, anyway), but it wouldn’t have been surprising; their demeanors had been somewhat off-kilter due to recent, albeit temporary, changes in their routine. You know how cats are about their routines.
We sniffed all around the corner of the bed, trying to identify the odor’s exact location and source – up near my pillow, where it seemed to be the strongest. We stripped the bed of its sheets, mattress cover, pillow cases, bedspread… and threw the whole shebang in the wash. We cleaned the bed’s headboard and side planks. We pulled the bed away from the wall and sprayed pet odor neutralizing carpet cleaner on the carpet, though there was no stain to be seen. Just to be sure, we scrubbed the pristine brick wall behind the bed with soap and warm water, and then went over it again with a “green” all-purpose cleaner.
The smell didn’t go away. In fact, over the next few days, it worsened.
We weren’t angry with Nounours and The Wrah-Wrah, because we understand How Kitties Are. But by Wednesday evening, I became convinced that the kitties weren’t the culprits, after all. The odor seemed to be coming from something that had died. It had that sweet/sharp cloying dead smell. We performed another exhaustive search and found nothing.
On Thursday night, I stood near the bed, utterly perplexed. We’d done absolutely everything, but the odor was stronger than ever! I couldn’t bear the idea of sleeping with my nose in the ghastly fumes another night. There was only one thing left to do. It was drastic, but it had to be done. Obviously, the odor was either coming from the carpet or the wall, and it was being very stubborn. I would have to outsmart it. I would have to move the bed to the opposite wall.
Moving the bed entailed the rearrangement of pretty much all the furniture in the room, which I did by myself, because Callaghan and Chantal had gone out to Rawhide and elsewhere.
Honestly, though, I enjoyed the chance to get more exercise into my day. Because our queen-size bed is a sleigh bed, it’s heavy and ungainly, and I had to get all the other furniture out of the way before I could re-position it. I moved out the chest of drawers, the two night-tables, the long under-the-window table (aka the kitty window seat), my desk and chair, the corner shelving thing (no idea what it’s called), the vanity-less vanity stool (the vanity itself is outside on the balcony, having been re-purposed as a table for plants) and the clothes hamper. I shoved it all into the hallway, the bathroom, Callaghan’s studio and the main room, along with the objects that had been on the floor and on the furniture surfaces. Then I worked on moving the bed, which had to be turned around 180 degrees. I did some dragging and pulling, but I mostly sat on the floor, planted my feet on the bed and used it as a leg press. Great work-out! Once the bed was situated in its new spot, I could move all the furniture and stuff back in.
In the end, I’d basically flipped the room around, putting the bed and one of the night-tables against the wall opposite from where they used to be, and the chest of drawers, my desk and chair, the other night-table (there’s no room for a table on both sides of the bed now that the bed is against the wall with the door) and the vanity stool on the long wall where the bed had been. I returned the long, low table to its spot under the window, so the kitties could keep their window seat… it’s a tight squeeze getting around that side of the bed, but it works. I folded the corner shelving thing, leaning it up against the wall, since there’s no longer an available corner for it.
I stood back in the doorway to examine the new configuration, and I liked it. The room still looked good, and the mysterious awful odor would no longer be next to my head at night. Plus, I’d gotten an amazing impromptu work-out while I was at it. I’d worked quickly for a full hour, taking no breaks, pushing, pulling and carrying furniture, removing the heavy drawers from the dresser and hauling them out and back in, holding each one high up in front of me to get around stuff piled up in the hallway. I’d maneuvered the cumbersome queen-size sleigh bed around to the opposite wall, and moved everything else back in. I’d vacuumed along the way, working up a sweat and getting my heart-rate up (great cardio-respiratory work-out in addition to strength-training)!
I must admit, it was gratifying to discover the extent of the progress I’d made in regaining my strength and endurance since dedicating myself at the gym in Body Combat and Boot Camp classes (and the occasional hour on the treadmill) over the last few months. I was happy to feel more like my old self again while making strenuous physical effort. My fitness levels are getting back up to where they were before I moved to France – check! The bed was no longer against the wall with the horrid odor – check!
