Sunday, July 31, 2005

Yo Soy El Nino, Little Bro

Thirty years ago today, my little brother was born. A few days after that, mom and dad brought him home from the hospital all swaddled and pink and fresh-new baby-smelling. I was a month and a half shy of my second birthday.

"Nabbalicious," my dad said, "this is your new brother."

I walked over and looked at his little face, and began to stroke his head. My parents exhaled and smiled in relief. "She likes him. No. She loves him. We're not going to have any of those problems with the two of them fighting. We have got it made."

That's when I hauled off and slapped him. Infuriated, Dad grabbed me by the arm and took me to my room to think about what I had done. I'm still thinking about it, and it makes me laugh. I'm sorry, I can't help it. It's just so crazy.

And it all goes downhill from there. A few weeks later, mom heard some yelling upstairs. She went into my brother's nursery and found me standing in the middle of the room screaming, "SHUT UUUP! SHUT UUUUUUP!!!" as he cried in his crib.

Through the years, he ratted me out for everything and I beat him up in return -- although I was frequently warned that one day he'd be bigger than me, and he would exact his revenge. "Yeah! You better look out!" he'd sneer. Um, yes, he towers over me now, and even though he could kill me, he has thankfully chosen not to. Or maybe he's just waiting for a good time. When mom's not looking.

Anyway, at some point, I started to notice: my brother is funny as shit. And I'm not just saying that so he won't beat me up. His "I know eeeeverything about the Titanic" bit kills every time, trust me. It has hand movements, even. He can do dead-on impressions of just about anyone.

So, I feel a bit bad that for so many years I was annoyed that he was my brother -- even going so far as to plant the seed in my mom's mind that he was switched at the hospital, because did nobody else think it was odd that he resembled no one in the family? I'm sure it was to mom's great relief that he started to resemble various relatives (including me) as he got older.

I'm pretty proud of him now. Happy Birthday, David!

If I Never Hear Margaritaville Again, It Will Be Too Soon

We're still unpacking, I'm nursing a cold (caught last night, so the vacation merriment was able to continue unabated) and general tired-ness, but we had the most fantastic time, which I will recount in greater detail sometime this week after I've gone through all the photos and gotten my act together and worked off what I gained. I tried, I really, really did. But when you hear the words "chocolate" and "buffet," I ask you, what choice do you have?! You do not just ignore a chocolate buffet.

Here's a pic of one of my favorite things all week: feeding and hanging with the stingrays in Grand Cayman. Those black blobs in the water are them. Don't get me wrong, I was freaked as hell for the first 15 minutes or so. Most people were, judging by the constant screaming and shrieking after we all hopped in. They're huge and they swarm you and brush against your legs, and no one likes feeling anything brushing against their legs in the water because it only means one thing: JAWS. But after holding one and seeing that they're docile, especially since they know these people are the hands that feed them, I decided to buck up and give one a little meal. I took a piece of squid in my hand, held it underwater, and a stingray came by and slurped it up and mercifully left behind my fingers. Pretty freakin' sweet, and I would now like one as a pet, please.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Yo, Man, Let's Get Outta Here. Word to Your Mother.

The day I've been waiting for has finally almost arrived: In about 24 hours, the Mr. and I are officially on vacation, starting with a day and a half in New Orleans where we plan to be hella dorky tourists, then on a cruise to the Western Caribbean.

Cruise: a floating magical land of 24-hour dessert and pizza buffets, with some cheesy entertainment, shuffleboard and life jackets thrown in for good measure.

I'm not going to preface "Caribbean" with any sort of weather-related adjective because as much as I'd like to say "sunny" or "balmy" I don't want to jinx it and have it wind up less "sunny" and more "hurricaney." So, we'll just ignore the elephant in the room.

