Velcrometer
Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
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M. Giant's Velcrometer Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks |
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Wednesday, July 29, 2009 Family Business I got home from some lunchtime errands today, and there was a big envelope from the company I work for in the mailbox. That was unusual, because I don't normally get hard-copy mail from them, at least not in the U.S. Mail. I've had some supplies delivered by UPS, but that's about it. So I wondered what they could be sending me today. And then I looked at the envelope, and it was addressed to Trash. Oh, right, I thought. She'll be working there now. Yes, once again, for the first time in fifteen years, Trash and I will be working at the same company. We'll be in different departments, reporting to different bosses who are based in different states, and she'll be going to the office (the same one I used to go to) four days a week while I continue telecommuting, but we'll still technically be coworkers, drawing our paychecks (or rather, getting direct deposit) from the same company. In the early nineties, we did work for different divisions of another company for a couple of years. We were on the 17th and 15th floors, respectively, working the evening shift downtown with a surprising number of friends, both preexisting and new. We also lived downtown for one of those years, commuting nine blocks every weekday afternoon and paying exorbitant rent on a brand-new one-bedroom with all the overtime we were racking up. I figured that was as close as I was ever going to get to working from home until I published a book. Then, about a year after we bought our house, the layoffs hit, and Trash's division went first. We were expecting that, but what I wasn't expecting was how much I missed being at work and knowing she was two floors down. When my division got downsized a few months later and I was laid off, I was relieved. And not just because I had already started a new job several days before. Since then, we've both changed jobs several times, and shared commutes for two separate periods: once when we both worked in the southern inner-ring suburbs, and once when we both worked downtown. We don't share our commute now, because our staircase isn't wide enough for both of us to go down at the same time. Oddly, once she starts her new job, we won't feel like coworkers as much as we have for most of the summer. She's been working at home most days in her current job, for the company she's been working at for nine years. She sits on the sofa outside my study with her laptop, or we'll both bring our laptops out on the deck and work there, weather and wireless permitting, and if M. Edium is home we'll supervise his backyard activities while doing our respective things. We meet for lunch in the kitchen, and occasionally there's some sexual harassment. It's been great. I'll miss that. And we'll all miss the "Mommy and M. Edium Days" that have been in effect every Monday and Friday, while Trash has been working a three-day-per-week shift while her soon-to-be-ex-employer has been going through some stuff. We knew his three-day school week wasn't going to last forever, but we've taken steps to ease the transition from his summer schedule to fall. It involves flex time, drafting the next-door neighbor kid as a part-time babysitter, and probably a lot more "officeing" out on the deck. But there will be good things, too. For instance, Trash will have a much better idea of stuff that goes on at my company, which will be helpful to me because honestly I generally have no idea what happens outside my department. She'll be close to lots of friends for lunch, like Chao and Delta Force Commander. And as a new employee, she'll be subject to whatever I care to dish out in the area of hazing. So I have three things to say to my wife: congratulations, goodbye, and welcome. posted by M. Giant 9:22 PM 1 comments 1 Comments:My husband and I used to work together. In fact, that is how we met. I sometimes miss it but really am more jealous that he now works at home and I am stuck in a cubicle all day. But when I do work from home it's a little too much togetherness. Perhaps if I threw in some sexual harrassment it would be better!
By Monday, July 27, 2009 Dig It, Part IV Okay, where was I? Radishes I forgot to get a picture of them before dark, but that's okay, because they don't really count anyway. See, we didn't actually plant radish seeds. But on a whim, just a few weeks ago, Trash decided to stick a few expired radishes in the ground to see what would happen. What happened was these cute little radish plants popping up at random intervals. I think if she knew that was going to work she would have put more thought into where she buried them. Parsley  These plants are doing absolutely spectacular. That may be because Trash didn't plant them in the garden at all, but in the window boxes in front. That means they get direct sunlight from noon on, plus the reflected sunlight from the window directly behind them. This was the first thing we planted that I ate. We're still eating it. Do you have any idea how smug it makes you feel when you're cooking, and instead of reaching into the pantry for parsley you stick your hand out the window and pick a few shoots? It makes me want to smack myself. Carrots  Trash planted these too close together initially, mainly because those damn seeds are so tiny. But eventually they got big and strong enough for her to decimate them, and they show signs of actually producing. M. Edium has already pulled three carrots out of the ground himself and eaten them. They're smaller than his pinky, but they're orange and they exist. Green Onions  For the longest time, these were nothing but wispy green hairs, basically the vegetable version of my beard. But in the last few weeks, I think they've really turned the corner. I bet if we uprooted one, we'd discover a tiny, pale, vaguely onion-flavored little bulb at the end. Much like when I uprooted my beard hairs. Maybe eventually I'll post photos of the final harvest. But since I happened to visit a historical site last this week that had a garden that fed six people in the 1850s, I'm feeling a little intimidated. That thing was bigger than our entire lot. Combined with the lots of three of our neighbors on each side. Still, maybe we'll get a decent space-pillow or two, especially if we count the pre-sprouting potatoes I stuck into the ground behind the house last week. If we can pull that off, it'll be worth it. posted by M. Giant 9:13 PM 3 comments 3 Comments:
It's fun to play farmer, isn't it? I do know what you mean about being intimidated by the size of a garden actually meant to be a major source of food, though.