I felt quite satisfied and pleased with myself.
I went into the kitchen to wash my hands before going around the apartment to collect the random objects that belonged in the bedroom, and… the dead smell was in the kitchen. It hadn’t been there before.
It hit me the second I got there. I stood still and inhaled the offensive odor as my disbelieving eyes followed it to the counter by the sink. The flowers that Callaghan had given me 10 days ago were sitting there where I’d placed them before moving the bedroom furniture.
The dead flowers. The flowers that I’d set on my night-table back when they were fresh… the night-table next to my side of the bed. The flowers had expired, and they reeked. I cautiously bent my head to smell them. The dead flesh odor was unmistakable. There was no doubt about it. I’d found the source.
I couldn’t believe it. All along, the offending odor had come from a vase of dead flowers!
All I had to do was remove the flowers.
But I do like the new room arrangement, and so does Callaghan (who is still laughing at me for this, by the way). I’m enjoying my new office corner even more than my previous one, as well.
My new office corner in the bedroom!
And I got in a great work-out.
And the room is more in keeping with good feng shui principles now that our feet aren’t facing the open doorway while we’re lying in bed.
And in the end, I did manage to get rid of the odor.
And I learned to be more mindful of flowers that have died and require disposal!
I put the noxious flowers out on the balcony so I could present my discovery to Callaghan when he got home. As Johnny Ringo (Tombstone) would remark in perfectly bad taste, “Smells like someone died.”
I’m not big on practical jokes. I don’t usually enjoy being on the receiving end of them, and it almost never occurs to me to play one on someone else. I guess you could say that I’m an opportunist when it comes to practical jokes, because the only one I can remember playing was in Nice two summers ago, and it was totally spontaneous. An opportunity presented itself, and that opportunity was just too good to pass up.
The joke was on Callaghan, of course.
First, some background: Jeepers Creepers is one of our favorite cheesy horror movies. Not to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t seen it yet, but in order to get the joke, you should know that a psychic woman calls the two (sister/brother) main characters on a diner pay phone and issues a warning about the classic jazz song “Jeepers Creepers”:
When you hear that song you run, and I mean run! ‘Cause that song means something terrible for you, something so terrible you couldn’t dream of it… not in your worst most terrible nightmare!
Then she plays the song for them. It’s the original Louis Armstrong recording from the 1930’s, which I can imagine would be a suitably creepy thing to hear over a pay phone.
We spent the summer of 2012 helping Callaghan’s father renovate three apartments in an old building in Nice. I should say “creepy old building” because it really kind of was (creepy). (I mean that in a good way. I like creepy. I like old buildings. Creepy old buildings = Good). One apartment was downstairs, the other two were upstairs, and there was a small, dusty old radio that seemed to float around the building, usually ending up with Callaghan’s father, who always had it set to a jazz station. Maybe the radio was his. I don’t know. I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Anyway.
One morning, Callaghan and our friend Jean-Mi were working together in one of the upstairs apartments while Callaghan’s father and I were in the downstairs apartment. At some point, he – Callaghan’s father – stepped out for a little while, leaving me alone in the creepy old apartment with the radio, jazz music blaring away.
Well, when Louis Armstrong came on singing “Jeepers Creepers,” I couldn’t believe my luck. There was no way I was going to miss the opportunity! I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Callaghan’s number as I ran to the radio. When I got there, I held the phone up to the speakers. I was cracking up laughing, but I managed to stifle my hilarity while Callaghan answered his phone and heard:
Hahaha!! He was up on a ladder at the time, too, he later told me. Ha! Just envisioning him standing up on a ladder listening to “Jeepers Creepers” on his phone cracks me up all over again!