We leave bright and early tomorrow morning, and we'll be back on July 31. You know, unless the elephant starts acting up, in which case it could be sooner. Or, we may not come back at all if a) I've gained so much weight that it causes the plane to list, and they need to make an emergency landing to kick me off (hey, do you think they let you use the cool yellow slide in that instance? Because I would be on board with that.) and/or b) we decide we really can make it as surf shop proprietors in Jamaica and it is feasible to live on daiquiris alone. In which case, maliavale, we'll be sending for Nabby.

Late!

Loitering Tomatoes

Hello, Dolly

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Wow, I Need Some Advil. And a Drink. And Some Hair Extensions, 'Cause I'm Ready to Pull It All Out.

So, I'm trying to build a web site, right?* I'm the ultimate do-it-yourself-er, so I think to myself, "I'm not going to pay someone to do this. It can't be that hard!"

Yet, 24 hours later here I am with a domain name and no physical site. Holy Mary Mother of God, why is it so hard? Wait. Scratch that. I meant to ask, why is it so hard if you want a site that doesn't induce an epileptic seizure? I was suckered in to one of those "an array of free [ugly ass] templates [that make the baby Jesus cry] to choose from! makes web design a cinch [if you're not at all picky]!" supposed deals.

I don't fancy myself as someone with amazing, revolutionary design sense, but I like to think I do have at least some idea of what looks halfway decent. How any of these templates were acceptable to anyone with functioning eyesight is beyond me. It's almost as though the free template designers and the web designers are in cahoots.

Well, at least the domain name is mine now. I can say that much.

*The site is for my business, which isn't really official or anything, but I figure that I should at least get something out there, something concrete, something that says hey, this is what I'm doing, and I'm doing it, look at me doing stuff and if you're inclined to have me do stuff for you, give me a call, but you know, I won't cry or anything if you don't. It's hard to be taken seriously if you're sending people to your blog, which I haven't been for these purposes. And I won't.

Route 66

At The Museum of American History.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

It's 2005, But Everything Costs Only 10 Cents

My oldest peeve is restaurants that don't give free refills on diet Coke. If the rumor I heard -- that soda only costs about 10 cents a glass -- is even remotely true, then you really can't be more cheap than to not offer refills. Of course, if everyone drank soda like I did, free refills would be a solid money loser. But in my experience, I'm probably one of about 15 people in this country that could consume the equivalent of a 2-liter in a single sitting. My friends who don't finish even a single soda more than make up for us.

This peeve has a sibling now.

No Free Refills, meet We Don't Take Debit Cards. A few times in the last few months I've gotten screwed by the last remaining cash-only joints in this country.

Last week, I got a bagel, some coffee and fruit at some place in DC. When it was my turn at the cashier, I forked over my debit card. "Sorry, cash only," sneered the girl behind the counter. Yeah, I'll bet she was crying all over the cash drawer as she watched me amble over to the ATM, where I paid $2 to withdraw some cash so they could save 10 cents a transaction, or whatever the measly going rate is to inhabit modern times.

Maybe I'm getting spoiled, but I don't carry cash on me anymore, and whenever I'm told a place is cash only now, I have a little hissyfit in my head. It's 2005, people. Get with the program. Not sure if you heard, but debit cards are here stay. I hear DVDs are doing pretty well, too.

Ice Cream


Or, "How many people does it take to help one kid eat her ice cream?"

Monday, July 18, 2005

Lincoln

In 1989, my family and I went to DC over summer vacation. I remember going to the Ford Theater, then to the house across the street where Lincoln died.
"Don't feel too bad about him," my dad said.
"Why not?"
"They had a pretty nice night before he died."
"They did? Why?"
"Well, before the show, they went to a nice dinner and visited the Lincoln Memorial."
Har, har, har!

A Sampling of Things I Miss and Do Not Miss From Home In No Particular Order*

Miss: Jack in the Box. After a night of drinking, I defy you to find something better to prevent a hangover (or cure one the following afternoon) than the Ultimate Cheeseburger with a side of curly fries. Most Jack in the Boxes are open pretty late, too, and the mix of clientele at 2 a.m. is entertaining to watch, to say the least.

