Friday, August 02, 2002 (my very first post ever)

Don't touch me I'm a real live wire...

Once again, I’m awake far too late. I suffer from this damned insomnia on a regular basis but it gets worse when Andy’s away due to my crushing paranoia. My trouble is that I have a too well-developed imagination coupled with my love of murder mysteries and true crime stories...never a good combo. I should logically say that my three pooches would protect me but then my mind gets carried away and I imagine a scenario where the Killer manages to do away with them before making his way to me. Tonight I imagined him throwing the dogs some spiked meat when I let them out for their evenings’ constitutional - this fantasy was only validated by the dogs barking at some point in the distance beyond the reach of the security lamps. The dogs all went out independently of one another on their leashes and all barked at the same place in the darkness...of course, it was Killer lurking in the shadows beyond the evergreen trees. (It couldn’t, in fact, have been the dogs barking at the neighbor’s taunting cat - that would be far too simple of an explanation.)

So there’s Killer, watching the house until I ducked back inside, out of the rain. Once I was out of his vision he felt safe enough to throw my dogs a bit of..what, hamburger? chocolate?...maybe a bit of soft bread that had been soaked in some type of sleeping aide or, worse yet, a fast-acting poison. The dogs would wolf down this treat and return to the house, only to slump over in what I would assume to be their normal, “I’ve peed, now I sleep” postures. That’s when he’d make his move, knowing I was helpless to defend myself with my dogs out of commission.

Then again, perhaps Killer knows the dogs...maybe Killer is a neighbor who’s befriended the dogs on many occasions so he has nothing to fear from them. Boldly, he slips through a basement window, alerting the pups that something’s Not Right (that’s one of only two mentalities that my dogs operate under - the “Not Right” and “Everything’s Fine” categories). They give a bit of a woof and head down to investigate, only to see the smiling face of the neighbor that always pats their heads when he sees them. No worries there, come on in, buddy, Everything’s Fine. Dogs return to me upstairs to let Killer get on with his business - which surely involves creeping up behind and garroting me. My neck aches at this moment from all the times I’ve whipped my head around this evening to catch Killer in the act before he can get the wire around my throat.

Logically, I know that none of these scenarios is very likely. I’ll scoff at myself and say, “There’s no way Killer is out there in the shadows, waiting to slay me - it’s pouring rain out there, you’d have to be crazy to be out in weather like this.” But that thought quickly turns into, “Of course he’s crazy...he’s Killer! Rain means nothing to him!” Something as innocuous as a burned-out light bulb becomes sinister in my mind if I’m left alone to contemplate it.

Surely it doesn’t help that my dogs act sketchy when I roam the house all night. Again, logic says, “Of course they’re sketchy, they want you in bed - they don’t want to have to follow you through the house all night...get them into your room where they can commence with their nocturnal exercise of chewing valuable things.” And I want to, I really do want to, but I’m too scared. Granted, I feel secure when I have Zoe in bed with me at night but I dislike having the dogs locked in the same room as me - I feel as if my first line of defense is too close to me, and in this close proximity they easily become my last line of defense as well. There’s not a whole lot of warning if Killer just barges into your bedroom, catching the dogs unaware.

So I sit and I wait until I’m sure Killer has either given up on me and left or has fallen asleep while waiting for my vigilance to fail - which it never does. I know I’m being paranoid and stupid but I hate the dark and I hate being alone in this house, and I hate the weird noises that suddenly creak, hiss and pop, making even my dogs jump in their sleep. Speaking of, they all seem to be sleeping rather heavily...I hope the drugs wear off soon and they wake up, because I’m tired now and need for them to be my eyes and ears while I get some sleep.

Paranoid android-ly,

Natalie

(Note: The timestamp on this won’t match when it was really written, as I keep losing my internet connection so cannot post it right now. Some people would say that I just have a bad connection, but I think it’s more likely that Killer is trying to call my computer line from the main line to harass me before he kills me, like in that old Urban Legend...”The calls are coming from inside the house!” Thank goodness Andy is home tomorrow - and I swear, I’ll never read scary stories alone again.)

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Friday, August 02, 2002

Fish heads, fish heads, rolie polie fish heads...

In reading my last post I realized that I could easily come across as an aggressive bitch - so to counter that I thought I'd share some of my ruminations that are regularly published under the [cough] unlikely moniker of Miss Ann Thropy...they're meant to be in the style of Jack Handey, a comedic genius who you'll either love or hate. And to any hard-core Jack Handey fans who may read this, please don't think I'm thumbing my nose at the Master...think of it more as a pathetic homage.

From the archives of Miss Ann Thropy:

My husband thinks I'm immature, but he's just a big dumb poopy head.

'Y'all know I'm straight jiggified' is never a suitable answer when the judge asks you to enter your plea. Just say 'guilty' - it will save you a lot of hassle, believe me.

I hope that Best Buy starts selling toilets soon because I’d really like to test them on their, ‘Try before you buy’ policy.

Even though the slang is outdated I still laugh every time I hear the word Idaho, and I don't think I'll ever get tired of that.

It's true that you learn something new everyday. Today I learned that if I rub my wet ass on the shower tiles I can make it sound like an oboe. Right after that, I learned that I probably shouldn’t work out at this gym anymore.

Sure, you might call me 'sick' for faking my own suicide, but you've obviously never experienced 'Thank god you're not dead' sex.

I was making brownies with my mom the other day when I learned a valuable lesson: The instruction 'Beat two minutes by hand' really isn't as open to interpretation as I thought.