Ahem. Maybe this is another example of me being too easily amused, but you have to understand that thanks to the movie, that song had become one of our inside jokes. We’d say things like, Oh, well… the day could get worse… we could answer the phone and hear “Jeepers Creepers!” Because in the movie, hearing that song was the ultimate Bad Thing that could happen.
A song portending the arrival of a horrible latex monster would make everything so much worse.
(Sub-title: A Hair Elastic is a Good Thing to Have at a Lunch with a Group of People.)
(Sub-title, la deuxième: File Under “Mortifying Incidents of the Sort You Know Could ONLY Happen to You.”)
You know that special type of embarrassment you get to experience when you’re dining out with people from your work, and you’re talking to your boss (who’s sitting directly across from you), and in between bites, your response to his question is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a hair in your mouth? Your own hair, which is below-the-shoulders long? And your first two or three attempts at removing it fail, and the ensuing hair-capturing ordeal unfolds into a drama that overtakes the conversation as you repeatedly grab at the side of your half-open mouth between words, since each time you try to nonchalantly continue your sentence, you realize it’s still there? And when you finally succeed at pinching it between your forefinger and thumb, you start pulling it out to discover, to your horror and disbelief, that it’s all tangled up in the food that was still in your mouth, so the hair is actually resisting removal… forcing you to yank on it? And by the time you manage to extract the hair from your mouth – drawing it out slowly and carefully in all its long splendor (surely it was the very longest hair on your head that somehow got in the way of the food in your chopsticks) – your poor boss and the co-worker sitting next to you are awkwardly looking around everywhere but at you, including at the ceiling, probably because they’re simultaneously grossed out and painfully embarrassed on your behalf? Long after their initial thought of, Oh! OH, well, um, this will pass evolved into the conundrum of oh DEAR, what’s the proper etiquette for this situation? Should I act like I don’t see what’s going on? as your struggles seemed to never cease?
Well, I sympathize with you. It happened to me on Wednesday.
The wayward hair originated from this.
So, yeah, the expression “foot in mouth” has a new counterpart for a different kind of embarrassing conversation kerfuffle: “hair in mouth” (while eating in a restaurant with people from work).
At least I could laugh when I described the scenario to Callaghan a few hours later. He laughed, too.
“Haha! That would NEVER happen to me,” gloated my bald husband.
“You’d better hope it never happens to you. If it did, it would be someone else’s hair,” I said.
It was almost as funny as the Great Toilet Paper Incident of 1999, which happened while I was actually at work at the University Registrar’s Office. I’m not ready to share that one just yet.
In all seriousness, though, I really am going to have my hair cut an inch or two, just up to my shoulders, I think. I’d been going back and forth on this for the last few weeks, and then this incident happened, and it kind of made up my mind for me. Funny how that happens!
I’m coming at you at 2:10AM because weird schedules are weird. Alors, bonjour, mes amis Français! Ça va bien? Il est onze heures dix du matin là-bas… vous avez fait de beaux rêves?
I’ve said this before: Callaghan’s English is excellent, and his French accent is so slight that I usually don’t even notice it. But every once in a while, he makes mistakes, and when his accent does reach my ears, it’s often to amusing effect. For instance, he says “fuckus” instead of “focus” (I think I’ve mentioned this in the past), and “bitch” instead of “beach.”
The examples I’m providing below all came directly out of Callaghan’s mouth verbatim, and in complete seriousness. I wrote them down after he said them. Yes, I’ve been keeping a file of the Callaghanisms. They’re priceless.
Let’s get started!
Focus:
“My friend Christopher had a Ford Fuckus.”
“I’m tired today. I can’t fuckus.”
Beach:
“When we’re in Antibes, we can go see the bitch.”
“Tomorrow we’ll visit the bitch of Normandy.”
And other words with the long ‘e’ vowel sound, such as…
Sheet:
“I need a shit of paper.”
“Let’s put the shits in the laundry.” (my personal favorite!)
I’ve started picking up on some patterns. Here are three, with examples:
1). Combining non-American word usage with a French accent results in dialogue like this:
“In high school, my nuts were great!”