Do Not Miss: My $685 a month apartment in San Jose (1996). It was a "junior one bedroom," which really is just a euphemism for "it's just a freaking studio, all right?" It was all I could afford that didn't neighbor a strip club, and I have no idea how I did. In fact, a great majority of the apartments in my price range at this time didn't even need a walk-through to tell me that they would be unliveable. Just keep on driving, especially before you get shot or asked if you want a date. Also, "All utilities included, first month's rent free, no credit check" is not a good sign.

A mere wall separated my bedroom from the living room -- no door. No door on the closet, either. Once I was bored, so I counted the number of doors in my apartment, not counting the front door, and I counted one, which was to the bathroom. I only did it once, though, so my numbers might be a little off. My apartment was in a terrible part of town, too, but at least there was a 7-11 and a Mexican restaurant that made delicious burritos on the corner, both of which I made frequent trips to. The 7-11 was no Starbucks, but I'll take it.

Miss: In n' Out Burger. You haven't had In n' Out? You are not living your life to the fullest. Achieve great heights and realize your full potential with a double double with cheese and onions, an order of fries and a chocolate shake. You can get them in Vegas, too, if you don't feel like trekking all the way to CA. Mmm, Vegas.

Do Not Miss: Traffic. It really wasn't so bad when I was living there, and even if there were rough mornings, I knew all the shortcuts around it. But after I left, the dot coms really began booming and the population skyrocketed and condos began springing up everywhere, and suddenly, we had to start calculating distances from here to there the LA way: "45 minutes with no traffic, 3 hours with." And for a place that strives to be as little like LA as possible, this was a real blow to our pride.

Miss: REAL sourdough bread. Please, don't even eat the garbage sold here on the East Coast. I'm telling you, it's nothing like San Francisco sourdough. I've tried to find that little taste of home out here in the vain hopes that I'll find a suitable substitute, but it's all just a joke. Whenever I'm at some place here that claims they sell "real" sourdough bread, and I see people falling for it, I want to rip the bread from their hands and lead them to Fisherman's Wharf like the pied piper. But instead of a flute, I will cart a giant oven behind me baking real sourdough bread.

Do Not Miss: If you drive for 6 hours, you're still in California for chrissakes. I really like that out here in 6 hours you could be in: Charlotte, Raleigh, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, NYC, Baltimore and any number of other somewhat less exciting locales, like Bumpass! In CA, you can drive for long stretches and still be in some really nice places, like Yosemite, Big Sur or even beautiful downtown Fresno, if you're lucky. But I like the idea of traveling to another state, another city with its own story and accent and regional food you can't get quite as good anywhere else.

Miss: Just so everything I miss isn't all about food, I really do miss other things, such as: having more than 5 totally awesome things you must see and/or do when you visit. Trish and Brian discovered just why I have so much time on my hands when they visited last week. Not only is SF the best city ever, but you've also got Napa and Monterey and Carmel and...

Miss: Bonus non-food item: Kepler's Books in Menlo Park. I always feel so guilty for not shopping at smaller, independent bookstores, but they don't have the selection of the bigger stores, and I don't really have the patience to wait until something comes in on order. Enter Kepler's. It could go head to head with any chain bookstore and totally kick ass. Plus, I always admired the Oxford English Dictionary set behind the registers and imagined that one day I'd own it. More books, less guilt, tastes great.

Do Not Miss: The $800,000 shack the Mr. and I would be living in if we moved there.

*Aside from family, friends, etc.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

What a Day

Saturday, July 16, 2005

Tourists

Tourists at the Lincoln Memorial. It was also fun, for just a fleeting moment, to pretend I was all famous n' stuff.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Hands

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Feet

Yikes

So, yes. Quite the adventure yesterday.