As I get older I've discovered that I still greatly enjoy the games I played as a young girl - skipping rope, jumping hopscotch, and fishing crumbs out of my mind-numbingly deep cleavage.

Gran used to tell me WWII stories about how women would do just about anything for a little chocolate or some panty hose. I only hope that this current war produces such reasonably-priced whores.

Whenever I see a pie eating contest at the county fair it really makes me jealous of all of those starving people in third-world countries who never have to suffer through such an indignity.

Give a man a fish and he’ll think, ‘Wow, this is a crappy gift.’ Teach a man to fish and he’ll think, ‘What kind of moron do you take me for? I already know how to go fishing!’ If you really push the issue, before too long people will begin to think you have some sort of weird fish fetish...it’s best to just leave well enough alone.

Groaningly yours,

Natalie

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Monday, August 05, 2002

Twitch your whiskers; feel that you're really real...

As per my earlier prediction, I'm here at two a.m. in the basement, only I called it wrong - I'm not up because I couldn't sleep, I'm up because I got hungry. There I was in blissful slumber when I suddenly began shivering, a sign that I needed to eat something to get my blood-sugar back in line. In times like these I could happily eat straight lard from a spoon if that's what it takes...I can usually get away with a handful of chocolate chips (which I keep a five pound bag of in the fridge for just such an occasion) but tonight I opted for a piece of pizza instead. It was Papa John's, which sadly is probably the only pizza that can claim the dubious distinction of tasting worse when cold, so I had to nuke it for a minute. Then I thought, "Hell, that's practically cooking; I'm totally awake now" so I slathered the slice in Tabasco sauce and parmesan cheese and came trucking downstairs.

A word of caution - if you have a black keyboard, never - and I repeat never - eat a slice of pie covered in parmesan cheese anywhere near the thing. And if, for whatever reason, you find yourself in the position where you absolutely must, I implore you avoid reading anything even remotely funny while trying to take a bite. The slightest chuckle will spray cheese all over your keyboard like so many snowflakes, and you just can't blow it away - even if it falls into the cracks around the keys it's still noticeable.

Anyway, here I am, giving it, "Ahhh, isn't this chair comfy, isn't this computer sexy, isn't it nice to be able to keep a connection for more than two minutes..." when I hear a skrit, skrit, skrit, coming from over my right shoulder. I didn't freak out or anything - I figured I should turn around slowly to get a good look at whatever monster was surely lurking there...you know, for the police sketch...but I didn't see anything. Not trusting my ears I got up to investigate and I heard it more clearly this time, coming from behind an inlaid bookshelf in my wall. Skrit, skrit, skkrrrrrrrrit, like the sound of claws on wood. It's a damn mouse. At least, I'm hoping it's a mouse - a friend of mine used to live in a house that was regularly flooded and he had to deal with these huge, nasty, feral river rat things, big as your forearm. (Okay, so I have to exaggerate the danger to justify my freak-out - it's just a little mouse, I know this.)

The strangest thing is that I can't figure out what's behind that wall. Our house has some weird features to it - features that are attractive to the eye, no doubt, but weird - so we can't exactly suss out what's behind this wall or that wall, or if there's a crawl space above this closet or that hallway...the lines of the walls throw off your perspective a bit. I assume that the mouse got into the house in the same fashion as all this damn water but how can I reach him so I can poison the little s.o.b.? (Now, I'm all for animal's rights or whatever, but only so far as that I believe animals have the right to life so long as they're not infringing on me...or, if they're especially tasty like chickens or cows.) Rats, mice, squirrels, whatever are cool with me but not when they're scratching up my walls - and surely poisoning it is far more humane than what my dogs would do to him if his little mouse-ass made it into the house proper. I've seen how bad those three are when they catch a squirrel and I, for one, am not looking forward to cleaning up the mess if Mr. Mousey decides to come waltzing into my living room.

For the moment it seems like my little companion has left the immediate vicinity...which probably has something to do with me punching the wall a few times to freak him out (turnabout's fair play, they say) but I don't know for how long. If Andy knew there was a mouse down here he'd never come into the basement again.

Then again, maybe I'll let the mouse stay for a while - this chair sure is comfortable.

Mercenarily yours,

Natalie

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Thursday, August 08, 2002

Just drop off the key, Lee...

I’m thinking of leaving Andy. Not for any particular reason, just because having his heart broken would do wonders for his artistic side. I was in one of those moods last night, you know the kind of mood where you look at your partner and ask such thought-provoking questions as, “If I became paralyzed from the neck down, would you still love me?” That question is about as useful as, “Do I look fat in this?” I asked him what he would do if I walked out on him.

Me: Baby, what would happen if I left you?
Andy: Depends on the circumstances.
Me: What if I ran away with Steve?
Andy: [glares]

(Steve is this really posh Cambridge guy that Andy works with who I have a little crush on - not even a crush, really, I just think he’s a cutie. I know that mentioning him riles Andy up something fierce, though, so I bring Steve up whenever I’m looking to get a rise out of him.)

Me: What if I just got sick of your crap and left?
Andy: I’d get really drunk.
Me: You wouldn’t come after me, try to get me back?
Andy: I’d be too drunk.

Sigh.