“Your NUTS?”
“Haha! My notes. My grades.”
“Oh.”
School grades in France are called “les notes.”
2). Direct translations don’t always work:
“That spider is waving at us with its paws.”
“Paws? Haha! That’s so cute!”
“Spider paws.”
“Spider legs.”
The French call spider legs “les pattes,” which is also their word for “paws.”
I love this mistake. I wish we said “spider paws” in English.
3). Some words are easily confused:
“Sorry I’m eating like a pork.”
I giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“The expression is to ‘eat like a pig’.”
In French, the word “le porc” refers to the meat of a pig, just like in English… but it can also be used as slang in reference to a person. Unlike in English.
After I wrote this post (which pretty much wrote itself, since I had all the Callaghanisms saved in a file), Callaghan decided that it was lacking a drawing of a French superhero, so he offered to whip one up for me:
French superhero Super Dupont in progress!
And now, a bonus! I’ll sign off with a French film recommendation for your weekend… because I’ve been glancing up at this DVD while writing about humorous French-to-English accent and translation goofs, and the two things somehow go together. This film is a quirky black comedy, and I think it’s brilliant. It’s been my favorite French black comedy since I first saw it back in the 90’s.
My favorite French black comedy. Notice I’ve leaned it up between Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poe.
Delicatessen was directed and co-written by Jean-Pierre Jeunet, who directed and co-wrote the more well-known film Amélie about a decade later. Both comedies are off-beat, but Delicatessen is quirky and dark where Amélie is whimsical and light. Both are quite funny in their odd little ways. Hey! These two complimentary Jean-Pierre Jeunet films would make for a great movie night double feature, n’est pas?
Good morning! My head is deep in a work project, but I’m emerging to present three vignettes of the last week (varying in degrees of quirkiness):
1). T-Shirt
I colored my hair on Friday, and it occurred to me that every time I do, I reach for the same t-shirt… not only that, but the only time I ever wear that shirt is when I color my hair. In light of the momentous realization that I have a designated hair-coloring shirt, I thought I’d honor it by doing a hair imitation of The Dude, who is pictured on the shirt.
I forgot to put on sunglasses, though.
I went with Dark Auburn this time, by the way, returning to my natural reddish shade (courtesy of my redheaded biological father).
2). Auto Service
We turn onto University from Roosevelt several times a week, at least, so I don’t know how it is that I never noticed the establishment RONNIE’S AUTO SERVICE until a few days ago.
You know this had to happen:
This was too easy, but we couldn’t resist.
I know, I know. But “Ronnie” by itself just isn’t right, especially if we’re talking about a service establishment. The Wrah-Wrah is a very helpful little guy. RONNIE JAMES’ AUTO SERVICE.
(This picture was taken in France. I knew I’d find a use for it one day!)
3). Tamales
On Saturday night, I went out to enjoy the company of some friends at a country-western gay bar known as a popular dance venue, attended by gay and straight alike. As usual when I go out at night, I enjoyed the people-watching aspect the most. The late-night crowd looked to be typical as a whole, but one person stood out: An elderly Hispanic woman slowly making her way through the room holding a sign that read “TAMALES.”
Fresh homemade tamales… mmm.
She looked like a sweet old Grandma, totally out of place.
Sometime after midnight, we left and went to another LGBQT-friendly bar. This one was more upscale and situated in the Melrose District, and it was also a dance club spilling over with an energetic dance crowd. To my surprise, the same woman was there, weaving silently through the sea of people with her TAMALES sign.
It had been a long time since I’d been down to 7th Avenue in the wee hours of a Sunday morning.
“I’ve never seen anyone selling tamales in a club before. Is this now A Thing?” I asked, using the parlance of our times, as The Dude would say.
My friends hadn’t seen tamale vendors in clubs before, either. We jokingly speculated that TAMALES was a new gay bar code word of some kind, but now that I think about it, there’s nothing funny about it.
