Levedy

Cute Little Booger

Dimitri and I babysat Andrew last night.* He's a lot of fun to play with, but a pain in the butt to get to bed. He's used to falling asleep in his parent's bed while watching TV. I made the HUGE mistake of moving him to his bed before the kid hit REM. He sat bolt upright out of (what I now realize was not) a deep sleep and started to cry bloody murder. It sounded like regular crying, but because I can read children's minds, he was saying:

YOU AWFUL, EVIL WOMAN! HOW DARE YOU CAGE ME IN THIS TODDLER BED WITHOUT THE BENEFIT OF DISNEY'S THE DOODLEBOPS! I WILL FLAIL YOU FOR NOT ALLOWING ME A DVD OF THE WIGGLES IN MY BED! YOU SHALL SUFFER AND DESPAIR! MY TEARS ARE ACID THAT WILL EAT AWAY AT YOUR HEARTSTRINGS!

So I admit: I took him out of his bed, and plopped him back onto Craig and Luisa's. I will submit in my defense, though, that I refused to turn on the television. I turned out the lights and told him the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. I waited until his pulse was the only sign of life before I moved him back to his bed.

I didn't really remember the specifics of the story, so Goldilocks ends up being devoured by the bears (hey, she did eat their porridge. What else could three hungry home-owning bears eat?) after trying on three polyester track suits, sitting in three furry Lay-Z-Boys, and messing up three sets of sheets in the linen cupboard. I've gotta read up on those things when the time is right. (WHICH IS NOT NOW, YOU NOSY GREEKS)

I'm due back at Craig and Luisa's to help get Luisa ready for a dinner party she's throwing tonight. I'm also going to Costco with Sophie later today. Wow, is my life exciting!

Pictures from my new camera:

*Andrew is Dimitri's business-partner- and-pal-since-the- third-grade Craig's first son. Craig is married to Luisa, a beautiful Peruvian.

Nothing New

I finally trashed my old stock pot. Sophie gave it to us when we moved into the house, and it's served us well, but I got tired of not having a handle on the lid. I have always had to stick two knives in the steam vents and yank it off of the pot.

I went to Bed Bath and Beyond, but they wanted exorbitant sums of money for a friggin' pasta pot. I ended up with a $30 Target model that suits me just fine. I likes my pots like Dimitri likes his women: strong with a heavy bottom.

Oooh, and I got a new digital camera, too. This one (But don't worry. We didn't pay anywhere near that price. That's the benefit of buying things off of a truck from a guy named Shifty Papadopoulos.)

8 hours in 2 kitchens in 2 days

Saturday afternoon I ate chili with Susan. Cincinnati chili is not what I would call chili (it had spaghetti noodles and hardly any heat at all) but it tasted okay.

Saturday evening I played bottle washer, waitress, and short order cook at Kat's housewarming.

Yesterday I spontaneously decided to have four people and their two babies over for dinner.

If I see another kitchen, I think I'll puke.

Stinky Pants

I bought a new pair of jeans from LaneBryant.com a week or so ago. I ordered them online because I just can’t drag myself to the Lane Brant store in the mall because I can’t willingly send myself into a location that makes my skin peel back from my bones.

The jeans showed up on my doorstep the day before yesterday, and I wore them without first washing them.

NOTE: Don’t EVER do this.

Dimitri comes home from work and we have a tender newlywed moment when he rests his head on my lap. Awwww How sweet. Except that Dimitri screws up his nose and yanks his head out of my lap and says “your pants smell like old people.” Now, husbands and boyfriends everywhere, take note: you have to know that it’s not good to have your nose near a gal’s crotch and jerk upright to inform the gal that her “area” (be it pants or otherwise) smells like old people. Trust me fellas, it’s a no-win situation.

Dimitri tells me that the jeans were probably stored with moth balls. I’ve never smelled a moth ball in my life, but apparently they smell like my jeans. Up until Dimitri’s crotch-smelling venture, I hadn’t really noticed anything untoward about the smell of my new jeans. Since he mentioned something, however, the smell magically amplified so that it was all I could smell.

We go to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that night. So now my jeans smell like:

-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts (from others, not me.)

The next day (yesterday) I was supposed to go to lunch with my grandmother. I got busy in the morning, and didn’t have a chance to wash my jeans before heading out. No problem, I say, I’ll just rub my jeans with a few dryer sheets. Now my jeans smell like:

-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Have his eyes ALWAYS been red?)

I continue to get dressed, made-up, and otherwise primped and polished (I am meeting with my fastidiously well-kempt Nana after all. She wrote the book on never perspiring in 116 degree heat and always having a fresh coat of lipstick on) I set out towards my VW death-mobile. While bending down to put my shoes on, however, I do take a whiff of the ol' pants: Nope, still too much old people. I don’t have time to change, so I run upstairs and Febreeze myself. Now my pants smell like:

-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Have his eyes ALWAYS been beady?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch

I head out the door and hightail it to The Cheesecake Factory. We have a pleasant lunch, but I can’t really focus on my factory burger since I’m constantly eyeing my grandmother to see if she notices the HORRIBLE COLLECTION OF SMELLS coming from her granddaughter. She says nothing which means one of two things: a) she smells nothing (she is 84, how sensitive can the nose still be?) or b) she smells my pants concoction and is too genteel to mention it.