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Oh, so much word on the squirrel thing, LOS. The little bastards 86'd my red basil within hours of planting. And they've spread the word to their little bunny and raccoon friends. It blows my mind that I'm hosting a salad bar in the city, and my mom's garden five miles out in the country, which you'd think would be critter heaven, goes unmolested.
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We have no squirrels, but we do have giat, disgusting tomato hornworms.
By Friday, July 24, 2009 Dig It, Part III Thanks to everyone who took their cue and requested photos of the garden. Now I don't feel like such a bore for providing them, which honestly I was going to do anyway. So here's how everything's doing: Squash  We've been warned that if we're not careful, those vines will take over the whole plot. And indeed, they do seem to be trying to expand beyond the area allotted to them. Fortunately, Trash had the foresight (or blind luck) to have planted the squash at the edge of the plot, so now she's working on steering the extra vine length out of the plot and into the yard. You might think I would be pleased about that, as it represents a smaller area of back lawn where I'll have to continue failing to grow grass. You would be wrong, because I would rather have dirt than squash. Peas  I don't much like peas, but it turns out that when they appear, it's in groups of two or three, and they come in these cunning little pockets made of some kind of green matter. Now those are tasty. Cantaloupes  I think the cantaloupes all died. But then, one morning when I was cutting up one from the store for M. Edium's breakfast, I decided to save the seeds. There are a shitload of those things in there. After a while, Trash decided to try sprinkling some of them on the ground where the old cantaloupes had been, and they took hold like the Rage virus. We used to pull weeds out of the yard. Now we pull cantaloupe plants. On the other hand, a squash plant has somehow invaded their territory. See how they like it. Tomatoes   We had to buy cages for these, because I guess they'll escape otherwise. But they're thriving in captivity. This is the only vegetable we have both in back and in front. Trash had a couple of plants in the end of the window box that has since been given over entirely to parsley (see below), but they got so big that she had to transfer them into a planter, lest our kitchen window do this. We've got a lot of tomatoes coming, I think. Too bad Trash is the only one who sort of likes them a little. Green Peppers  Green peppers are probably my favorite vegetable. Perhaps that's why these are my favorite plants. I can't even be objective about them. The other day, Trash said she was worried about them getting too much shade from the adjacent tomato plants. If anything happens to the tomato plants, I was with you, okay? This is going longer than I expected, especially with the photos. Maybe I'll post the rest in a couple of days, both to keep you coming back and so I don't have to think of a new topic then. posted by M. Giant 7:25 PM 4 comments 4 Comments:have to ask...what's with the Taiwanese flag in the tomato plant
By Oh yes, there will be zucchini. Enjoy your fresh veggies, they look great!
By Fresh, home-grown tomatoes taste NOTHING like store-bought. They are awesome. Store-bought tastes like tomatoey cardboard and is gross, but home-grown? I could eat them all day. They are fantastic when fresh.
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You can, in fact, trellis or tomato-cage the squash (also works well for cucumbers). Just keep an eye out so that if any monster squashes/cukes develop, you can support them so they don't break off the stem before fully ripening.