It’s a strange thing, being married. Sometimes I think about what would happen if Andy and I split up…I start thinking about how we’d have to sell the house, how we’d fight over who gets this or that, where I’d live, where he’d live, how I could trick him into keeping the dogs…there’s a lot of crap involved! The last boyfriend I had before I met Andy was a fairly easy break-up – I took most of my cds and the stuff that hadn’t been broken in the process of the break-up and just left. Think you’re getting your damage deposit back? Ha, here’s my size ten boot through your wall! Oh, you want me to make sure my mail doesn’t keep getting delivered to your place? Whoops, I just accidentally knocked over the mailbox. What do you mean, this cd is yours? Here, fetch the Frisbee, you ass.

Breaking up with a boyfriend can be pretty fun when you think about it. But breaking up with a husband…that sounds like an awful lot of work to me. It looks like running away with Steve isn’t going to be an option anytime soon – it’s just easier to keep the Englishman I have, even if he has heard all of my jokes already.

Committed-ly,

Natalie

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Monday, August 12, 2002

Way to go, Mr. Microphone...

Yesterday, Andy and Zoe went shopping, which was nice because I got to sleep in without Zoe climbing all over me asking, “Mommy, you sleeping?” in her too-loud stage whisper. I was still vaguely asleep when they returned - I heard them come through the door, heard the dogs barking, and heard the voice of a very mature-sounding little girl, who I put at being about six years old or so. This worried me, as Zoe’s only two and a half-years old, and my nine-year old won’t be home for the summer until Sunday. Who was this little girl? I assumed the worst...you see, Andy is like many men in that he sometimes forgets what he’s doing or where he’s meant to be going if he’s not under the vigilant supervision of a woman. He’s the type of guy who I can send to the store for some eggs, milk and bread, and he’ll come home with a soccer ball, a VCR and an Asian child named Chan. Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration, but once I did send him to the store for a birthday card and he came back with dog food. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he somehow forgot that we didn’t have a six-year old daughter and just picked one up when he was out. I was more than a touch afraid that the authorities would soon bang down my door and demand the girl back, while I would have to explain, “No, he’s not a kidnapper, he just didn’t realize that this wasn’t our child. Yes, I know that sounds far-fetched...well, it was her fault for being chatty with him at the store, acting like she knew him - what was he supposed to think?”

Thankfully, it was only a talking toy. A talking cash register, to be exact, to go along with Zoe's myriad other toys that tell jokes, giggle, demand to have their shoes tied and bark out, “Play with me, I love you!” (I tried to use that line once on Andy when he was particularly engrossed in some form of computer issue he was dealing with and I was feeling neglected - a word of advice, don’t ever use this line on your husband. It freaked him out just enough that he didn’t want to play with me for a long time afterwards.)

This toy cash register came with the most realistic-looking play money I’ve ever seen, a credit card (with a card swiper that always says, “credit approved”...if only!) a ten-key calculator, microphone (so the child playing with the register can price-check all of those embarrassing purchases that you try your hardest to make as covertly and as casually as possible but it never works out that way. There’s always some teenager running the register that says, “Oh, did you know this [insert embarrassing product here] had a 20-cent off coupon by the display? Let me page someone to grab one for you.”) and coolest of all, it has an infrared scanner gun that supposedly scans real UPC codes...or as I like to call them, “Marks of the Beast.” It works, in a way, as it consistently scanned a book I was reading at $4.50 and a can of peas at $1.25. Though it also scanned the back of Zoe’s head for seventy cents and the freckle on my arm for $3.15. Okay, so it’s not infallible.

I have two complaints about this item, however, one of which is that every time it gets turned on the little-girl voice goes through this whole sales schpiel about how you should buy the register because it will provide you and your friends with hours of fun. Yes, we certainly hope so, that’s why we bought you - now shut up! The second complaint is two-fold, the first being that the speaker is too close to the microphone which results in some nasty feedback, the second being that my dogs have figured out how to paw the button to make this feedback occur. For some reason, this amuses them to no end, and they sit there as long as I let them with a paw on the button, tilting their heads back and forth with their ears cocked up, as if trying to decipher the hidden message. Maybe there is a hidden message - maybe this time it’s a person telling a dog to go on a killing spree, I don’t know. All I know is that, at the risk of breaking Zoe’s heart, I think that Mr. Microphone may have to have a little meeting with Mr. Wire Cutters. We could make a new game of it, with mommy pretending like she’s trying to deactivate a bomb while sweating profusely with Zoe saying, “Mommy, cutta boo un.” Of course, my training as a top bomb-squad guy will have taught me that she, of course, means, “Cut the blue wire.” I will, the mic will let out one last, sad, blissfully low-toned squeal and retire. Sure, my dogs may be upset that I’ve taken this pleasure away from them but they’ll most likely go right back to playing their second favorite game, “Catch the moth that’s actually on the outside of the window but we don’t know that because we’re stupid dogs.”

Amplified-ly,

Natalie

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Saturday, August 17, 2002

(Note: I've currently been away from my blog in order to fully tweak out all of the imperfections in my new blog, pickle juice, which is why there have been no new posts as of late. Here, instead of a proper entry, is a diatribe I wrote a few days ago when I was feeling particularly nasty towards the world in general...unfortunately, Moby stepped in the way of my wrath. I apologize for subjecting you to the same asinine drivel that Moby does but I feel I should post something. Watch this space for the new, improved blog in the near future. ~Natalie)

You don't know me, you're too old, let go - its over, nobody listens to techno...

Moby is easily the most painful person I’ve subjected myself to in a long, long time. I could just say, “Isn’t Moby a dick?” but I don’t want people to think I’m being punny – although that’s probably the most fitting word for the guy.