I finish lunch and head over to my girlfriend Nicole’s place to visit her, her new-ish baby Dax, and her spaniel, Pete.

Nicole is sunny and bright as always. Dax is well-mannered and handsome, and the dog is, well, a dog. Nicole hands Dax off to me, and Dax immediately starts whimpering. I know why. He manages to spit up a little (not that I can blame him. He is sitting on my pants, after all.) So now my pants smell like:

-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Have his claws ALWAYS been sharp?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch (as if)
-Sour breast milk

We gab for a few hours, and Nicole doesn’t mention my pantaloon-olfactory mess (bless her.) She gives me home—baked cookies (who am I to refuse?) and Pete, the dog, won’t take his eyes off me. Think of it from his perspective. Here I come, an acid trip of smells for a super-sensitive dog nose, AND I have a COOKIE. How could he NOT drool on me, really? So now my pants smell like:

-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Has his head ALWAYS spun around like that?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch
-Sour breast milk
-Alpo drool

Her husband Ryland comes home early, and she gets a phone call, two events that let me slink into the guest bath and try something new. Perusing the countertop I plan my next layer: hand soap won’t do much of anything, the potpourri would look silly stapled to my pant leg, but a-ha! Bath and Body Works Room and Linen Spray (Fall Sunset, or some such). So now my pants smell like:

-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Have his eyes always rolled back into their sockets?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch
-Sour breast milk
-Alpo drool
-Martha Stewart’s bed sheets (Fall Sunset)

I have to leave Nicole and Ryland’s house to go teach. My students, not surprisingly, don’t want to sit too close to me. There’s a good six feet between my pants and anyone else. I manage to accidentally write on myself with a nasty Expo marker, so now my pants smell like:

-Old people
-Stale popcorn farts
-The creepy-ass white bear on the snuggle commercials (Why do I continue to buy him?)
-A stale smoker’s couch trying not to smell like a stale smoker’s couch
-Sour breast milk
-Alpo drool
-Martha Stewart’s bed sheets (Fall Sunset)
-Expo Dry Erase Markers (The red, extra stinky ones)

I make it home and am pants-less before I hit the top stair. The pants go directly into the washer. When Dimitri comes home about an hour later, he finds me in bed, pants free.

He thinks that I did something special for him. The fool.

Oompa Loompas and other childhood traumas

I saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last night with Dimitri. I enjoyed it. The most comforting aspect of the movie is that I did not recoil in horror at the Oompa Loompas. I liked them a lot, actually.

As a childand (says all psychiatrists worth their salt) as an adult, I was creeped out by a lot of movie and TV images. Here's a short list of things from my childhood that still manage to give me the spine-tingling, my-body-wants-me-out-of-this-situation-even- if-it-means-losing-control-of-my-bladder willies:

-Clowns
-The disneyland full-sized characters (I am SO not a plushie)
-Anything with a disproportionately large skull (Precious Moments figurines and Barney, I'm looking at you)
-Heffalumps and Woozles
-Mary Poppins' talking parrot umbrella
-the scene in Dumbo where Dumbo's drunk
-Grimace
-Teddy Ruxpin
-Clowns
-Ewoks
-Oompa Loompas
-Maleficent
-The Cheshire Cat
-Ann Coulter
-Clowns

I was (am) such a chicken shit. They littlest things gave me the heebie jeebies.

So Depressing

I finished the new Harry Potter book. I correctly guessed who the Half Blood Prince was, but I mis-judged who dies.

*sigh* It's a big-time bummer. I mean really, killing Harry off before the series even ends....

Social Security 1, Jen 0

I went to the Social Security office yesterday to start the process of changing my name. I thought (ha!) it would be smooth sailing, especially since I already had the necessary forms filled out (thank you, internet.) After waiting 15 minutes in the line-to-find-out-what-line- you're-supposed-to-be-in line, I found the right building. It had wall-to-wall people. The place was packed.

It was an interesting cross-section of people in the office. Old widows, stinky bums, new immigrants, a woman covered so high with children you could only see the top of her head, and me.

It was just like that scene in Beetlejuice. I took a number from the big red plastic comma on the wall, and found a seat next to some weird looking guy wearing a bone necklace and a straw skirt. My number was 148. The Now Serving sign said - no shit - 6.

Unlike Beetlejuice, I did not get my head shrunk by stealing the number of the straw skirt guy. I got up and left.

So, for the time being, my last name is still McNamee.

Harumph.

Today's a bit of a pisser.

It's bad enough to be taken advantage of.

