February 22

 

I've been sort of having a hard time coming up with shit to write about, so I asked a few friends, and this is what they said: "Did you write about the Kathy Griffin show yet?" "Pandas, monkeys, perfume, karaoke" and then "Pets, knitting and infertility seem to be super cool!" and lastly, "Don't forget about poop!!"

 

I present to you, my entry about all of those things. AND MAYBE MORE*

(*But probably less)

 

Kathy Griffin:

So, Doug and Shandy and Nicole and I drove up to Mohegan Sun to see Kathy Griffin, who I happen to think is hilarious. I find something endearing about the way she calls her audience "guys!" As in, "Okay, guys, we have a lot to cover!" She was funny, as I knew she would be. A little more celebrity smack talk would have done me just fine, because I could happily listen to her make fun of Anna Nicole Smith for a week and a half, and the fact that she coined the name "Clay Gaykin" also makes me giddy. About the Bobby Brown/Whitney Houston marriage, she had this to say: "Any relationship where Bobby is the normal one is truly fucked up." And my very favorite thing was: "We all love Angelina Jolie. Women want to sleep with her, men want to sleep with her, she's gorgeous, but I can't help but think, every time I look at her that her mouth looks like an inflamed anus, and it already has a crack! THINK ABOUT IT"

 

Pandas:

I went down and saw the baby panda with Nick at the National Zoo in DC:

It was balls cold out, but people were out there, gaping at the cuteness, and by god, this is a damn cute baby panda. Pandas, just by virtue of being pandas, are precious. If you add in the BABY factor, you get cute to the nth degree, so cute that it's almost nauseating. He crawled all over his mom and fell over onto his back and leaped at things. Adorable!

While in DC, I also talked Nick into going to the National Cathedral, which is perhaps the most gorgeous place I have ever been:

I won't blame the camera for my less than stellar photography. I'm not good at it. I lack patience and the eye some people seem to have. I don't really even have a lot to say about the Cathedral, other than I love the fact that it is festooned, all over the outside, with gargoyles and grotesques and there are several bugs and a Darth Vader. Seriously. And isn't god a little like Darth Vader? I think he might be.

Monkeys:

At the zoo, we saw no monkeys because it was too cold to be wandering around, but the monkey front at home continues to grow at a slow but steady rate. I just attempted to take some photographs, but it seems that my camera batteries are dead. Allow me to casually count the monkeys upstairs. Hang on. Okay, up here there are 87 monkeys, give or take. I know. I didn't even go downstairs and count--there are at least 10 down there, and that is a lot of monkey. That many monkeys may actually indicate some sort of pathological problem. I'm not an expert, though. Someone else may want to weigh in.

 

Perfume:

I confessed long ago that I have a problem with buying and loving perfume. I love it, I want it. I want them all. Over the past few months, I've bought: Fracas, Pink Sugar, Chocolovers, and Beach (twice). Wearing Beach in the winter makes me happy, because I bet you can guess what it smells like. In fact, I KNOW you can. Exactly like the beach. For whatever reason, I am the go-to person about perfume purchases, so if you're in the market for a new scent, shoot me some mail and tell me what you like and I bet I can hook you up with something you'll love. Seriously, I'm good at it. It is a blessing, the way my love for perfume is a curse. If you'll notice (and if you care), all the scents I listed up there are very sweet and or flowery, which isn't my usual, but I'm a rebel and I'm breaking out of my perfume comfort zone and venturing into new territories.

 

Karaoke:

Okay, so it turns out that I'm good at karaoke (even if I am not so good at spelling it, because the spell checker told me that the way I want it to be spelled, "kareoke" is wrong. WTF? Damn you, non phonetic pronunciation!) I'm good at it, but I'm only good at one song. It's my song, and I am just as astonished as anyone else that THIS, of all the songs, is the song for me. I don't even think you'd be able to guess. In fact, if you don't already know what the song is, and you want to give it a shot, I will send you a prize. To make it easier for you all, I will give you a few hints: 1.) It is not by Lionel Richie or the Commodores. 2.) It is not by any sort of alternative band or artist (e.g., no Radiohead, no Tom Waits). 3.) It's not a song I think I've ever indicated having an opinion about, but I like it. 4.) It insults someone within the lyrics. 5.) It is not rap or hip hop or R&B. 6.) It's not Britney Spears. Got that? Okay. Correctly guess, and I will send you a perfumey surprise. Unless you're a guy, then I'll figure out something else to send you, since I've given all the male frags to Nick. If you all can't eke it out in a few days (or if you simply don't care), I'll give you a couple more hints.

