Entries from June 2007 ↓

“As W. C. Fields would say, I’d rather be here than Philadelphia.”  -Special Agent Dale Cooper

I decided to move. You’re welcome to visit as often as you’d like.

I wanna dine with these guys:

Game theorists say that, if you intend to tip well, you should do it before the meal. Which my friend Ophir does, at least at sushi restaurants. He’ll sit at the sushi bar, slip the chef $50, and order Omakase - “at the chef’s discretion”. I’ve seen him do it several times when we’ve met for dinner, and each, the sushi served has been nothing short of extraordinary.

Ophir is vocal in his praise and appreciation as well, which spurs the chefs on even further. And whenever he orders a bottle of sake - something that, over the course of one of our average dinners, we do several times - he pours a glass for the chefs.

Which is how, a few months back, we found ourselves still sitting in the back of Bond St. Sushi, the restaurant long since closed, presented with course after course of ever more inventive and expertly prepared sushi and sashimi.

And, at the end, the coup de grace: a piece of fugu, each.

Fugu, from Takifugu, a Japanese pufferfish of the genus Diodon. A fish famous because its internal organs contain lethal amounts of tetrodotoxin. Prepared right, with just a bit of the toxic liver lining the meat, a small dose of the poison supposedly provides an unparalleled taste and texture sensation. But, a bit too much, and the poison paralyzes the diner’s muscles, leaving them fully conscious as they slowly asphyxiate.

Nashville’s poor little rich kids: So much cokeface, so little time to be judged.

Hipster Essentials:
blown out pupils
head scarf/shoelace
facial hair
teh glasses
bongo
ironic(?) booty dancing
ginger kid in stripes and cardigan
who farted? expression
old dude
jaunty kerchief
hair cut with butter knife, styled with mayonnaise
"I’d rather be knitting" face

I wonder how much bologna with mayo on Wonderbread costs our President at the Waldorf-Astoria. Of course, the Doritos would be extra.

It was because of Rachel’s post that I decided to drive the extra few minutes to the downtown Y to get my trot on, and who was there burning up the treadmill but the hoofing blogger herself. Still, I did not gather the courage to speak. My face was red, I was out of breath and who wants to introduce themselves that way for the first time? Not me, apparently.

I did a lot of staring though. So, I write this post to apologize to Pippin’s mom. The girl with the slow jog and hairy eyeball was me. Next time I’ll be sure to say hi.

P.S. Rachel, tell Eric Spears I miss him. And that his I’m at Lunch blog should come back to life.

truedadconfessions makes me sad:

Sorry sweetie, but being a SAHM DOES make you my slave. Just because you half-assed at a job while you were waiting for a naive sucker like me to put a ring on your finger does NOT mean you know what I’m going through at work. I’m a white male, so I don’t have any “special interests” groups eagerly waiting to jump in on my behalf if I get fired, so unlike YOU, I actually have to DO WORK to keep my job. And as the sole bacon-provider for this family, I make the money that pays for EVERYTHING. The roof over your head, the copious amounts of food you cram into your fat face, the computer (and high-speed internet) you plop your ever-widening ass in front of all frickin’ day. You, a grown woman, are as dependent on me as our children. I pay for you entire existence.

And as far as your “job” being as stressful and important as mine - are you trying to make me die from laughing so you can collect the insurance money?! You talk about being a maid, cook, chauffeur, nanny and blah blah blah - but LOOK AROUND - the house is a
mess, the only meals served in this house come from boxes, when I come home the kids are telling me about all the crap they’ve watched on TV all day! What the hell is it you do that’s so tiring?! You don’t clean, you don’t cook, you don’t have to drive anywhere that’s more than 20 minutes away - hell, most days it seems that you don’t even shower or
make the minimal effort required to look like a half-decent human being! You have a dishwasher, a vacuum cleaner, a washing machine and dryer. My mother did a LOT more than you do, with a helluva lot less. THAT’S why she hates you. And damn me for not listening to her when she warned me about you.

If you don’t like it, put the kids in daycare and get a job - I won’t stop you. No? You’re not going to do that? Yeah… I didn’t think so. Shut your complaining food-suction hole, realize how good you’ve got it, and don’t make a fuss if you have to put my shoes in the closet or clean the beer cans I left on the coffee table. And don’t you DARE tell me to “pull my weight” around the house, bitch, because I’ve got the house, the cars, the bills, the food, the clothes, the kids and YOU all chained to MY fucking back - and I’m carrying all of that weight on MY shoulders ALONE.

35 people “me too”ed that post I quoted above.

One of my bestest internet friends, Ariel, gets to take her Sassy to work, and I think that is about the coolest thing ever. In fact, if I am not mistaken, dogs at work was one of the reasons she ended up a dog owner–she fell in love with a co-worker’s Boston Terrier.

Anyway, I was thinking of what it would be like if I took my dogs anywhere to work with me, and I can’t do it without laughing. Tootie and Cooper would not be good @work hounds. Here’s how the day would go:

Upon arrival Tootie would enter the room at full speed, then proceed to give hearty, I’m-going-to-climb-up-to-your-face love to anyone willing to take the full-on assault. Cooper would run around sniffing and whining.

Anytime anyone spoke on the telephone, Tootie would come sit in front of them and stare. As if they were talking to her. God forbid anyone have an important discussion while Cooper is sleeping, because he would, if he were at my work, let out a loud, reverberating moo, much like the noise cattle makes. If you’ve never heard a dog moo in its sleep, well, it can be distracting.

There would have to be outside time, because if not Tootie would stand at the door or window, whichever, and bark. Incessantly. At lunch she would spend the entire half hour on her back two, hopping around with her front paws in the air checking out everyone’s spread. If you gave her a bite of sandwich, she would not mind. If you did not, that would be okay, she would find some of your important documents and eat those instead.

If there was a couch or large chair, Cooper would sit on the back of it, like a cat. He would not tear the couch up, as he is light and nimble, but it is still unacceptable office behavior. If I brought a rawhide to keep them occupied, Tootie would stalk around with her chew in her mouth, making guttural growling sounds if Cooper dares near her. She would then wolf the treat down in record time, then lay panting in the floor with an audible belly ache.

They would fight. They would hump at each other unsuccessfully. It wouldn’t be that awesome, I don’t think.

Hillary Clinton chose a Celine Dion ballad as her campaign theme song. That is all.

UPDATE: This also goes to show that the woman has a staff full of smart people, and she won’t listen to any of them. Surely someone had to tell her, "Look, just no. Bad idea." And if they didn’t, then she surrounds herself with sycophants, and that’s not any better. See also.

If I had any idea that my farewell post would be quoted in Forbes magazine, I would have taken more time with it. I couldn’t have written it not in a state of emotional duress, but it could’ve used some editing.