It's worse when the taker blames you for the taking.

It's hard, too, to be cheery when your car's thermometer reads 124 DEGREES!

Can't...Stop...Eating

They won't stop FEEDING me! Help!

Put Some Windex

I'm posting from Salk Lake City. We're here for Dim's grandfather's 80th birthday. It's a Greek fest. We'll be back into town on Sunday night.

I drive a semi-automatic

This can’t be good.

(Preface: I distrust my car. Please, don’t EVER buy a VW Passat. It’s an over-engineered German hot dog stand. You have to practically pull the engine out to change the oil.)

My VW Passat has decided to do an interesting trick. I discovered last night that my clutch pedal is ultimately decorative. I can move from gear to gear without pushing my clutch pedal. On normal, non-posessed-by-the-demon-of- expensive-and-ultimately- fruitless-car-repair cars, shifting from one gear to the next with nary a pedal push would result in grinding, squealing, staggering, wheezing, and the gnashing of teeth. In short: it’s not healthy, and the car should let you know that.

My car, on the other hand, will pretend to be helpful by wrenching the car from a relatively pleasant 4th gear cruise to a garotte-ingly high pitched neutral by a mere flick of the wrist. It's almost like someone sent me running, but then yanks me back with a bit of piano wire around my neck. I can move out of one gear and into the next with nary a clutch pedal or a grinding of gear fingers.

This can’t be good.

My car already needs more repairs on it than the car is worth. I have no anti-lock brakes, and since the snapped timing belt affair, my VW has chosen to perform less and less like her younger incarnations.

My VW takes the path of least resistance whenever possible. Really, she says, why bother accelerating quickly to merge onto a freeway? Why rock the boat? Why turn over the engine when you ask me to on a summer day? Wouldn’t you rather bake in 111 degree heat a while longer? Why roll down the windows when you ask me to? I, for one, would rather think about your request for five seconds before succumbing to your incessant demands of me.

My car is paid for, and all possible shreds of warranty have long expired on the girl. She’s the equivalent of a 60-year old stripper: serviceable, but sagging. Part of me wants to leave a fifty on her nightstand and sneak out before she wakes up. The other part of me laments that it will cost far more than another fifty to get another car.

I don't think that driving her puts me in mortal peril yet, but I think the end is near.

Reason #458 Why I Didn't Like This

I don't do nearly enough drugs.

Dante's Karaoke Inferno

Or: The seventh circle of hell - Karaoke

After a pretty good Thai dinner to (celebrate?) Tom's leaving for Tucson, the crowd of 10 or so went to a karaoke (bar? hut? establishment?). Not wanting to be a stick in the mud, I go along so I can spend time with Tom and his friends.

The karaoke place had to have been an asian massage parlor previously. The place has a small reception area in front of a long hallyway lit by colored bulbs. The hallway leads you to private rooms that have mirrored walls. Oh, yeah. Ex-brothel, totally.

This is a familiar situation for me. Not the asian brothel bit, but being surrounded by friends having a good time while I am ridiculously uncomfotable. I have always been told that my singing could peel the paint off a wall, so I DO NOT SING. When at baseball games, when everyone sings "Take me out to the ball game" I move my lips, lest I send someone's defibrillator firing in the vicinity. I DO NOT SING.

Shoving myself into a situation where everyone is supposed to enjoy singing is (for me) analogous to hammering bamboo shoots under my own fingernails. I was horribly uncomfortable, a feeling that was exacerbated by the fact that everyone else was having a great time. I hate that. I wish that I could get the stick out of my own ass in situations like that and have fun, but I can't.

I got to see people whom I enjoy the company of (Brian), but don't see too often. I also got to meet people (Brian's DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS and BRILLIANT wife Atsuko, Ann-Marie's RELATIVELY HANDSOME and RELATIVELY WITTY boyfriend Abraham) that I haven't met before whom I enjoy the company of .

The trade-off, however, was the personal hell of karaoke. Everything has its price.

TGIF

Dad gets out of the hospital today. He's already got a tee time set up for Monday. No word on the sponge bath.

I finally picked out paint for the guest bathroom. I bought four sample colors yesterday and painted swatches on the bathroom wall last night. I'm deciding among four colors, two of them blue and two of them yellow. I'm partial to the yellow. I'd post a picture, but I don't own a camera for the time being.

Athena (my sister-in-law) is spending the summer in Austria for a choral program. We gave her our camera so she could take as many pictures as she likes and not worry about the film. So I'm camera-less until we get another.

Tonight is a going-away dinner for a very good friend of mine who is moving to Arizona with his wife. I'm really sad to see him go. I've known him since high school. I'll miss him. It gives me an excuse to go to Arizona more often, now that I know three people who llive there; but really, how often will that be? Harumph.

Happy fourth, everyone. How many of you will have fireworks? I bought a pack of ground flowers, which are my favorite kind of firework. Only cost me $1.50! Woo-hoo!