I sort of feel like doing a daily photo again — or a daily something again — for as long as I can keep it up. Given my history, I’m predicting this will last between three and seven weeks.
Jackson is slightly obsessed with Hot Wheels that change color when you dunk them in hot or cold water. My sense is that a team at NASA was trying to develop some sort of heat shield for monkey astronaut suits when they accidentally came up with this technology. They then sold the patent to Mattel and have retired to Coral Gables or Banff and spend idle moments planning to volunteer at the Humane Society, once they’re completely saturated with Internet porn.
I realize that I did not try hard enough in the previous entry. I had all sorts of opportunities to finagle some witty tangents out of “blow” and “goo” and “Krust” and I just didn’t make the effort. If I had made the effort, you know, to please someone who just tumbled onto this site without any previous love for the Boogermuffin and his swanky sweater collection, it would probably have ended up being all curse-filled and hard-bitten with veiled references to porn stars in a totally unnecessary effort to hook those busy blogsurfers who get turned off when they think they’ve found a site filled with baby updates and recipes for homemade play dough* so they don’t stick around for all my deep poetic insights and hoary reminiscences about my first pair of ice skates. So really, maybe it’s better that I cut it short and made some phone calls and took Jackson to watch me change my car insurance policy instead of finely crafting a blog entry to appeal to an imaginary 24-year-old cubicle-dwelling male who’s pretending to work, because I certainly don’t need one more asshole looking for kiddie porn to Google me up and then hit the bricks when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, resulting in another false hit on the old site stat meter. So if that’s what you came looking for, why not go make some play dough instead? Use some food coloring! It’ll take your sweaty little mind off things for a while.
*Homemade Play Dough
The secret ingredient here is cream of tartar. This recipe makes play dough that is not grainy like uncooked play dough and keeps for a long time.
4 cups flour
1 cup salt
4 cups water
4 tablespoons oil
1/2 cup cream of tartar
Mix all ingredients in a sauce pan. Cook and stir over low/medium heat until play dough is completely formed and no longer sticky. Allow to cool slightly before storing in an airtight container or zip lock bag.
Adding a package of unsweetened KoolAid will make it smell good, too. Enjoy!
I took the advice of Hollyrhea (by the way, you people with your comments . . . I am just a blank canvas for your brainy brushtrokes), and I went a-huntin’ for adhesivelike things to fix my broken, nasty, Hobbity thumbnail. All the drug stores had were acres of Working Girl-y glue-on nails. Which reminds me of a lesbian cartoon:
From Kris Kovick’s What I Love about Lesbian Politics Is Arguing with People I Agree With. Now the phrase “check her nails” can be a part of your secret vocabulary, too! Rev up your gaydar!
My point — and I do have one — is that I finally went to a beauty supply store and found Crack Attacker. “Instant repair bandages for cracked and split nails.” I don’t even know how to make this funnier than it already is. Crack Attacker has attacked my crack so well that I’ve forgotten it’s even there, which is my test for how well something is working. Other things that I take for granted so they must be doing fine: my husband, my car, my cat, my tattoo, most of my body except for my knees occasionally, and all my invisible friends. Things that need constant hand-holding in a needy, low-self-esteem way: my computer, my hair, and my brain after reading the newspaper yesterday — I really don’t need to choke up anymore, thanks, I’ll go back to repressing my anger and fear into a nice little tumor, if you don’t mind.
I’ve been banished to a cold, windowless cell in Mac OS 10.2 upgrade hell. It took me twenty-four hours to reestablish my Internet connection (two calls to customer support and one technician stuffing himself under my desk — not sexy, really). All the expensive-to-replace software I borrowed from my old job (Quark, Photoshop, Microsoft Office) has vanished. I can’t seem to pick up mail, either, which makes me crazy, and to top it all off hundreds of e-mail addresses went poof.
But the desktop looks really neat!
I know a guy who’s a doctor who says that amnesia is nothing like you see on TV. No matter how much people forget — their children, their spouse, their address, their job — they always remember their name.