My annoyance is my own fault; I’ll own it. See, I’ve developed a certain loathsome fascination with celebrity web logs (I’ll never use the word “celeblogs” – the first time I saw that word in print I wanted to burn my eyes with some caustic chemical) and, unfortunately for me, my meanderings brought me to www.moby.com. He’s had his blog going for two years now or so and admits that he’s in love with the sound of his own voice and political musings, which is evident by his entries. They transcend even the most banal “regular folk” web logs out there, though he spends a lot of time with a thesaurus trying to smarten them up. I guess the great-great-grand nephew of Herman Melville feels that he should sound more pompous and literate than his fellow human beings, I don’t know. (For the record, I find Melville himself to be just as painful to read, so perhaps it runs in the family.)

Case in point, when commenting on his prom Moby says, “I enjoyed it in an ennui-laden, postmodern sort of way.” All I read into this is that Moby’s date wasn’t as, erm, responsive as she probably could have been. Maybe I’m way off-base; perhaps the band just didn’t have enough synth in their sound so Moby was bummed out about that – he would have attended his prom somewhere around 1982 or so and I have to say that if I were subjected to early ‘80’s music at my own prom I would probably view it as “ennui-laden” as well.

Moby is, apparently, a Christian who spends quite a lot of time quoting the Bible when it reflects his beliefs – and wholly ignoring it when it contradicts them, but isn’t that the very nature of religion? Heck, the Bible contradicts itself enough on its own without good Christians like Moby trying to make it all fit together. He uses scripture to explain why he’s vegan, as God dictated to Adam and Eve before they were banished from the Garden of Eden that all the plants that come from seeds shall be theirs to consume (apart from the apples, of course). The Bible also says that man shall have dominion over animals, which Moby interprets as man is meant to treat animals as if we are like gods to them, “in other words, with kindness and compassion and great reverence.” I really have to disagree with him on that score – if we treated animals like God treats man we’d constantly jack with them: punishing them to see if they’d turn on us, casting them aside if they “worship” others besides their owners, damn them to Hell for not obeying us…and don’t even get me started on what we, as Dog-Gods, would do to them if we paid any attention to their sexual practices. Humping a pillow, indeed! Thou shalt not lie with pillows as thy do with other dogs...and isn’t crotch-sniffing some form of lust or coveting or something? I’m not trying to bash Moby’s beliefs; I just find humor in looking at the other end of the spectrum and comparing the two.

Some of my favorite entries are ones where Moby gets all sciency and introspective – or, as he says, when he’s “on the verge of a bunch of epiphanies”. Now, I have some (what I feel are) interesting theories on quantum physics and the limitations of cosmic “bandwidth”, as it were, but if I posted about them here I’d feel, look, and fully expect to be treated like an ass. Then again, I don’t have an adoring fan-base that believe everything that comes from my mind is gospel and who fall all over themselves telling me what a “beautiful soul” I have. I’m what Moby and Moby fans would describe as “hateful”. (That’s the “word of the day” every day over at Moby.com – I suggest you start using it in your vernacular. Here’s an assignment…daily, seek out one person that you don’t agree with, even if it’s on a slight point like where to eat lunch, and accuse them of being hateful. Oh, and intolerant and ignorant, those are some good buzz words as well. And remember, Moby loves everyone; unless you’re ignorant, hateful or intolerant…then he ignorantly dismisses you in a hateful and intolerant way. It’s quite an enjoyable process to watch.)

I have to say that my absolute favorite entry is when Moby discusses popular music, i.e. “Top 40” or “Billboard 200” stuff. His theory – and oh, this is a fun one – is that the music that tops the charts is music that isn’t very smart, so the people who enjoy it aren’t very smart. He brings up some example of how “smart music fans” are computer-savvy enough to burn copies of cds or download the music from the internet…I forgot, it takes a genius to type in “.mp3” on a search engine. Anyway, let’s run with this premise for a minute…if you’re “smart” and into “smart music” you download it for free – because surely, buying an album is the epitome of stupidity. Therefore, the “smart” demographic isn’t being fairly represented in the music charts, which is why people like the Baha Men have Grammy awards. (Oh, and weren’t they the ones who beat Moby? Ouch, that’s a harsh example to use…oh well.) This is an easy enough theory to swallow unless you consider the source – Mr. Moby’s album, Play, went double platinum, and his latest release, 18, has already gone gold. Easy to swallow, hard to digest, wouldn’t you say? Is this an insult to his fans, himself, or just the fans that actually fork over the $17.99 for his albums? Keep in mind that this is the same guy who felt the need to explain that his video for “South Side” was a parody…how smart are we now, Moby?

Caustically,

Natalie

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Friday, September 06, 2002

Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy...

Forgive the absence – I visited my parents in Illinois over the long weekend and since arriving home I’ve been in this cleaning mode where I stalk through the house with a steamer and a bucket of bleach. Germs are bad, mmm’kay? You know you’re getting out-of-hand with your cleaning when you say to yourself, “Even though I’ve steamed the backs of the couches they still don’t seem sterile enough.” Who sees the back of the couches? Not me, not anyone but my three dogs. But just knowing there may be germs there is troubling me…I stand in the living room, staring at the couches through slitted eyes (I don’t want the couches to know I’m watching them) and plan my next assault. I do the casual, “whistling while looking around the room” thing when all the while I have a can of upholstery cleaner behind my back. Can’t let the couches know I’m on to them…and I really must think of moving them further apart to thwart their planning of an offensive strike against me. Divide and conquer, a couch divided against itself cannot stand, and any number of other war-time axioms flitter through my mind like so many insane butterflies. I will not fail.

