Ok, if there is some kind of prize for people who obsessively love their pets and do crazy things for them and if I get hit by a bus before I can get the award that I so richly deserve, will someone please nominate me to get it posthumously? Because I really should get one.
You KNOW how much Goldie likes fireworks. They are right up there with rectal thermometers and deer ticks in the Goldie Dog Book o' Fun Things. Actually I know for a fact she would rather have either of those things than to suffer through fireworks nearby.
Every night (EVERY STINKING NIGHT) for the duration of the 12-day county fair, there are fireworks at 10 pm. We live about 1/2 mile from the fairgrounds.
So every night at 9:45, Goldie and I jump in the car and I drive like Lot fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah to Carpinteria, about 15 miles north, where I turn around and drive back home.
Every stinking night.
It has worked out better for her than for me. She hasn't been traumatized, but I usually go to bed about 10, since I get up 5:15ish. When I get home after our drive, I can't go to bed right away and end up twittering at midnight. Yawn.
I may fall asleep at my desk and be fired and end up homeless in a cardboard box, but at least my dog will be calm.
06 August 2008
Call for submissions
I wonder what kind of S&M weirdos that title will bring to my blog. Hi, weirdos! But this isn't about THAT, it is about my friends Suzanne and Alex and their latest project.
One of my favorite parts of BlogHer is seeing women get inspired there and go out and do great things. The first year I went, there were a few books for sale by the women there. This year, there was a whole table full, so many that I had to step away lest I bankrupt myself supporting some of my favorite people.
When I first met Suzanne in 2006, she wasn't a published author. Now she is: her book Off the Beaten Subway Track: New York City's Best Unusual Attractions came out this summer and is topping the Amazon charts (well, it ought to be).
Now she and Alex are looking for submissions for their new effort, an anthology of period stories - I mean menstruation, not hockey - and they asked me to help get the word out.
I know there are some great stories out there. Mine is written and I am editing like mad.
If you would like to step up to the plate and take a swing, go to their website, Congratulations, You're a Woman Now! and check it out. The deadline is September 1, so don't dilly dally! And tell them Suebob sent you. It doesn't make me any money, but I want them to know how mighty and powerful I am.
One of my favorite parts of BlogHer is seeing women get inspired there and go out and do great things. The first year I went, there were a few books for sale by the women there. This year, there was a whole table full, so many that I had to step away lest I bankrupt myself supporting some of my favorite people.
When I first met Suzanne in 2006, she wasn't a published author. Now she is: her book Off the Beaten Subway Track: New York City's Best Unusual Attractions came out this summer and is topping the Amazon charts (well, it ought to be).
Now she and Alex are looking for submissions for their new effort, an anthology of period stories - I mean menstruation, not hockey - and they asked me to help get the word out.
I know there are some great stories out there. Mine is written and I am editing like mad.
If you would like to step up to the plate and take a swing, go to their website, Congratulations, You're a Woman Now! and check it out. The deadline is September 1, so don't dilly dally! And tell them Suebob sent you. It doesn't make me any money, but I want them to know how mighty and powerful I am.
04 August 2008
Oeuf means egg
I have some strong opinions about food. I LOVE food. Food is my friend. I hate when people HURT food.
This rant came because I just read an old poet-friend's blog and she talked about putting grated ginger in scrambled eggs. Good gosh, Laura-Marie, I love you, woman, but NO NO NO. That...is wrong.
Eggs are a tough subject. I have a delicate, complicated relationship with eggs. As someone who loves to cook and bake, eggs are so handy.
But because of the smell and the texture, eggs can turn on me. I don't like things that are slippery or rubbery and eggs so often tip the scale over into nausea territory.
Scrambled eggs? Yes, if they are cooked absolutely dry. In this manner, I have consumed omelets and breakfast burritos aplenty.
Meringue? Sure!
Egg drop soup? My sister Laura always used to make me laugh at American Chinese soups by calling them "Cream of Cornstarch," which, once you start thinking about it, makes you not order the soup course when going out for Chinese (even if the soup is free with meal, I still can't do it).
Poached or fried eggs? Er no, the texture. The floor is starting to tilt a little and my stomach is doing that fluttery thing. Don't EVEN think of busting that yolk so that...gaaaaaah....the yellow part ooozes onto other food...I can't look.
True weirdo confession: I am 47 years old and have never, ever gotten up in the morning and made myself an egg or two. I just can't face an egg that early in the morning. Eggs are "out" food.