As Jasclo and I were pulling out of our parking space at Starbucks, we noticed a lady sleeping in her car with the engine running.
"What is that lady doing?" I asked.
"I don't know. It's freaking hot out. Why would someone nap in their car on a day like this?"
"I know! It looks like the air is on, though."
"Do you think she's OK?"
"She appears to be breathing...I think so."
"Hm."
"She's sleeping in a weird position." She was hunched forward, with her head resting against the window. "I'd recline the seat. That just doesn't look very comfortable."
"This is weird. Should we knock on the window?"
"What if she's just sleeping, and is pissed that we woke her up?"
"She's just idling her car. That is wasting so much gas."
Jasclo laughed, because with gas prices as they are these days, all I can think about his how much gas is being wasted at any given moment. I swear I wasn't trying to be funny.
"I know. Crap, dude. I'm getting scared."
"Me, too."
"I'm going to try to slam the door to see if she wakes up." Jasclo slams it. Nothing.
I honk the horn. Nothing.
We can't just leave until we know this girl is all right for sure.
"This is freaky. Let's go find some security."

We went into the Staples store next door and got a manager out with us. She banged on the girl's window, but she didn't move. That's when I dialed 911, and Jasclo called mall security on her cell. While we were doing that, Staples lady and some other bystander were able to open the girl's door and wake her. Meanwhile, several cops and an ambulance arrive. Mad props to them for the fast response.

Staples lady and bystander shook her, but for a couple moments, there was no response. Eventually she came to and was disoriented and groggy. She told bystander her name, and that she had taken some pills. Jasclo thinks she heard valium mentioned. Bystander told a nearby cop that the girl reeked of alcohol, as well. Blase, he said they had dealt with this girl before and that she had a lot of issues. Reminds me of the cruel Everclear line, "It's just another overdose." It saddens me that whatever her issues are, they drive her to do that to herself.

We had to leave, since Jasclo's shift was starting soon, so we don't know what they did with her. On the way to work, we berated ourselves for being so wimpy about knocking on her window in the first place. I think I was just disbelieving that she could really be in any danger because you're not going to go around knocking on the window of every car with a person sleeping inside. But honestly, deep down we both knew she was, which I guess is why we didn't leave.

Whew. I hope she'll get the help she needs.

I'm Probably the Only Person Who Cares About This Anymore, But...

YES!

The Girl Who Cried "This Bug Is Huge"

I'm being held hostage in my house right now.

I got up at 8 to eat breakfast and go to the gym before heading to Weight Watchers (where I am NOT weighing in because I don't even want to know the extent of the damage I did this week). I stepped onto the porch, and there it was: a giant-ass bee, hovering right in front of me, looking like she's got some vendetta and now at last we meet. I turned and ran back inside and looked out the window. She was just sitting there on the mat, her stinger with presumably my name on it twitching back and forth.

So, I turned on the TV and watched Up Close & Personal while I waited for her to leave. It's been 45 minutes, and she's still just sitting there. And now I'm not only pissed because the gym is out until this afternoon, but I've got "Because You Loved Me" stuck in my head. That is an unpardonable offense, you stupid freaking bee.

I pondered getting the bug spray and just going nuts on it, but what if it's the queen, and she sends out special high-powered bee signals to the rest of the herd, and they all convene on my house to kill me? She's huge. I know I always say every bug is huge, but I'm serious this time. Isn't the queen bigger than average? I also thought the queen never left the nest, and instead ordered her minions to do her bidding while polishing her stinger. Maybe she hates me that much, that she wanted to kill me herself.

I'm now devising an alternate escape plan. I hope none of my neighbors see me slinking out the back yard, through the alley and around to my car. No, that isn't ridiculous at all.

UPDATE: I decided to go and take a nap, and she appears to have given up. For now. Also, I'm wondering if it wasn't a wasp. I don't really study these things, but are there any bug geeks who can tell me if it's possible for wasps to resemble bees?