By Tuesday, July 21, 2009 Dig It, Part II So it's been a few months since I wrote about starting a vegetable garden this summer, and I realize you're all breathlessly awaiting an update. I appreciate you keeping your impatience to yourselves. I hate to be rushed. Not long after that entry, a lot of our seedlings started getting too big to keep living in those tiny Matrix cells we had them in. Trash transferred a bunch of them into larger containers like sawed-off milk cartons and plastic trays and even, in one particularly bizarre case, an actual planter. We thought they'd be happy to be out in something more like the real world where they could properly grow themselves some roots and eyebrows, but not all of them made it. The pumpkins, in particular, seemed to know what we had planned for them in October and wanted no part of it. They preferred to commit suicide by sawing their stems off against the sharp edges where I'd cut the tops off their milk cartons. That's how we learned not to put plants in sawed-off milk cartons any more. At the beginning of May, we laid out our garden plot in the backyard. Deciding how much space to use was easy: it was dictated by how big of a frame I could make out of the ten- and twelve-foot-long two-by-twelves that had been sitting in the garage since we finished building the deck a decade and a half ago. Those were probably the biggest pieces of scrap lumber in the neighborhood, and now they've been put to a much more worthwhile purpose than they had before. Previously, their job was to make it difficult for me to get my ladders out. A few weeks later, Trash and I got tired of bringing a growing number of plant receptacles out of the house every morning and back in every night, so most of the plants came out of the pots (and milk cartons, and trays, and buckets, and that one hat) and went into the ground. After that was done, we gazed at them, looking like small, vulnerable, distant constellations in a vast field of black soil, irrevocably committed to braving the elements, and resigned ourselves to their inevitable death. Which, oddly, didn't happen. We watered at least once every day, usually twice, except the days when it rained, and the days after the rained, and I think one time the day after the day after it rained. Trash kept it weeded and cleared out the fallen leaves, twigs, seed pods, and airplane parts. M. Edium yelled out the back door at Squirrel Goodnut when he caught him on a raid. And this weird thing happened: the plants started getting bigger. An even weirder thing happened: we started being able to identify the plants. When Trash did the transferring, the little signs that I'd made out of popsicle sticks didn't all make it into the ground. Still, somehow Trash seems to have kept track of what everything is, even though three months ago we wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between a squash vine and a brain tumor. Shall I get more specific? Shall I post pictures? Would you be able to stand the thrill of it all? Perhaps, just to be safe, I'll put that off for a couple of days. Give you time to make sure your have blood pressure medication and a defibrillator on hand to help you deal with the excitement. posted by M. Giant 10:09 PM 3 comments 3 Comments:Please post pics. I'm doing my first veggie garden this year as well and would love to see yours.
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I'd love to see it too! I planted a big garden with a friend this summer. We're starting to get cherry tomatos and cucumbers, and the watermelon and corn is on their way too! as are the peppers and squash.
By I want pictures! Especially of any food you have grown. I tried tomato plants on the front stoop but all I grew were weeds.
By Sunday, July 19, 2009 Beaten by a Whisker You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I have something in common with Johnny Depp. Something related to our appearance. Years ago, I remember reading his lament that he's cursed with a thin beard. It has stuck with me ever since, becuase it makes me feel better about mine. It first became an issue for me when I was a sophomore in high school, and I had a small role in Fiddler on the Roof. Making high school students perform a play in which every male character is either a hirsute Russian Jew or an even more hirsute Cossack (I was lucky enough to have a dual role as both) is, I have since realized, a cruel ritual designed to make those teenagers who can't cultivate a decent crop of whiskers in two months feel inferior. Then the next year was Carousel, whose portrayal of a "sympathetic" wife beater wasn't as offensive to me at the time as the expectation that we all grow big, bushy, turn-of-the-century mutton chops. The lead came through on that score, but he was about the only one. By the time I was in The King And I, I was relieved to not have to sport a more embarrassing look than pajamas and whiteface. But maybe I was just a late bloomer. Eventually I grew up and got a series of office jobs, environments in which my inability to grow facial hair wasn't held against me. When Trash and I took week-long vacations, I would quit shaving, just to see what would happen. Still, nothing ever did. In 1999, during an extra-long road trip, I started cultivating my first and last goatee. I had two weeks away from the office. It took about six, and even then it was never really satisfactory. Then I dropped the idea for years, keeping my face baby-smooth by shaving every other workday whether I needed it or not. And then, about a year ago, I started telecommuting. Working at home is an environment that doesn't place much premium on grooming, showering, or even pants. After those fell by the wayside, where do you think shaving ranked in priority? That dropped all the way to the bottom, even below brushing my teeth and wiping my ass, and right above clothes with buttons. I began to toy with the idea of sprouting a full beard, something I had never tried before. But the reality was that it hadn't gotten much thicker, except for a few new hairs below the corners of my mouth. But since I didn't need to be presentable anywhere for weeks at a time, I thought maybe I could make up for lack of volume with length. Sort of like a facial combover. That was harder than it sounded. I think the longest I ever went without shaving was three weeks in a row, and then I'd have to go to a family function or a funeral or on TV or something, and I couldn't show up looking like a recently harvested cornfield. But this last month, I decided, screw it. Maybe if I can just reach that one-month threshold, I'll be home free and I won't look like a guy who hasn't shaved for a week and I'll look like a guy with a beard. As of yesterday, it had been five and a half weeks. 39 days. The longest I've gone without shaving since my teens. Behold the glossy, luxuriant chin-pelt that resulted below:  This was about the time I realized that any additional length would provide not coverage, but spiky little protuberances like the antennae on satellites. Plus, to my chagrin, the white seemed be coming in faster than the brown, which did not make for a flattering (let alone deceptive) contrast with my skin tone. One bribe offer from Trash later, I admitted defeat, and moments after this was taken, I was out in the garden with a compact and a pair of nail scissors, sprinkling a powdering of new organic matter onto the flowers and down the front of my shirt. Because no matter how sparse my beard looks on my face, once it's on the sink it looks like a pair of clippers went after Russell Brand. I don't think I'll conduct this experiment again, at least not until the end of my forties. Telecommuting or not, I've decided to maintain my clean-cut appearance. Just because I'm working at home is no reason to look homeless. Two weeks between shaves from now on, max. posted by M. Giant 7:23 PM 7 comments 7 Comments:
I've known my husband for 17 years now. Never in the entire time I've known him has he ever, ever grown any facial hair. At various points over the years, I've begged, pleaded and cajoled him to try to get him to at least grow a Magnum PI mustache, if not a proper goatee. I figured he could do it, as I have witnessed firsthand the Sonny Crockett-esque stubble he will develop within a day of not shaving.