Boiled eggs? (I wrote something super disgusting comparing the smell of boiled eggs to something else but edited it out because I am nice that way). NO BOILED EGGS IN ANYTHING NO WAY PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE. How do people EAT these things? Why? As a 20-year vegetarian, I can tell you that I would much rather sit down to a heaping plate of bacon than to eat one boiled egg. That's how much I love boiled eggs.
Let me share my favorite egg recipe: Put one dozen eggs in the refrigerator. Age for 6 months. Toss out. Repeat. I never get tired of this one!
How do you like your eggs?
This rant came because I just read an old poet-friend's blog and she talked about putting grated ginger in scrambled eggs. Good gosh, Laura-Marie, I love you, woman, but NO NO NO. That...is wrong.
Eggs are a tough subject. I have a delicate, complicated relationship with eggs. As someone who loves to cook and bake, eggs are so handy.
But because of the smell and the texture, eggs can turn on me. I don't like things that are slippery or rubbery and eggs so often tip the scale over into nausea territory.
Scrambled eggs? Yes, if they are cooked absolutely dry. In this manner, I have consumed omelets and breakfast burritos aplenty.
Meringue? Sure!
Egg drop soup? My sister Laura always used to make me laugh at American Chinese soups by calling them "Cream of Cornstarch," which, once you start thinking about it, makes you not order the soup course when going out for Chinese (even if the soup is free with meal, I still can't do it).
Poached or fried eggs? Er no, the texture. The floor is starting to tilt a little and my stomach is doing that fluttery thing. Don't EVEN think of busting that yolk so that...gaaaaaah....the yellow part ooozes onto other food...I can't look.
True weirdo confession: I am 47 years old and have never, ever gotten up in the morning and made myself an egg or two. I just can't face an egg that early in the morning. Eggs are "out" food.
Boiled eggs? (I wrote something super disgusting comparing the smell of boiled eggs to something else but edited it out because I am nice that way). NO BOILED EGGS IN ANYTHING NO WAY PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE. How do people EAT these things? Why? As a 20-year vegetarian, I can tell you that I would much rather sit down to a heaping plate of bacon than to eat one boiled egg. That's how much I love boiled eggs.
Let me share my favorite egg recipe: Put one dozen eggs in the refrigerator. Age for 6 months. Toss out. Repeat. I never get tired of this one!
How do you like your eggs?
Sunday in Summer
CC and Ish, Ish's mom and I went to a concert at the County Fair.
Did Los Tigres del Norte rock the house? Why, yes they did. In powder blue suits. With rhinestones. Vaya!
If that music doesn't make you shake your tailfeather, I hate to tell you, but you might just be dead.
Did Los Tigres del Norte rock the house? Why, yes they did. In powder blue suits. With rhinestones. Vaya!
If that music doesn't make you shake your tailfeather, I hate to tell you, but you might just be dead.
02 August 2008
Unbelievable
Sit back, my children, and hear a tale of a time long forgotten, a time so far in the past that parts of my story may seem unbelievable to you, but I assure you that every word is true.
In the autumn of 1981, my friends and I went to see the Rolling Stones play the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. We left when the movie theater where we worked closed at midnight and went to "camp out" on the lawn because there were no assigned seats and we wanted to be there early before the crowds the next day. This was gonna be huge, with 100,000 people or so.
After a night of no sleep because the dudes next to us kept playing frisbee and stepping on our heads as well as blasting a continuous loop of Yes on a cassette tape out of a first-generation boom box, we staggered into the stadium at about 10 o'clock in the morning.
We tried to doze in our seats as people around us smoked vast quantities of pot, but we were too excited to sleep very much.
We weren't just looking forward to the Rolling Stones. There were three other acts in an all-day stadium blowout: the J. Geils Band, George Thorogood and the Destroyers, and some other guy we had never heard of.
About 2 pm, the first act took the stage. As die-hard rock and rollers, we couldn't believe our eyes. This tiny little man wearing satin panties and a cape - and nothing else - came out.
He began to perform. It was music unlike anything we had ever heard before. We didn't know WHAT it was, but it sure as hell was NOT rock and roll.
He sang a couple songs and people booed and the crowd began roiling restlessly and unhappily. Then he busted it out. The tiny little mostly-naked man began to defiantly sing a song whose main lyric was "I'll jack you off."
"Faggot!!" people screamed. They threw anything they could get their hands on - bottles, rocks, and, I remember, frisbees full of dirt.
It was over as suddenly as it had started. The little man left the stage and the crowd cheered, happy to have run him off, not thinking that he was perhaps only scheduled to play a four-song set.