Alert Level: Red

If you ever happen to see Trish coming at you, and her hands are positioned like so, you should probably just turn and run in the other direction. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The tour company she had hired to take us around the other day was so not on the ball, they weren't even in the vicinity of a ball. In fact, there was no ball. Now, the Mr. likes to send me in to do some yelling when we're getting the runaround, but I'm just a pale imitation of Trish. She'll be all over you until you beg for sweet mercy and give her what she wants, which is exactly what's going to happen sometime this week after they're all unpacked from their trip and ready to start making some phone calls. Look out!

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

OK, I Swear This Is The Last Picture Of Her. Maybe.

See, My Mom Always Sang "September Morn" to Me, 'Cause I Was Born In September, But Not in the Morn. Close Enough.

Last night, the subject of first albums came up. I think everyone was sufficiently lubricated to make their highly embarrassing confessions, except I don't know what my excuse was, because I strolled in late and was at least one drink behind the rest of the gang.

In the third grade, I won the school spelling bee with "developer." I was given a choice: gift certificate to Waldenbooks or The Wherehouse (music store). For reasons I still don't understand to this day, I chose The Wherehouse. Maybe I thought it was time to beef up my record collection. Until that point, I was a voracious reader, so much that all of my report cards in grade school pretty much say the same thing: "A good student, but is more interested in reading her books than paying attention in class." Yes, I should have been flogged. Reading! For shame!

Anyway, my family and I headed over to the mall one Saturday, and after browsing through the racks a bit, I settled on "Heartlight" by Neil Diamond. And that, friends, was my first album.

Go ahead, you know you want to do the "loser" cough.

Escalator

Monday, July 11, 2005

Monument

This Is a New One

We got off to a slow start movie-wise this year. Sometimes there are movies we really want to see, but they open here at an inconvenient time. The following week, when we're good and ready to go, the movie is already gone, and then it becomes one more line in our mental checklist of movies to rent at Blockbuster. Sometimes there are no good movies, anywhere, ever, and driving to Blockbuster is a total chore. We don't rent enough to justify Netflix. We actually do have a new video store down the street we have yet to use.

But things are now picking up, I'm going to the theater more, and I'm kind of starting to wonder when I'm going to have a pleasant experience. Not only was it not this bad back in my day, but I don't think it was this bad in 2004. If I made this a blog of nothing but my theatergoing experiences, it would not only be consistently entertaining, but I would have endless fodder.

I'm having conflicts over this most recent incident. Trish and I went to see Bewitched (it was the only thing we both could stand to see, and it was entertaining in a totally light and fluffy way). We walked in just as the movie began and took our seats. It wasn't long before it started. I'm kind of approximating here. Some of the words were nonsense, many of them were intelligible.

"WHOOO!"

Um. OK. Someone in the back row is very excited about this movie.

A minute or two later:
"YEAH! OOF!"

I turned to Trish. "What the hell?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
We were both a little scared to turn around.

"AGHGHGAGA!"

Trish finally turned and looked at the person, then turned back to watch the movie without saying anything.

"OH YEAH! YES!"

OK. This is ridiculous. I turned around to get a look and do my standard assessment of the offender before deciding which course of action to take, and looking right at me was a girl who appeared to be mentally retarded and/or had Tourette's Syndrome.

Shit.

What do you do?! I wasn't about to yell at a kid like that. But she screamed like that for the entire movie at 5-minute intervals.

If anyone is a champion of the rights of disabled persons, it's me. My stepdad was a quadriplegic (very long, amazing story), I've worked at independent living centers, my brother had tourette's growing up (symptoms have since mostly abated) and any of my friends will tell you that I will bitch you out if you so much as think about parking in a disabled parking space. Even for a second.