By Oh man, I really really REALLY don't like facial hair. Goatees, moustaches, beards, name it. I feels they very rarely look good. And they make the person look a lot older. I'm lucky because my spouse always shaves (well, every two days, anyway) and he absolutely has no intention of growing a beard or a goatee or anything like that. I can handle stubble, but I told him that anything else, I'll be shaving in his sleep.
By Well, you still look better than these teenage doofuses like whatshisname bogus Twilight vampire that played Cedric Diggory, who apparently has a stylist telling him both not to shave AND not to wash. Oh, and my word verification? "Brylard". So, Brylcream, I guess, but made organic, or something.
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At least you're not blonde. A friend of mine from uni backpacked around Europe for 8 months, and didn't shave in that time. He had the lightest bum fluff you've ever seen - it looked like a fluffy fungal growth on his face. He gave up, accepted that he was never going to have actual facial hair and shaved after we all laughed at him.
By a recently harvested cornfield? bwahaha. you have been playing that farm game on facebook, haven't you? it's ok; i farm too.
By Actually, I think it's pretty hot, but I am a die hard Depp fan, so there may be a little transference going on.
By That photo is freaking me out a little. It's the crazy eyes.
By Wednesday, July 15, 2009 The Three Little Nutsacks My children's book got turned down by an agent a few weeks ago. I'm pretty sure that was because this particular agent doesn't deal with books that have that many words, and not due to a quality issue. It couldn't possibly be a quality issue. And I'm not saying this to protect my ego. I'm saying this because as a parent of a four-year old, I can no longer keep silent about some of what passes for children's literature these days. Exhibit A is the book in the photo below, which we got at a used bookstore. M. Edium picked this one, because we wouldn't have, signed by the author or not (which it is). Check it out.  The title's kind of a clever, if somewhat obvious, pun: a play on "The Three Little Pigs," but with the P changed to an F. You can easily picture a classic fairy tale, reimagined to focus on three items of produce. Maybe it is a cute story. But then you look at the illustration, and how do you not see a trio of scrotums? And don't put this on me, saying it never would have occurred to you if I'd only given this entry a different title. We showed it cold to our server at lunch on Saturday, and she was frankly shocked. "How did nobody catch that?" she wondered along with us. We can only conclude that this was an intentional act, disguised as a witty reboot, but designed to help young children prepare to deal with a world populated by talking, pendulous, greenish-purple scroti. There's no other explanation. Because it's not like the story is much of a draw. The villain here is a clever gopher, who is able to talk two of the three figs (whose mother literally kicked them out of the tree, a clear sign of something from a woman who already named her beloved offspring Fig Number One, Fig Number Two, and Fig Number Three). There's a brief rant about food that comes from machines (unlike figs, which are so tasty the way most of us normally enjoy them, in their natural rind of Newton), and the overall objective of the figs is simply to survive until the famer takes them to Supermarket City. And it ends with the line, "And they lived happily ever after. For the next three days." Yay? But even if I don't know what M. Edium was supposed to learn from this story, I know what I've learned. If I'm going to break into children's publishing, I'm going to need balls. Greenish-purple ones, preferably. posted by M. Giant 9:45 PM 3 comments 3 Comments:
Here's my pitch: the story focuses on Colin, a brave little e. coli who journeys from the shiny pink swamp up the narrow river to Miss Matilda's bladder, where he throws a wild and wonderful party. This makes Colin very popular with the other bacteria, but it makes a terrible mess.
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I also think you should go ahead and write a story called "The Three Little Nutsacks." It could be for pre-teen boys. You know, educational.