I’d like to say that the couple of days away from home were a nice vacation but that’s obviously not the case – I’m still as mad as a hatter, despite hanging out with my dad. I really love talking to that guy, no matter what kind of an asshole he is in his day-to-day life. I never had much time for him when I was growing up, nor he for me…until I was twelve I’m sure he thought I was a neighbor kid. He worked in a factory his whole life and when he would come home from work he’d plant himself on the couch with a bottle of Pepsi and a “The Andy Taylor Show” rerun and not move for hours. He would sit with his foot propped up on his knee and I would pop through the hole between his legs, ala Bugs Bunny, and say, “Ehh…(chomp chomp) what’s up, doc?” He would stare at me like he’d never seen me before and yell over his shoulder, “Mary, there’s a kid in here.” Mom would say, “Come on, Natalie, leave him alone” and dad would look at me and say, “Listen to your mother…Natalie” as if he wasn’t sure if that was my name or not.

Now that I’m an adult I can’t get enough of the guy. When my pilot light goes out I call him for help, when my pipes leak he’s right there for me. But it’s the face-to-face conversations that I really love. He has this fantastic forehead, my dad, high and smooth without wrinkles, like he’s never worried about anything in his life. I, on the other hand, am sporting a fierce worry-line right between my eyes that reaches my hairline. I envy his forehead.

The best part of talking to him is getting to see his little conversational idiosyncrasies – the way he juts out his hand and rolls his eyes when he’s mad, how he rubs his chin in deep thought before saying, “The thing of it is, you see…” and his dismissive wave as he says, “Don’t worry about it!” You really have to talk to the guy to appreciate it – believe me, it’s fantastic. I’ll sit with him for hours and if the conversation starts to lag or if it seems like he’s wanting to go to bed I’ll say something like, “So…how about those new expansion teams in the MLB?” He looks at me like I’m an idiot and say, “Where the hell have you been?” and go into a tirade about baseball.

I never learn anything of consequence from him, though he’s lived a very interesting life in many respects. I know that he wants the Twins to play in the World Series but he doesn’t want them to win, I know that he’s never seen Citizen Kane, I know that he fiercely guards his political affiliations but if you catch him on the right day he’ll treat you to a tirade about LBJ. He once saw a man get his hand stabbed at a card table when he reneged on trump during a particularly high-stakes euchre game and that he’s allergic to something in ketchup but has never been interested enough to figure out exactly what. I know that he only considers himself a senior citizen when the discount suits him, otherwise he thinks he’s much younger than he is. One day the weather man advised that children and the elderly should avoid going outside due to the heat index. I saw dad grab his golf clubs so I warned him, “Hey, dad, the weather man says that senior citizens should stay out of the sun today.” Dad said, “Well, if I see any, I’ll let them know.”

I know that the veins in his legs are getting worse and some days he can barely walk but if you ask him about it he’ll throw you a dismissive hand and say, “Don’t worry about it.” But I do, and I can’t help it. If something happens to him I don’t know who I’ll call to help me with my pilot light.

Paternal-ly,

Natalie

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Wednesday, September 25, 2002

It's not so bad being [Bobby] trendy, everyone who looks like me is my friend...

(I opted for the Anna Nicole Smith post, just cuz I'm all civic-minded like that.)

What in the world is Bobby Trendy thinking with that frou-frou pink feathered Ben Franklin Crafts bed set?!? How utterly revolting – it looks like a craft that a Girl Scout troop would make for Mother’s Day…now you take the hot glue and make a design, girls, then just go crazy with the sparkles and feathers! I cannot understand how any self-respecting “designer” would put his name to that monstrosity – to be honest, it really made me doubt his homosexuality. I’ve known artists and designers who are straight but who “flame it up” in order to give themselves more…I don’t know, credibility, perhaps? I think that’s what we’re dealing with here. I thought as much the first time I laid eyes on the bedroom set and this idea was further reinforced when he went mano a mano with the other designer, you know the guy who put the furry squares on the walls, and just whined the whole time. “Well, it’s not my fault, Howard was barking at me about the price, you get what you pay for, Howard wanted me to do the job cheaply, it’s Howard’s fault…” Oh just shut up already, would you? And you just know that Bobby thought he was being catty by asking about the other designer’s shop and criticizing his work…”See, I would have padded this and charged $6500 for the whole room…” Yack, barf down my blouse – fuzzy pink and white squares through the whole room?!? Christly Christ, one wall was far more than enough, thank you very much. Clearly, style was a stranger in this house. Custom-ordered for Anna Nicole Smith or not, how in the world did these two guys allow this pink and white to happen? It defies logic. I would have expected comments like, “Sweetie, there is such a thing as too much, and you’re way past that.” Or even a well placed, “Um…no. Yeah, I think I’m going to have to go with no on this one.” Anna Nicole has the power to be the dictionary definition of a fag-hag but she just loses it with these two guys. Truly pathetic.

So that’s my big Anna Nicole Smith rant – I had more to say on the subject but I have too much to do in the short amount of time that Andy’s still away. I wasted quite a chunk of time earlier taking the purity test…I'm not even going to tell you what I scored. Initially I was rather proud of my number until I realized I was on the wrong side of being pure. I have to go think up a penance for myself.