 

Pets:

So, you all know I have two dogs. One (Jessie) is quite old, the other (Grayson, the oft photographed) is medium old. Jess has some back problems and he's decided that he chooses to no longer come down the stairs, forcing one of us to carry a squirming 50 pound down to eat or go outside. Anyhow, I came upstairs tonight and long story short, I gave both dogs a snack. Jess paced around and cried and couldn't decide on a place to land and eat said snack, so I walked over to him as he was circling his bed, and said "Let me take you downstairs" and I motioned to lift him. Next thing, he just lets go and starts pissing all over his bed. I kind of step back and say "Jess! Gross" and he starts walking, STILL PISSING, making crazy zigzags of pee all over the carpet. He continues on his moist walk, out into the hall--STILL PISSING, up and down the hall, just tinkling like a lunatic and stepping in it as he goes. I am both irritated and amazed at how much pee there is. And, by the way, he never dropped the snack. Dogs are nice!

 

Knitting:

Everyone in the world is a better knitter. I don't understand patterns too well, I think I do stockinette stitch wrong and I haven't ever done a gauge. I own more yarn and needles than someone who hasn't really knit anything important should. I am proud to say that everyone in my family owns a scarf that I have created with my own two hands. Except for my cousins and their husbands, for whom I knitted 4 scarves, but never bothered to mail them. Merry Christmas! I've started to wear Susan's scarf! I rule!!

 

Infertility:

I am probably the last person in the world to voice an opinion on this, because my female reproductive organs are a giant painful pain in my ass and it is well documented that having a baby falls exactly NOWHERE on the list of things I'd like to do before I die. It freaks me out when I hear about people spending kajillions of dollars on pregnancy-making drugs. Not that I don't sympathize (okay, I don't, because it's a totally foreign concept to me--the concept of baby desperation, not the concept of being sympathetic, smartypants) with women who want babies but can't make it happen, but I have very weird and mixed feelings about the whole thing. Perhaps it is because I have a black soul, and I really don't get it (and please note, I am trying very hard not to make hurt feelings out there with women who are conceptionally challenged), but at a certain point I would accept the fact that being pregnant wasn't in the cards and consider adopting. Remember, I'm talking out of the side of my mouth with this, because I have no idea what the tuggings of maternal instinct feel like. And I'll end it there.

 

Poop:

As fun a word as POOP is to write, I find that I really have nothing to say on the subject. I have some advice, though. If you find yourself blocked up, stroll over to Trader Joe's and pick up some of their PoopMaker pills. Sadly, that's not what they're actually called, but they come in a white bottle with a photo of the intestines drawn onto it and they have a bunch of herbs which makes you go. And go. And then when you're like "Surely, I have not ever eaten this much IN MY LIFE!" you will go some more. But never embarrassingly, like, you never find yourself going ACCIDENTALLY, so you won't need to diaper yourself before going out.

 

 

Thing I Call People Who Are Whiny That Could Also Be a Terrible Porn Name:

Sandy Vagina. Man, that would be an awesome name to have in real life, right? Imagine the horror! Hah! A teacher taking attendance: "Stevens? Here!" "Torelli? Here!!" "Udelsen? Here and Here!" "Vagina? Vagina? Where is Miss Vagina today?" "Um, she's not here, she had to stay home. She had a visitor"

Okay, that cracked me up more than it should have, so I'm out. Remember, if you want to win a fabulous prize, send me what you think is my Karaoke hit song.

 

 

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