By As someone who works on prostate cancer I'm with Febrifuge. Educational nutsack children's book. Sounds great.
By Monday, July 13, 2009 Half of One, Six Dozen of the Other It was during our honeymoon, ironically enough, that I realized what was wrong with her. This is something I've been putting off writing about for literally years. It's a difficult subject to tackle, not just because of its scale and scope, but because it's such an integral part of who my wife is that it seemed like an invasion of her privacy to discuss it here. But recently, she's been encouraging me to just put it out there in the open, and damn the tornadoes. Yes, I know the expression is "damn the torpedoes," but Trash doesn't. In fact, she doesn't know any expressions at all. But as I said, it wasn't until our honeymoon that I realized this. We've always been trendsetters, and our honeymoon in 1991 was a "staycation," before that word had even been invented. We were both off work for a week, and we spent it in and around town. I remember exactly on what stretch of 35-W we were on when she suddenly said that two potential options for something that weren't all that different were "half of one, six dozen of the other." "What did you say?" I asked. "Half of one, six dozen of the other," she repeated. I don't even remember what we were discussing, but I vividly remember her highly amused reaction when I explained to her that the expression is "six of one, half-dozen of the other." And that the expression as she had used it would have implied a difference in a factor of 144, which is in fact quite significant. This is not to say that she's used the expression correctly since. At least then, I could see what she was trying to do. Unlike later that same day, when she was commenting on the audacity of pedestrians and other drivers on the U of M campus: "They've got their balls in a sling and they're whippin' em!" she declared. I still don't know what that means. And by this time, we were already married. It was too late. But here's where I kind of get into the weeds. Not having recorded any of her countless epic idiomatic fails, I don't feel like I could really do the depth of her syndrome justice. I could tell you about the time she attempted the "bird in hand" expression, and got both the meaning and the words wrong, which resulted into the two of us spiraling into a lengthy discussion in which I attempted to explain the numerous (admittedly nonsensical) premises behind the expression. She just couldn't get past one central fact: "I don't want a bird in my hand! Then I've got bird shit on my hand. No, thank you." I could tell you about the interview she had years ago with a highly-ranked children's librarian, someone who would have been a great contact to have in her then-future career. Everything was going great until she attempted to invoke the "wolf in sheep's clothing" expression, only to land on "a wolf in grandpa's sheepskin rubber" instead. Could she have saved it if she hadn't noticed his shocked reaction and tried again, simply blurting, "Hungry like the wolf?" Possibly not. "Grandpa's Sheepskin Rubber," of course, was the name of a novelty song some friends and I wrote in junior high and later told her about. The interview ended shortly thereafter. Or the time she was on a conference call at work, which ground to a halt when she said, "That's like cutting off your ear to spite your nose. Or cutting off your face. Keep your ears. Is there also a baby?" Or a few classic recurring one-liners, like "Christ in a handbasket," or adding "like a banshee" as an all-purpose intensifier, as in "He's working like a banshee" or "she had to pee like a banshee," or just about anything other than screaming. But the tragic fact is that no matter how well I told you any of these stories, I could never capture the way some of our conversations veer into the kind of territory where I'm playing the Mark-Linn Baker role in Perfect Strangers. And if I did, you'd never believe me. But maybe you'll believe our other friends. Other friends? Step up here. Tell the readers who don't know the magic of Trash in person what she can do to a saying. How she can put it under a barrel, and beat it like a red-headed mule. I'm too close to it. I'm counting on you. posted by M. Giant 7:42 PM 37 comments 37 Comments:
I have to be honest: it happens so frequently that I stopped memorizing them.
By Wow, a friend of mine does the same "like a banshee" thing. I have absolutely no idea why. Who knew there was another one?
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As a child I heard the expression as "six
By You should get her "I'm Not Hanging Noodles On Your Ears..." That should give her something to chew over.
By I laughed so hard at this I almost woke the napping toddler. You might say I laughed like a banshee.
By "Don't eat all of the chickens in your baskets" Said at a library meeting, in reference to not expecting one group of people to do all of the work. I think she meant "don't put all of your eggs in one basket" but who knows.
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"They've got their balls in a sling and they're whippin' em!"
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There are sooooooo many to remember. Some favorites:
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A couple more (she must like animal themes):
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"Don’t punch a Christmas horse"
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Also, Linda is totally correct. I can't remember names at all, and I do make up titles for just about everything, and then only my friends know what the hell I am saying. Well, except Ice-T, who I could NEVER forget.
By Well, I don't know Trash. But my husband has the same syndrome. I knew before we were married and decided to go ahead and marry him anyway.