This girl deserves a normal life, too, to see movies like other people. I don't know if she understood the film or not -- some of her comments were reflective of what was happening in the movie, so I assume so. But...she was screaming. I think everyone in the theater was able to suck it up because it wasn't exactly L.A. Confidential. It also wasn't the kind of talking we've usually encountered, by someone who should know better. Also, no one wanted to be the jerk who got the retarded kid kicked out of the theater.

My gut feeling on this is, insensitive thought it might seem, if you can't stay reasonably quiet, the theater isn't the place to be. No one would tolerate a screaming baby in a theater, or any number of other disruptions, regardless of the source or the reason.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Her Aubriness




Call Me Morbid, Call Me Pale, I Spent Six [Weeks] on Your Trail

There are two things I know for sure:
1) I am extremely morbid
2) I love dance movies

Combine the two, and what do you get? Why, Six Weeks. It features Oscar-ignorable performances by Mary Tyler Moore, Dudley Moore (coincidence?) and the ill-fated Katherine Healy. Six Weeks is the sad, sad tale of a little girl ballerina dying of leukemia. She's given six weeks to live, so she spends her remaining time running around New York bravely sticking her hands in wet cement, eating sundaes, riding the subway and dancing as Clara in the Nutcracker, all the time, aware of the doom that awaits and staring it down like a trooper.

She can do whatever she wants, because she's dying, you see. It's like every girl's dream, without the death. Being a ballerina, dancing in the Nutcracker, as Clara no less, running amok in a giant city acting like a spoiled brat, eating sundaes for breakfast and having everyone be all nice and understanding about it because you could go at any moment. That's a freaking sweet deal.

It's like a Shel Silverstein poem. The one about how the parents should get the kid a pony because the kid will die if they don't, and then the parents will be sorry. I could vaguely relate to that, but not really, because I never understood the allure of ponies and horses. They smell. Being Clara in the Nutcracker was a far more attractive idea.

It's one of the enduring memories of my childhood, this Six Weeks. The only movies I may have watched more are Darby O'Gill and the Little People and Clash of the Titans. If we were ever flipping around the TV and it was on HBO, I'd insist that we stop and finish it. Especially if we were near the death scene. Oh, the tragedy. She dies right after her climactic performance as Clara. She doesn't even get to enjoy it all that much. One minute, laughing and swinging around on a subway pole, the next, collapsed in her mother's arms. DEAD. My stepdad caught on to me pretty quickly. "She only likes this movie because the girl dies."

Well, yes. But she dances, too.

Saturday, July 09, 2005

Robert F. Kennedy

Friday, July 08, 2005

Candid



Photo Friday entry.

Hitchin' a Ride

It only took about 12 years, but I finally managed to get it right: I have successfully picked Trish up from the airport. Honestly, I don't know why she even asked me to do it because my record with her has been spotty. No, that's putting it too nicely. My past record has been for total crap. You really should never ask me to pick you up from or take you to the airport. Or the train, or the rickshaw, or the zeppelin. Sure, I accomplished the task this time, but only because I concentrated really, really hard and set, like, 4 alarms to make sure I wouldn't wake up too late and blow it once again, thus giving Trish one more thing to remind me about when we're 90.

The first time I had been charged with responsibility in getting Trish either to or from the airport was Thanksgiving, 1993. She was to be flying out of SFO to visit her family in LA for the long weekend. We decided to head up to my mom's on Wednesday night, have a slumber party, then get her to the airport Thanksgiving morning.

We were up pretty late that night, doing what I don't know. I'm sure it involved gluttonous amounts of Ben & Jerry's. Eventually, I set the alarm and we headed off to bed. The next morning, I opened my eyes and thought how strangely well-rested I felt despite having gone to bed so late and having to get up so early. Because the flight, it was gone. Panicking, I ran to Trish's room. "Trish! We're late, we're late!"
"Ugggh," she groaned, as she started throwing on her clothes.
"No. Um. The flight. It's gone. You missed it."
The daggers in her eyes! I was sooooo dead. But I swear, it was NOT MY FAULT. That alarm was broken, and I will maintain that until I die. Thanks to some fancy phone callin' by mom, Trish somehow managed to get on a later flight (on Thanksgiving Day, need I remind you?), and mom took her to the airport. I stayed behind. You don't want a jinx like me riding along. I'd done enough damage.