It amounted to a sad social commentary. The old woman is probably very poor, so she goes where lots of people gather (neither bar had a cover charge – admission was free), including gay bars in the middle of the night. It was nearly 2:00AM the last time I saw her. People tend to get hungry after dancing for hours, and I can see how homemade tamales would be a tempting prospect… especially if you don’t have to go anywhere to get them. It’s actually kind of a genius idea.
Now I wish I’d bought some tamales to bring home to Callaghan, who would have enjoyed them. Making tamales is a time-consuming undertaking that’s not something I’d do more often than once in a blue moon. Even at Christmas, I’d order my tamales from Los Sombreros or Manuel’s.
Speaking of moons, the Blood Moon of the lunar eclipse last night was splendiferous.
The other day, I was watching a video, and I had a reaction to it that prompted this brief list of popular trains I can’t board:
1). Costco.
Nooooo…
Costco is amazing, but I just… no. I have a panic attack every time I go into a Costco. I mean, every time no matter what.
Your guess is as good as mine. Nothing awful has ever happened to me in a Costco. This makes no sense at all. Costco is my only consistent panic “trigger,” and I have no idea why.
It’s just a huge warehouse with people milling and mingling haphazardly, and everything is towering and disorganized, and the products are piled so high, and you don’t know who or what is coming around the corner, and you don’t know where anything is, and the layout of the place doesn’t seem to make sense, and the noises echo and bounce off the walls, and, and, and, et cetera, ad nauseum.
I could launch into some anecdotes about my panic episodes in Costco in both Arizona and California, but that would result in a complete essay, and how boring would that be? My Ridiculous Panic Attacks in Costco, by Kristi Garboushian. I’ll refrain. (You’re welcome.)
Suffice it to say that the other day (here’s the event that spawned this blog post), I had a panic attack while I was watching a vlog of some people shopping in a Costco. I seriously can’t even see the inside of a Costco on video without having this reaction.
Is there a name for this? Costcophobia?
2). Game of Thrones.
I watched most of the first season, and I tried hard to get into it. I plunged in with great expectations because of the series’ high ratings, immense popularity and sheer aesthetic appeal, but my interest waned progressively with each episode. While I could recognize and appreciate the excellence of the writing, acting, cinematography, costumes and basically the entire production, I couldn’t sit the season through to the end.
The reason is simply that fantasy isn’t a genre I enjoy enough to make the mental effort it takes to keep track of everybody running around in that series.
I couldn’t keep up with who was related to whom, and all the interconnections between individuals and groups of characters, and all the intimate liaisons, and who died/got killed (and for what reason), and who was going where, and why, and so on. First it interested me, then it tired me, then it bored me, and that was the end.
(Like most of the rest of humanity, Callaghan enjoyed it, so he’s still watching. I’m glad for him.)
My general disinterest in fantasy (there have been exceptions, like Harry Potter, which I love) contradicts my deep fascination with the paranormal and my affection for most science fiction –especially super high-octane sci-fi with lots of action and cheesy comic book panache, like Tank Girl, Serenity, Transformers and Pacific Rim.
It’s human nature to be contradictory, I guess.
On Callaghan’s part, there’s a highly rated and extremely popular Netflix series that he can’t watch, and that’s Orange is the New Black. Actually, it’s even worse than that… Orange is the New Black is to Callaghan what Costco is to me. He just can’t deal with it at all; it agitates and angers him.
I liked it, though. Maybe one day I’ll continue watching it.
3). Beets.
Beets are nutritional superstars, and I wish I could eat them with enjoyment. As it is, I can barely tolerate them. I love food and I want to love everything that I eat. For me, barely tolerating a food equals zero enjoyment in the whole food experience.
I’m not sure why I don’t like beets. I guess I find something suspicious (unpleasantly incongruous?) about their particular type of sweetness, and the metallic aftertaste in my mouth after I eat them nauseates me a little. I don’t know. On one occasion, I went to a restaurant and the roasted vegetables I ordered included small, whole roasted beets. They were of the yellow variety, and they were more palatable to me than the standard purplish-red ones.