By I'm guessing the Christmas horse is, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth"
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Yeah. I definitely think "Christmas horse" means, in some mentally perverted fashion (no offense), "gift horse."
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The not being able to remember names and going around them thing reminds me of Bubbles from Ab Fab. It worried me the first time I realised that I did exactly the same thing and that I could usually get what she was referring to very quickly.
By Oh my lord, I am so cracking up at these. I have a friend who does the same thing with names of restaurants and movies...combining them in weird ways to make all new crazy titles. Good times.
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Oh, sweet tap-dancing Jesus. This is such a Gordian Knot. Ten pounds of trouble in a five-pound bag.
By I had a friend that would say, "that went over like a lead fart in church"
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These were fantastic. I've been laughing out loud since I read them. I keep picturing that poor Christmas hourse. And of course, that unfortunate camel toe...
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These were fabulous! As a transplant to MN, I have to say, I had never heard the "half of six, dozen of another" expression before. But everyone up here loves it so much. I try, I really do, but I have never gotten that one right. Unfortunately, it doesn't sound like my blunder is half as charming as Trash's.
By Trash and I had a whole discussion about gift horses yesterday. Some of the exchanges these trigger are even funnier than the messed-up sayings themselves.
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"I say she's good for at least one hour of Discovery Channel TV."
By This was hilarious. My husband does something similar - he's not good with names, so he tends to remember new people as Steve or Sue. (Except for the people who are really named Steve and Sue who get given other names.)
By Trash must be related to my now-retired assistant who used to say "feast or phantom."
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First off, I think the use of the word "trigger" related to gift horses is brilliant (not sure if anyone else caught that Roy Rogers reference from M. Giant.
By An example from this week: homeless phone.
By So she can't remember names, nouns, or sayings? Has anyone called House yet? These aren't sudden changes, are they?
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I'm laughing to tears at this. Too hilarious!
By I had a boss who did this same exact thing all the time, but unfortunatley the only one I can remember right now is her always being "behind the egg ball", which pisses me off because that means now I am forgetting stuff, crap!
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Yeah, I get that from my In-Laws. They don't "nip things in the bud", they like to "nip things in the butt".
By I do the banshee thing, too! Banshees do everything to the extreme, which is why they are such useful analogues for excess.
By I'm reading these to my husband and have tears streaming down my face from trying to read these and contain the laughter at the same time.
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I always thought the saying was "Six IS one half dozen to the other."
By My husband says, "Six or one half-dozen of another." I can't imagine what he thinks it means, but he's too old to learn it the right way now. I'm going to keep him anyway.
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I had the pleasure of working with a well-known D.C.-based lobbying firm about a year ago, and the gentlemen I met with once a week had a knack for mixing--or just totally wrecking--idioms. I took notes. Some of my favorites:
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Trash JUST said another one to me. "It's like two birds in a stone bath."
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I found this thread when searching for something an ex-girlfriend once said to me: "Half of one, six dozen of the other." I wanted to see if anyone else had mangled the old saying in just the same way. Sure enough, there it was in this thread. I'm posting now not only to commiserate with others who've lived with CIMs (Chronic Idiom-Manglers), but also to offer a data point of evidence that this disorder may be hereditary. That same girlfriend's mother was known to exhibit a similar pattern. In a fit of rage, shortly after marrying my ex's father, she reportedly once threatened him with this: "I'm going to stab you with a gun and shoot you with a knife!"