Everyone was saying "Can you believe that guy? What a loser! What were the Rolling Stones THINKING having that guy open for them" and talking about how hard J. Geils was going to rock, moving on and trying to forget the performance by the little man in the panties, a man who called himself "Prince."
In the autumn of 1981, my friends and I went to see the Rolling Stones play the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. We left when the movie theater where we worked closed at midnight and went to "camp out" on the lawn because there were no assigned seats and we wanted to be there early before the crowds the next day. This was gonna be huge, with 100,000 people or so.
After a night of no sleep because the dudes next to us kept playing frisbee and stepping on our heads as well as blasting a continuous loop of Yes on a cassette tape out of a first-generation boom box, we staggered into the stadium at about 10 o'clock in the morning.
We tried to doze in our seats as people around us smoked vast quantities of pot, but we were too excited to sleep very much.
We weren't just looking forward to the Rolling Stones. There were three other acts in an all-day stadium blowout: the J. Geils Band, George Thorogood and the Destroyers, and some other guy we had never heard of.
About 2 pm, the first act took the stage. As die-hard rock and rollers, we couldn't believe our eyes. This tiny little man wearing satin panties and a cape - and nothing else - came out.
He began to perform. It was music unlike anything we had ever heard before. We didn't know WHAT it was, but it sure as hell was NOT rock and roll.
He sang a couple songs and people booed and the crowd began roiling restlessly and unhappily. Then he busted it out. The tiny little mostly-naked man began to defiantly sing a song whose main lyric was "I'll jack you off."
"Faggot!!" people screamed. They threw anything they could get their hands on - bottles, rocks, and, I remember, frisbees full of dirt.
It was over as suddenly as it had started. The little man left the stage and the crowd cheered, happy to have run him off, not thinking that he was perhaps only scheduled to play a four-song set.
Everyone was saying "Can you believe that guy? What a loser! What were the Rolling Stones THINKING having that guy open for them" and talking about how hard J. Geils was going to rock, moving on and trying to forget the performance by the little man in the panties, a man who called himself "Prince."
01 August 2008
The Story of Suebob
The InterCap still bugs me. I know it is a relic of becoming a young typesetter in the 80s, when ugly capital letters began appearing in the middle of words like we had had a sudden epidemic spacebar failure.
Yeah, it is so CommonNow that we don't even NoticeIt, but there was a day when we all lived in peace and harmony without words that were MashedTogether without much rhyme or reason. You try to tell kids that nowawadays, and they just won't listen.
What I am trying to say, of course, is that my name is NOT SueBob.
It is Suebob thanks to my college housemate, Stacy, who was doing the Walton's thing one night at bedtime "Goodnight Suebob" and suddenly it stuck.
Suebob is a weird name but I figure it gives people some advance warning about what they are dealing with: Look out ahead! Weirdo alert!
When my name was plain old Sue, people weren't forewarned and often made the mistake of treating me as if I were normal and then I'd start talking and they would begin backing away, slowly, while trying to watch my eyes and then they would miss the door handle and it would be so embarrassing for both of us, so...Suebob.
(My comment name is sueb0b with a zero in the middle simply to make it less googleable, since for some reason comments to a popular site often seem to score high on google and I just think that is weird, having my stupid late night comments pop up on google).
So please, Suebob with care. Don't waste those extra capital letters! You may need them someday.
Do YOU have a nickname?
Yeah, it is so CommonNow that we don't even NoticeIt, but there was a day when we all lived in peace and harmony without words that were MashedTogether without much rhyme or reason. You try to tell kids that nowawadays, and they just won't listen.
What I am trying to say, of course, is that my name is NOT SueBob.
It is Suebob thanks to my college housemate, Stacy, who was doing the Walton's thing one night at bedtime "Goodnight Suebob" and suddenly it stuck.
Suebob is a weird name but I figure it gives people some advance warning about what they are dealing with: Look out ahead! Weirdo alert!
When my name was plain old Sue, people weren't forewarned and often made the mistake of treating me as if I were normal and then I'd start talking and they would begin backing away, slowly, while trying to watch my eyes and then they would miss the door handle and it would be so embarrassing for both of us, so...Suebob.
(My comment name is sueb0b with a zero in the middle simply to make it less googleable, since for some reason comments to a popular site often seem to score high on google and I just think that is weird, having my stupid late night comments pop up on google).
So please, Suebob with care. Don't waste those extra capital letters! You may need them someday.
Do YOU have a nickname?
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