Trish apparently got desperate and/or forgave (but still has not forgotten), because a few years later, she once again asked me to take her to the airport. The night before, I spent watching movies with my jackass then-boyfriend and we fell asleep on the couch. I woke up the next morning in a panic. "Trish...Airport...I forgot!" I was again, of course, too late. "Ehhh," JTB said. "She'll figure something out." How did I let him get away? I don't think I talked to Trish until she got back, when she told me that they realized pretty quickly that I was going to forget and so they arranged some backup transportation. Good move.

But now it can be told: I picked Trish up from the airport. On time. I can always remember this time. When Trish says, "Remember that time I asked you to take me to the airport and you didn't set the alarm? [Lie]" I can now say, "Remember that time I picked you up from the airport on time? And it was 75 miles from my house?" That'll shut her up good.

I shouldn't really be pulling any arm muscles to congratulate myself, because I still have to take her back to get my record to .500.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Aubrie

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Fried Green Tomaters


Right next to apples over thar.

Monday, July 04, 2005

Hostess With the Mostest

I'm not going to be posting much the next few days. I actually have visitors. I know! And they are not my parents, if that's what you're thinking. No, I have actual FRIENDS here. Yes, I have friends! Their names are Trish and Brian. Feel free to look it up and verify. www.nabbalicioushasfriendsnyeah.com. They're here for NINE DAYS. You have to say that in all caps. But they're proving to be pretty easygoing and easy to please, so I won't be pulling my hair out by day seven, it would seem.

Trish and Brian brought along their cute daughter Aubrie, who pretty much just sits there and smiles all day. That's the kind of baby I would order, and after laughing hysterically, my genes would instead spit out the squawkiest, brattiest baby known to man. Aubrie inherited the easygoing genes, clearly. They were worried that Aubrie was keeping the Mr. and I up last night, because she didn't get the memo that there has been a 3-hour time change. She's keeping to California time, dammit. I pointed out that there are advantages to being deaf, you know.

Nabby is mystified, and she seems a little jealous of Aubrie's numerous toys. I have a feeling the minute Aubrie turns her back, that talking puppy is going to be trapped in Nabby's jaws.

Train Station

Saturday, July 02, 2005

Farmers Market

He was hawking some yummy looking green tomatoes. I said I'd come back to get some, since I've never had them the fried way.

Scary

Friday, July 01, 2005

Used

A Photo Friday entry.

I Could Have Played "Rat Out Your Neighbor, Score a Tootsie Roll"

Last night before we went to the movies, the Mr. and I made our usual jaunt to Target before the show to load up on contraband for the show. Usually he gets Twizzlers or gummi bears and I've been on a roll with Jujyfruits. But last night I decided to revisit an old friend, the Tootsie Roll.

I was dismayed to learn that the mid-size bags have been done away with. All they had were the 2 lb bags (I'm guessing on the weight here, but it was pretty damn large and held enough Tootsie Rolls for our entire row, and I would have shared if they had bothered to shut the hell up. I heard three distinct conversations going on during the movie, to the right, behind and to the front. I GIVE UP.).

After wandering around unsuccessfully looking for something smaller, I gave up and said, "Well! Looks like I have NO CHOICE but to fatten up! Oh, look. And they're on sale. I can get fat for half price. And the bag also says I get 15% more free! What a country!"

I'm just so glad to know that if I ever want to REALLY gain some weight, economics won't be holding me back. Just my own lack of motivation and my mind. But through some mental magic and some daily affirmations, it will be mine. Oh, yes.

Siesta

Or as I call it, "Too Damn Hot Too Move."