By Friday, July 10, 2009 Good Trims M. Edium got his first haircut at 14 months of age, and I've lost track of how many he's had since. Maybe fifteen or so. But he's always had them at the same place, or at least different stores of the same chain. This particular chain has the most unimaginative name for a kids hair cutting place you can think of, but it's very imaginative in terms of separating parents from their money. There are bins of toys for sale, lots of tonsorial add-on options, and his haircuts cost fifty percent more than mine do. Which I guess makes sense; he has even more hair than I do, his head is almost as large as mine, and I have them use scissors on him rather than the clippers I have deployed on my scalp twice a year. But when you factor in the frequency of his haircuts, which is much higher than mine (which is in turn higher than Trash's), it starts to feel like an unnecessary expense. There's an argument to be made that it's worth it with a toddler. After all, the kids hair place has two invaluable features. One is a small TV playing a children's video in front of every station. The other is a seatbelt on every barber's chair. And you know, there aren't all that many places you can bring a kid these days that are still equipped with restraints. Still, after realizing that the cost of the movie to keep him entertained for a twenty-minute haircut was higher than what we'd pay to buy him an actual ticket to an entire movie in the theater, Trash and I decided he was old enough to sit still at a regular haircutting place. But we didn't do anything about it for weeks and weeks, while his head began increasingly to look like some kind of weeping mushroom. Finally, with a long evening after an early dinner stretching out ahead of us, I decided on the spur of the moment to take him to the neighborhood haircutting place. This is the same place I avoided for years (seriously, I just went back there for the first time last Thanksgiving, two haircuts ago) because of my hair nemesis, Gary. Apparently he's long gone, so it's not really necessary for me to bundle M. Edium into the car and schlep him to the nearest-but-one chain salon that I went to for over a decade in my long Gary-avoiding period. I can bundle him into the car and schlep him to the nearest one. They have new staff. The lady who cut M. Edium's hair called him "Mark." This is surprising for two reasons. The first is that his name is not Mark. I could cut her slack for not being able to read the writing of the person who checked him in, but that person was her. The second reason it was surprising is that she wasn't actually able to pronounce consonants. Aside from the wrong name I couldn't understand a word she said. Fortunately M. Edium didn't have that problem. Maybe it's because he goes to school every day and listens to his Sri Lankan teacher talking. Or maybe it's because every child knows that when a grown-up offers him a "shagah," he should accept because there's always a chance she means "sucker." Which, admittedly, she did. I have to admit, she gave him a pretty decent haircut. And it was kind of funny watching how he was so fascinated by the giant clumps of hair that kept thudding down onto his dropcloth. He'd reach down and pick one up to examine it, and then sprinkle it on the floor. And then after a while he simply became obsessed with keeping his dropcloth clean. Of course all the same kind of hair used to fall on him back when he went to the kids hair place; he just didn't notice because he was too riveted by the screen. Which is another thing; normally the stylist has to hurry to shape up the back of his neck, because he's so keen to lift his eyes up to the TV again, but this time she was able to take her time. Overall, I'd have to say it was a success. Still, she weirded me out a little. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to start bringing him to the closest-but-one chain salon after all. I mean, obviously I know the way. posted by M. Giant 10:19 PM 0 comments 0 Comments:Wednesday, July 08, 2009 I know I don't get into politics on this blog, but I just can't stop thinking about the soon-to-be-ex-governor. Have you ever thought about what it must be like to be a resident of an oft-dismissed northern state, suddenly thrust into the national limelight as a result of abruptly having a famous governor? But then that governor turns out to be a controversy magnet who professes hatred for the very media that made that governor a star. As adulation gives way to jokes from late-night talk-show hosts, suddenly a cocky, self-assured outsider becomes a thin-skinned self-pity case, pointing the finger at everyone else for all the problems the statehouse now has to deal with. Ball taken, home gone to. Nothing left but a few increasingly desperate media appearances, which the media enables because it's even more desperate, and the last time you hear about your ex-governor, years later, it's in a story about not running for president. But enough about Jesse Ventura. posted by M. Giant 7:34 PM 6 comments 6 Comments:Zing!
By two thumbs up.
By ha ha ha. Nice M. Night twist at the end there. Are you two related?
By Uh. I thought you were referring to Illinois...
By
I'm not too proud to sound like an idiot - I'm confused.
By I thought he meant Ms Palin, which made it pretty funny. The hair king of Chicago would also work.