Dirty-ly,

Natalie

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Thursday, September 26, 2002

So Andy was in Chicago for the past couple of days and there was a bit of an incident. Before he gets a chance to post about things from his side I thought I'd briefly outline what happened from my perspective. Of course, some of this is assumed and/or embellished but it's a very likely scenario. The friend who was with Andy shall remain nameless - because I can't remember who it was, exactly - and I won't say the name of the hotel where this altercation took place...let's just call it the Byatt.

Now I present to you, "A Drunken Englishman in Chicago" - enjoy!

(Andy and friend stumble into the hotel lobby after a night of strip clubs and "Wacker Drive" jokes and drunkenly approach the front desk. Not drunk in a sexy Marlon Brando "A Streetcar Named Desire" way, more like in an "I'm drunk because I'm in a different city than my wife" kind of way. The front desk clerk notices this and glances at the clock, wishing her shift would end before the pair made their way to the desk. Too bad; she still has a few hours to go so she pastes on a smile and asks how she can help them.)

Friend: My friend and I need to check in.
Clerk: (to friend) Very good, sir. Here is your room key; you can find the elevators around the corner. (Turning to Andy) I'm sorry, sir, but it appears we've oversold for the night and we don't have a room for you.

(Secretly she's pleased that she'll not have to deal with him but she tries to be professional about it as Andy tries to register what's just been said to him. An argument breaks out consisting of little more than Andy demanding a room and the girl refusing him a room. Then Andy resorts to threats.)

Andy: Fine, you don't want to give me a room? I'll just sit here in your lobby, smoking and singing - how would you like that?
Clerk: Sir, we'll have to call the police on you for being disruptive to our other guests and for loitering. We've offered you a room at Days Inn; I can call you a cab. Or if you like, you can double up with your friend for the evening.

(Andy and friend eye each other suspiciously, trying to assess the latent homosexual tendencies of the other and simultaneously blurt out, "No way!")

Clerk: Fine then, I'll call Days Inn to let them know you're coming.

(Friend exits - Andy plants himself on a couch in the lobby and lights up a cigarette.)

Clerk: (into phone) Yes, we have a guest here that we can't accommodate and we'd like to send him to you - do you have any rooms?
Andy: (at the top of his lungs) The devil went down to Georgia, he was looking for a soul to steal!!!
Clerk: Yes, that's the guest you're hearing. I'm afraid he's a bit out of sorts at the moment but he's harmless.

(She must use tact and diplomacy, because if the Days Inn refuse him all she can offer Andy is a ride to the train station and she really doesn't want to have to do that - after all, Andy is foreign and she's not sure if these terrorists might have come from England as well. She's not keen on the idea of Andy declaring a jihad on her hotel lobby.)

Andy: (voice cracking a bit at the strain) Give me land, lots of land, and the starry sky above!!!
Clerk: Sir, while you're waiting for your taxi would you please keep your voice down?
Andy: NO! You know what? My wife used to run a hotel; I'm going to call her to see what she has to say about this.

(Interior of the Yates bedroom. Natalie is lying in bed seriously contemplating Harrison Ford. Her conclusion is that, despite his stature and talent, if you met him in real life he'd be just like the stroked-out uncle that you always get stuck with at family picnics. The phone rings so she stumbles out to answer it. Caller ID tells her it's Andy.)

Natalie: Hey, what's up?

(Andy relays his problem in a disjointed way - Natalie isn't sure exactly what he wants from her. She thinks that perhaps he's lost somewhere in Chicago and she'll have to guide him back but it seems like he just wants to use the phone call as an excuse to shout obscenities at the desk clerk.)

Andy: So this loser here oversold the hotel and I don't have a room!
Natalie: Audible sigh.
Andy: Why did you just say "audible sigh"?
Natalie: Well, we have a bad connection and I didn't think you could hear the actual sigh so I just wanted to let you know that I'd done it.
Andy: So what should I do?
Natalie: Just go to the other hotel and deal with it tomorrow. This girl can't help you.
Andy: But how can I make her give me a room?
Natalie: You can't - if the rooms are full you're not going to get one.
Andy: But how can I make her kick someone else out so I can have their room?
Natalie: Rolls eyes.
Andy: Did you just say "rolls eyes"?
Natalie: Nevermind. Just go to the other hotel.
Andy: No, I want someone kicked out of the hotel, and I want her job!
Clerk: Sir, you couldn't fit into my skirt.
Andy: What are you, about a nine? That skirt would fit me.
Clerk: Audible sigh.
Natalie: Andy, just go to the other hotel, okay?
Andy: No, I'll just sit here and sing songs. I'll call you back when this bitch gives me a room. (hangs up)

(Natalie runs to her purse to get the debit card and frantically tries to remember the name of that nice bail bondsman that helped her out a few years ago and hopes that he'll take a payment over the phone. She wonders what the Chicago PD are going to do with Andy and hopes that he'll at least make bail early enough for his conference in the morning. Phone rings again.)

Andy: I'm in a cab, going to Days Inn.
Natalie: Good, get some sleep. (hangs up)

(Natalie begins to worry that he may not actually make it to the Days Inn so she calls him back.)