A few months ago I decided to let my subscriptions to magazines that have too many words in them (Harper’s, The Atlantic) lapse, and to replace them with magazines with more pictures in them. (Hey. I’m busy.) Some credit card offered me several $2-per-year magazine subscriptions as a thank you for taking three years to pay off my bill, so I signed up for Harper’s Bazaar, Esquire, and Wine Spectator. The writing in Bazaar is pretty much unreadable, or maybe I should blame it on the editing, since articles by Jay McInerney, Francine Prose, and someone wild about handbags all sounded as though they were written by the same recent college graduate. Esquire is decent browsing material, and sometimes you get a new story by David Sedaris. Wine Spectator, however, I ordered under the mistaken assumption that it was Robert Parker’s wine thing — you know, The Wine Advocate. (Robert Parker’s the guy with the supernatural ability to detect a hint of gasoline in your pinot noir, and the ungodly influence to thus bankrupt your winery even though you supplied every king of France since Charlemagne.) The unnerving thing about reading wine reviews — and I’m someone who is hard pressed to spend more than $8 on a bottle of wine, so I’m basically wasting my time by reading them, not to mention $2 — is the vocabulary. They tell me that a certain $30 Chateauneuf-du-Pape has “a malic, yogurt, milky character,” “lemon and pear notes,” and a “slightly flabby finish.” Yogurty wine, okay (I have no idea what malic means, unless it’s meant to be a sort of sneaky metareference to filmmaker Terence Malick’s engrossing, hallucinatory style). Lemons and pears being able to strike “notes” strikes me as charmingly musical (“Strange Fruit” in the key of pear sharp — ready, boys?). But the idea of flabby wine makes me shudder in horror, as I can’t stop myself from imagining a glass of wobbly, gelatinous, milky, lard-infused wine heading for my mouth and I can’t stop my arm because of the hallucinatory effect of all the previous malic bottles I’ve unwittingly consumed because I’ve been reading the wrong wine reviewer. *Uh-hh-hn-ngh* (My best attempt at a transcription of how Homer Simpson might shudder after having glimpsed Mr. Burns’s malic, lemon-scented, flabby white butt.)
I love people whose Web personae involve the suffix “-pants.”
But Hollywood week continues here on Fussy: Jack’s dad was on AMC this morning in a movie called Tension at Table Rock. It’s a not-too-bad grade-B cowboy flick, made in the fifties. Jack’s dad isn’t on the screen for five minutes before he gets shot and killed, of course, which made Jack’s mom laugh and laugh. (They were divorced when Jack was small.) She actually hooted, and said to Jackson, “Grandpa’s laying down!” Jackson seemed confused, since Grandpa’s been laying down under a big tree in Connecticut for about six years now, but things cleared up for him after I took him to the port-a-crib and forced him to take a nap. Then I sped away to the public library’s computer room, because God knows I can’t be separated from the Internet for more than forty-eight hours without breaking out in hives.
Joe’s computer recently generated these Mac Prose gems:
So vertiginous a tale replied, but his boat — loss against models — was my cloud.
The vocation is sound.
Before anybody was so grave a tsunami, to emerge was sin.
I don’t know about the first one, but the second one is like having a computer that makes fortune cookies. Bill, my old boss from Shakespeare & Co., had an I Ching program on his computer. It would play the sound of running water and tell you to meditate, then you’d hit the spacebar when you felt the moment was “right” and you’d get an I Ching reading. (Why weren’t we working?) Personally, I don’t think it’s any weirder than actually throwing the coins yourself or reading tarot cards or whatever. These divination methods have an uncanny way of describing the present, in my experience, though I wouldn’t depend on them to tell the future. Facade.com offers readings for free, including some really interesting stuff like bibliomancy (opening a page of the Bible at random and applying the first verse at the top of the left-hand page to your current situation), as well as runes and a virtual floaty pen that tilts to “yes” or “no” for those in need of a quick answer.
Mac Prose is a great little program that lets your computer generate sentences/poetry. Some recent wisdom from mine:
“The sky suitcase (the evening) has stumbled.”
“While we were the circumstances, what had the aspects of hell improved?”
I found it on the Connecticut College Web page for my old poetry professor, Charles O. Hartman. You can download it here.