Beets don’t make me sick-sick, though… I could eat them if I wanted to, but I don’t bother. When they arrive on my salad, I pass them over to Callaghan, who accepts them with alacrity. Good for him!
That wraps it up. Have a great Friday and weekend, everyone!
Nounours, who gets less screen time than Ronnie James, wanted to wish you a Happy Hump Day, shark style!
Nounours on the left. Shark on the right. NOT UNLIKE.
We need to get him in on more of the action around here. My new (phone) camera seems to pick up split-second photo ops better than my old camera, so watch this space!
We have a running joke about pictures of me in t-shirts, Callaghan and me, and it’s been a while.
So, here’s one from yesterday:
Oversize shirt speaks volumes.
I remember the first time I wore this shirt. We went to Fry’s Electronics, and the guy stationed at the EXIT door asked, “Do you really speak French?” as we were leaving.
“Yes,” I answered. But barely, I finished in my head.
That’s meaning number 1: “Pardon my French” in the literal sense, because my French is full of holes.
Meaning number 2: “Pardon My French” is American slang for, “YES, I SWORE,” often with the snarky sub-text of, “SORRY I’M NOT SORRY.” It’s a handy way to acknowledge that you used profanity while expressing that you don’t care. I tend to swear freely in casual conversation… not angrily, just casually. (It’s a habit I should probably lose, but I can switch it off when appropriate, so why bother?)
All in all, “Pardon My French” is an easily understandable expression t-shirt for me. It’s also one of those shirts you want to live in because it’s so soft and thin and comfortable. It’s voluminous – long and loose with tight sleeves – and it’s gray, my favorite color.
Late last week, my camera departed for the great camera boneyard in the sky. Alas, my humble little Canon powershot is no more. (Cue the violins.)
It wasn’t old so much as pointed-and-clicked to death… I think it was sheer overuse that did it, and maybe the fact that I didn’t exactly keep it swaddled in bubble wrap every second of its life. I got it in 2011 right before we left the States; it did the rounds with me all over France and Berlin, Germany and Casablanca, Morocco. Then it photo-documented our five-month adventure in Texas before we came back to Arizona. I always had it with me.
Its demise on Friday morning happened quickly and without warning, and I had to do something fast, right? Because being without a camera is just weird in a not-good way. I was going to spend the weekend taking pictures of things for my February Favorites post, which obviously didn’t happen!
In the end, instead of getting a new camera, I decided to get a phone featuring a decent camera. This means three things:
–I no longer have to carry around a camera and a phone.
–I finally have instagram.
–Because of instagram, I predict that I’ll be taking more pictures than ever.
But before all that insanity begins – before I can start inundating my instagram with gratuitous selfies and pictures of what I’m wearing and the food I’m eating and the interesting people in Walmart and Arizona sunset after Arizona sunset and whatever other clichéd subjects you can think of – I need some time to acquaint myself with both my new camera and instagram, itself.
All of this to say that while my February Favorites post is going to be late, I do have an image to share with you today! I first saw this when it jumped out and tried to kill me as I scrolled through my blogroll last week (I’m looking at you, Junk Food Guy).
BECAUSE TODAY IS MARDI GRAS.
Yes, that would be a gigantic plastic baby whose bib reads I HEART KING CAKE.
You might recall that during Mardi Gras season last year, I wrote about the Mardi Gras king cakes here in the States and the French version (the Galette des Rois), and I mentioned the little plastic baby tucked inside that bestows royal status upon the person who finds it in their slice? Well, what you see in the image above is the New Orleans Pelicans basketball team’s nod to Mardi Gras, bringing that little plastic baby to life on their basketball court as a seasonal mascot to honor the occasion. I, for one, find this horrifying life-size plastic baby (Jesus?) to be one of the most awesome mascots to ever grace a basketball court. Good job, Pelicans!
That Asian-Looking Chick 