Andy: (seriously overexcited) You wouldn't believe what happened! The cab driver was listening to me bitching about the other hotel and he said that Days Inn just sucked and that it wasn't acceptable for me to stay there and that it was wrong the way the other girl treated me so he got me sorted out at an even better hotel!
Natalie: Did he then put on a cape and fly away into the night to fight for truth, justice and the American way?
Andy: No, I think he was going to pick someone up from O'Hare.
Natalie: So it all worked out in the end?
Andy: Yeah, pretty good.
Natalie: Alright, good-night.

(The next day Andy calls)

Andy: Man, was I seriously pissed off last night. You know, I actually threatened to sit in the hotel lobby and sing bad country songs?
Natalie: Huh, you don't say?
Andy: (laughing) Glad I didn't make an ass of myself!
Natalie: Audible groan.
Andy: What?
Natalie: Nothing, dear. Happy it all worked out for you.

(Fade.)

He's a funny guy.

Self-mocking-ly,

Natalie

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Wednesday, October 02, 2002

I married my father. At least, I married a younger, unrelated English version of the guy, and I’m a little bit scared by that.

Over the weekend we went to visit my parents in Illinois. For once, all of my sisters managed to come around to see me – there are usually one or two who can’t make it, or won’t because I’m “fighting” with them…fights that usually involve me making a comment akin to, “You’re an idiot” and Random Sister saying, “Oh yeah? Well, I hate you” and whinging to my mother about me. Often, I don’t even realize I’m “in a fight” with Random Sister until she apologizes for something. They can’t get it through their heads that I really don’t care what they say/think/do and I don’t exactly spend a lot of time worrying about why I haven’t heard from them in a while.

So on Saturday night we had my sisters over, whom I will refer to as Boob Job, Hippy and Ditz. Boob Job is actually ditzier than Ditz but the boobs are more noticeable than her stupidity (most of the time) so she’s Boob Job. Ditz is pregnant by either her current boyfriend, ex-boyfriend who tried to kill her twice, ex-boyfriend’s brother, our cousin’s roommate or current boyfriend’s cousin. I could just call Ditz “Slut” but that’s too harsh on the girl – I prefer to call her “incredibly accommodating”. At any rate, her justification for not knowing who she’s pregnant by is that each potential “Baby Daddy” is Hispanic, so unless there’s a paternity test in the future she can go ahead and pretend that Current Boyfriend is the real father. (Jerry Springer, anyone?)

Ditz is probably the least offensive of my sisters, though she’s tried to bed Andy a few times. Thinking on it, she tried to bed me once – but hey, she was drunk, and after all, we’re only half-sisters. Yack. But she’s fun.

Hippy is what I lovingly refer to as a “bed-wetting liberal” – which is fine to an extent, as I’m a leftist myself. The problem I have with her is that she’ll hear one little snippet of a Newsworthy Item and instantly form an opinion of it, regardless of history and fact. Until recently, her interest in politics was restricted to the legalization of marijuana and a blanket “save the environment” stance. Yet she’s a NASCAR fan – I don’t understand how someone who wants to save the rainforest/baby seals/arctic tundra/small woodland creatures that are too stupid to save themselves/landfill space can justify watching and supporting a “sport” that wastes so many natural resources and pollutes the air. Her response to my argument is, “Well, that’s different.” Ah, touché.

Boob Job has a Barbie Doll complex. Growing up she used to say that she was going to be Barbie, marry Ken, have one son and one daughter, get a cat and a dog and drive a Jeep. All of this, indeed, came to pass, and she is now Mrs. All-American. Just this weekend she said, “I don’t care how much debt I have as long as I look good and my kids wear designer clothes.” (It should be pointed out that her children are neurotic and live in fear of getting their CK’s dirty. Her one-year-old daughter freaked out last week because she had a smudge of dirt on the bottom of her Skechers. How I wish I was joking about that.) Boob Job has no time for current events, education, personal growth (except for the plastic surgery kind) or compromise. She’s ignorant and loud – couple that with Hippy’s “opinionated and loud” and Ditz’s “moronic and loud” and you have one very stressful household when the girls get together.

I’m not a loud person but when I’m competing with all of the above I tend to be. I guess I could be classified as “sarcastic and loud” when the mood strikes. Often, Andy enjoys bearing audience to this spectacle but this weekend he hid out in my father’s den – which has been dubbed “the fort” for some reason, I think you can figure out why. Dad’s room is kitted out with a television, DVD, VCR, recliner, desk, stereo, porn and more food than we eat in a month. This guy is definitely preparing for something. Dad was away at his 45th high school reunion so the room belonged to Andy for the night. Initially, I was amused that Andy planted himself in my dad’s room like that until at one point I sneaked in to steal a candy bar out of my dad’s stash and had to do a double-take. I swear, I thought it was my father sitting there. Andy sits just like my dad does, has the same body type as my dad, and even falls asleep the same way. I stood there staring at him for a few minutes trying to shake the Dad/Andy image – even though it faded away the memory still lingers and disturbs me. I don’t want to be married to my dad – I know what he’s like in old age and it’s not pretty.

So what have I been doing? I’ve been planning the construction of Andy’s very own “fort” here in our house. I don’t know why I’m encouraging him to follow in my father’s footsteps…my mom initially wanted my father to have a den because she doesn’t particularly like him and wanted him to stay out of her way. But I actually like my husband, why am I giving him a den, too?

My dad is pissed off that Andy’s getting his own fort. I told Dad I’m decorating it in Manchester United stuff (I’ve been collecting autographs and memorabilia for four years now, solely to decorate the room) and plan to put in Andy’s unix box, television, DVD, VCR, recliner, desk, stereo, porn and a little fridge for his beer and food at some point in the next couple of weeks. Dad railed – “I had to wait twenty years for my den and he’s getting one this early in the marriage? That’s not fair!” Andy replies with a wink and a smile, not unlike my father’s expression, and says, “Yeah? Tough luck.” Just like dad. It’s pretty creepy.