By Monday, July 06, 2009 Scary Birthday Trash's idea for M. Edium's birthday this year is a Halloween theme. She's talking about converting the garage into a haunted house and putting all the adults we know to work as scary characters. Not surprisingly, M. Edium absolutely loves this idea. He's all about the Halloween theme. Oh, except that he wants his cake to be shaped like the starship Enterprise, because suddenly he is a huge Star Trek fan on account of I gave him the "beam-up badge" that came in my box of Corn Pops. But other than that, he's all over the Halloween theme. Which is good, because I think his fifth birthday is just about the last one that can be co-celebrated with another holiday without engendering resentment. I mean, my parents never did that, despite my birthday and DeBitch the Elder's both being so close to Christmas, but Trash has told me that her mom used to do that all the time. Albeit with lesser holidays. Trash's sister had her birthday on Columbus Day, and her brother's was on Veteran's Day, so those were built-in themes. Trash, however, was stuck with a birthday that didn't coincide with a holiday, so one year her mom found out that she shared a birthday with Ed Asner, and went from there. In fact, let's you and I go from there for a minute, shall we? Let's just imagine how a tween girl in the early 1980s would thrill to such games as "Pin The Tail On Lou Grant," or the joy she would experience at finishing a slice of Ed Asner birthday cake, to see the doughy visage of the president of the Screen Actors' Guild glowering up at her. It would be a magical day in any young girl's life. After that year, she didn't mind not having a theme for her birthday parties. But back to M. Edium's birthday, which is looming a scant three-and-a-half months from now. He and Trash have been talking about this all week, which I hope doesn't mean that he's going to decide that he wants a Transformers party ten minutes before the guests start arriving. Trash is vision for the haunted garage is a sort of maze of damp, hanging sheets, colored lighting, a creepy sound-effects tape, a few adults in costume, and bowls of stuff like noodles and peeled grapes the kids will have to put their hands in and be told they're worms or eyes or brains or whatever. She's asking me to throw it out to you for other ideas. I've offered to help, but my only experience with this kind of homemade haunted house is when I was like six and some of my older sisters' friends threw one of those MDA carnivals that were so popular for a while in the 70s (and apparently they still happen. Between those and the telethons, how does MD still exist, for God's sake?). I was the last of the younger kids to get to go through without a blindfold on, I think because I wasn't scared enough. Oddly, my memory of that experience is not as helpful to Trash as I might have expected. I also suggested just leaving the garage in its current state of near-fatal disarray and making kids walk through it barefoot, but these are more litigious times. In any case, I'm totally stocking up on Up party merch for Trash's birthday this year. I think she'll really appreciate that nostalgic call-back to the Ed Asner parties of her childhood. posted by M. Giant 8:54 PM 6 comments 6 Comments:Time to buy him the first season of Trek: TOS on DVD! :)
By The advanced birthday planning of the pre-K set is truly amazing. My 4 year old is actively planning her 5th birthday party - for next February - and has been planning it since about 2 days after her 4th party. At one point she wanted a "secret agent party" for some reason, but that changes every few weeks.
By
The thing I most remember from my single childhood foray into the homegrown haunted house is the dolls' heads set on pikes (or rake handles or something) at various intervals around the garage. IIRC, they were decorated with drippy fake blood.
By
My b-day is Oct 28, so for several years as a kid, we did the Halloween-themed party. Everyone dressed up, of course, and we did things similar to what you described. Another winner: dry ice in the punch bowl (which I recall had some sort of green drink).
By It's too bad the Internet wasn't around back then, or Trash's mom could have thrown her a Sherman Burning Atlanta barbecue, or a Georgia O'Keefe garden party.
By Despite sharing a birthday with George Washington and Drew Barrymore, I never had a presidential or ET themed birthday party growing up. I've recently found that I also share a birthday with James Blunt. This is a scary direction to keep traveling in.
By Wednesday, July 01, 2009 The Quarter in Movies (Part 2) The second part of the second quarter of the third or fourth...sommething...I don't know, just skip to the reviews. Drag Me to Hell Oh, how I wish Chao and I saw the version of this movie that everyone else loved so much. I saw it in Wisconsin, which I blame for the fact that the version I saw seemed to want to trade in both highbrow horror-suspense and shots of eyeballs getting gooshed into the heroine's face after she drops an anvil on a ghost's head. Potentially two really good movies ended up as one not very good one. And I don't know how I never noticed this before, but Justin Long has a huge head on a tiny little body. Up So far I've seen two movies in 3-D this year. I would have to say that this one was the better of the two, both technically and in terms of story. If you measure Up against The Lollipop Girls in Hard Candy, there's going to be a clear winner. I actually didn't mean to go to a 3-D showing, but they handed us the glasses, so there we were. M. Edium refused to wear his. He liked seeing two of everything. Except the dogs, of course. M. Edium's not a big fan of dogs as it is, particularly loud, barking, aggressive ones. We missed most of the third act as a result, and the part we did see was from the narrow aisle next to the seat risers, where he desperately shot his finger at the screen to try to scare away the bad guys. We would have left the theater entirely, but I did something I'm not proud of: I reminded him that when we left our seat, I hadn't been able to find one of the small plastic dinosaurs he'd brought into the theater with him. As a result, I was able to catch the closing credits. No, I didn't cry. I was too busy. I'm sure I will when I see it on DVD with Trash, though. Year One So dumb. So, sooo dumb. And yet I laughed. Props to Harold Ramis, I guess, for realizing dark comedy isn't really his thing and deciding to haul off and become Mel Brooks. And that's it so far. See you next quarter! Or, I guess, the next time I post a regular style update. posted by M. Giant 8:07 PM 2 comments 2 Comments:
Up is one of the two movies I've seen this past "quarter" (by however it is you define a quarter ;) ). We took Kiddo (age 6) to see it and kind of regretted deciding to bring her. She was more than a little scared/nervous for most of the third act, though her primary concern wasn't so much the dog pack as the human villian. In retrospect, I think we should've just gotten a sitter for her and gone on our own, then perhaps rented the DVD for her like we did with Wall-E.
By
Loved "Up," and the dogs cracked me up. Well, the one dog cracked me up.
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