I should stop blogging about my dad – I told him a while ago about blogging and that I’d mentioned him in an entry and his response was, “You don’t need to be telling the internet about me.” So, internet, if you’re out there, don’t pay attention to anything about my dad; it makes him paranoid.

Now I’m off to move Andy’s computer desk into his fort – I hope this turns out to be a good thing, not that he completely transforms into my father and starts wearing pocket t-shirts and Wrangler jeans. I don’t want to be married to my dad, I really, really don’t.

Oedipal-ly,

Natalie

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Thursday, October 24, 2002

And just when I thought I was on my way out the door the grocery delivery guy arrives. Since I am a recluse and live in fear of even answering my phone or opening my door when I'm not expecting to I decided to waste a little time reading The Stranger until Delivery Guy left. This is an excerpt from "Savage Love", an advice column written by Dan Savage, in which he's discussing his recent interview with Bill O'Reilly of Fox. I hate O'Reilly (because really, how could you not?) and when I read this I laughed so hard that I'm sure Delivery Guy heard me. (Here you go, Andy, a post you can understand!)

Anyway, I was having a nice enough chat with the combative Mr. O'Reilly, holding my own, defending pot smokers and sex educators and other sinners. And then... O'Reilly asked me what I thought about gay bathhouses. I made the mistake of telling O'Reilly the truth: I hate gay bathhouses and I think they should be closed. This is not a new position. I've been an on-the-record gay-bathhouse basher for 10 years now. (And, guys, are gay bathhouses even necessary these days? Websites like Gay.com have basically turned every gay man's apartment into a virtual/potential gay bathhouse, so do we really need to go to the real thing anymore? Why eat out when you can order in?)

O'Reilly pounced. "I want to go to a gay bathhouse!" he barked. "I want to go to a gay bathhouse!" I was stunned. There I was, sitting across the table from the darling of the American right, and... and... he was shouting at me about wanting to go to a gay bathhouse. "If I want to pursue happiness in a gay bathhouse, shouldn't I be free to do that, Mr. Savage?" I didn't know what to say. If Bill O'Reilly wanted to go to a gay bathhouse, well, who was I to tell him he shouldn't?

I told O'Reilly that he was right, and admitted that my urge to close gay bathhouses was inconsistent with my do-whatever-feels-good positions on drugs and other sexual acts. "You win," I said, but really I was thinking, "Get me the hell away from this guy before he shouts 'I want to go to a gay bathhouse' again!" Picturing gay men in a gay bathhouse is revolting enough. Picturing Bill O'Reilly in a gay bathhouse? That could put a gay guy off gay sex for the rest of his unnatural life.

But... it occurred to me as I was leaving FOX News that there had to be a talented DJ or two out there who can't stand O'Reilly.... So, Mr. DJ, why not sample Bill O'Reilly barking "I want to go to a gay bathhouse!," put a catchy beat under it, and release it as an underground dance single? An ambitious DJ might make a video to go along with the single--a video that showed Bill O'Reilly barking "I want to go to a gay bathhouse!" over and over again. If someone pulls together "I Want to Go to a Gay Bathhouse!," I'm positive it will be the surprise dance hit this winter in Ibiza. And wouldn't that be lovely?

Ahhh, that's good stuff. Ugh, I wish my mascara was waterproof - I'm laughing so hard I have black streaks running down my face.

Bathhouse-ingly,

Natalie

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Saturday, October 26, 2002

Things overheard at an STD clinic in St. Paul - unceremoniously ripped off from City Pages.

"I have reason to believe my penis was exposed to LSD. When I ejaculate I have flashbacks."

"My hair is falling out and the sun hurts my crotch."

"I went to a party, had a few beers, woke up in a closet later on and my face stunk and my dick hurt."

"My last period looked like meat."

"My balls feel soft and mushy."

"I be messin' with these nasty women from Minnesota and they don't tell you they got something unless they mad at you."

"How am I supposed to do lap dances smelling like a dead fish?"

"I got the dripper."

"I have food chunks in my urine."

"Had sex with my daughter's fiancé and then douched with Lysol--feelin' a little raw down there."

"Scabs on my butt and I'm losing my mind."

"I'm releasing semen when I take a crap."

"I was poked in the rectum with the infected finger of a 70-year-old homosexual man."

"I live at the VA and my roommate has his girlfriend from Minneapolis over. They throw ticks at me that bite my neck and when I pop the sores, they smell like vagina juice."

"Can't you put the swab in further?"

"I had sex with my baby's momma, sex with my other baby's momma and my other new baby's momma has disease."

"Last time I had sex I passed something that looked like Cream of Wheat before it's cooked."

"My cervix hurts when I jiggle."

"The seam in my circumcision split open."

"I be messin' with my ex-wife and my girlfriend and I don't trust either of them."

"My whole body smells like a menstruating woman, especially my armpits."

"From the looks of my penis, I believe they are sucking the adrenaline out of me."

"I think they hypnotized me and put implants and poltergeists in my brain and had sex with me."

"I think my boyfriend knows what's going on. He's been calling me a 'chlamydiahoris.'"

"My pee smells like ham."

Sexual healing-ly,

Natalie