Does Anyone Else Think....

...That McCains Veep pic looks like the Baroness on GI Joe?















Come to think of it, McCain's got kind of a Destro thing going on:














Mazeltov to the Happy Couple!

A Wee Small Cottage in North Hollerback- and Pug Tails

Hi friends! So this is the big weekend- we are moving into our super-cute guest house in the north hollywoot woot. We got to walk thru it yesterday w/ out all the previous tenents stuff in it, and lemme tell ya, I lerv it. It is super-small, even littler than I thought, but it's just so well laid out and modern, that i don't mind it at all. And the backyard is perfect for us- super high fences all covered in ivy and such. I can't wait to get decorating.

Also this week, I went to a pretty cool little seminar at Equity. The lady who casts for Oregon Shakes (and for those of you who don't know, I would kill a baby unicorn to work at Oregon Shakes) did a long Q&A, and she was the bomb. I submitted my head shot and res, and don't really expect much from it (though you praying types need to get on this one) but it was good to realize casting people are just like you and me, except with a sick amount of power over actors, and a penchant for worshipping the Dark Lord. Just kidding. Or am I......

We pick up the couch Saturday morning, and I feel like i am picking up a lover at the airport. I'm so excited. Oh Graybones, how I love you. How I long to....well....sit on you.

Some bad news- Emmy, with her knack for finding new and exciting ways to injure herself, may have sprained her tail. You know how pug tails are all coiled like a spring? Well, hers is droopy. She shows no pain at all, even when I tug it or squeeze it, and she is getting better movement, but it's not its tightly coiled self. I talked to the vet who said as long as she was in no pain, to give it a few days before bringing her in. I also looked online and it said some dogs lower thier tales when they have impacted anal glands.....and so...

------WARNING....THIS BLOG IS ABOUT TO GET REALLY GROSS----READ AT YOUR OWN PERIL----------------------------

I put on some yellow kitchen gloves, plopped her in the tub, and EXPRESSED her glands. This gooey gray-green stuff came out, and it smelled like Satan's a-hole. Really, it was the Worst. Smell. Ever. You cannot begin to imagine, unless you have done this to a dog. In my Dad's colorful lexicon, it "would knock a buzzard off a shit wagon at fifty paces". It didn't fix her tail, but it may help with her problem w/ gas w/ oily discharge. I soooo threw those gloves away. Gavin was flying everywhere w/ Lysol like he was putting out a fire. And there. I have written the grossest blog in the history of blogging, certain porn pages excepted.

So that's my update for this week. I am very stressed out w/ all the misc. crap going on, but today, I am in relatively good spirits. Relatively. Someone call me up for pizza and beer on Sunday night, wouldja?

Me and Phelps Current mood: amused

First, a conversation that occured at 3:45am this morning as I drove Gavin into work:

Him: "Thanks for driving me, babe. {sings in bad Irish accent} 'And I love her soooo.....I wouldn't trade her for gold...'"

Me: "That song is kind of lame. Like, 'I love my woman so much, I wouldn't trade her for money.' Wow, how big of you."

Him: "Yeah, but it's a leprechaun song, and leprechauns like, NUT for gold. So it means more".

Me: "Good point. So leprechaun porn would just be pictures of piles of gold, and on-location photo shoots from fort knox..."
~fin~
In other news, quite a few friends have pointed out to me that Gavin has a passing resemblance to Michael Phelps. This actually helps me out a bit, morally, as I do so lust after the Phelps. I can kind of see what people are talking about- they have some similar features, and both can look either kind of hot (in my 'umble opinion) or charmingly goofy depending on how the camera grabs them:
Cute:

Goofus:













Whaddya think?

Come Sit On My Couch

So, all is well in the world of Gav and Nicole. I am, however, finally starting to feel the pinch of our current shitty economy. Grocery bill is higher, gas is kicking me in the ass, and there seem to be less bargains in the world- which for me is like cutting a junky off from her smack. I do so love to find "a good deal".

I did, however, score one such deal last week. Many of you will recall the saga of our futon,and how much I hate it with the white hot fury of a bonfire fueled with unicorns. I hate the awkward angle one must affect to sit on a futon. I hate the cheap pine arms of it. I hate the fact that it broke 3 days after we got it home and I fixed it with a metal plate from Home Depot and some finishing nails. Most of all I hate the "We-are-in-Undergrad-come-over-and-have-whatever-beer-happens-to-be-on-sale-and-don't-worry-if-you-get-too-buzzed-to-drive-we-have-a-FUTON-you-can-sleep-on-just-don't-vomit-on-it" vibe it gives off. I am, afterall, a woman grown.

Well, we finally took the plunge and got a new couch. A couch I have named Graybones. Cause it's gray. I got it at 60% off from Pier One- they added an extra 10% cause I pointed out it was a floor model (in perfect condition, nonetheless.) They also agreed to keep it till we get the uhaul for the move next week! Such a deal! It is swoopy and neo-classical and I lerv it. Or him. I think he's a boy.

So come over and sit on my couch in September. We are thinking of doing a house-warming brunch, if funds/schedules permit. You haven't lived until you've had Gavin's marscapone blueberry stuffed French toast and mimosas on Graybones, the Wonder Couch...Couch of Redemption and Light. Couch of the Ages. Couch of my Heart.

The Montauk Monster! And other News You Can Use!

So, a bloated raccoon/dog thing washed up on the shores of Montauk, and everyone is pooping their pants over it.

I dunno, I think it's a raccoon that had a REALLY shitty day, but I also love self-delusion as a life-philosophy, so I'll go along for the ride. It's a wingless Griphon!! Huzzah!!! Or, perhaps, as one skeptic suggested, the answer is closer to home:

*NOTE: Pug is sleeping, not dead. That's just how pugs roll.

In other news, we found the CUTEST new apartment in North Hollywood. It's a little guest house, with, get this, its OWN fenced-in yard. There is a lemon tree and grapes growing off the fence that you can actually eat. I don't know how you California types feel, but this little New Yorker beotch is pretty jazzed about fruit in her own yard. It makes me feel exotic and privileged. Maybe I'll get a pet peacock to wander the premises.

Anywho, it's a bit smaller than our current place, and like 150 bucks more expensive, but in a more "young", artsy area of LA, and I think it will go a long way towards making us more socially active here. Glendale has been peaceful, but in that retirement village sort of way. It was a nice antidote to the madness of our LOUD apartment in the Brooklyn, but now we are like Grizzlies emerging from social hibernation. We seek honey and berries and a good dive-bar.

We move in Sept 1st. Who wants to give us a couch for free??? HMMM?? Yeah, that's what I thought. God, I hate the fuckin futon, but it is my destiny for a while I think. Gavin has forbade me to spend our discretionary income on such Feminine Frivolities as presentable furniture. Instead, we must see all 12 super-hero related movies that come out this summer. Bastardo. No, really, he's right, we need to save our sheckels. So there you have it.
Monster!

A Movie that Sucked. A lot.

OMG, my husband picked out "10,000 BC" from the little red dvd dispenser (hey, it's only a buck to rent) at our grocery store the other night, and madness ensued, in the form of the shittiest movie I have seen in a long, long while.
I will not enumerate it's many historical inaccuracies, since that has been done. I will also not spend too much time on one of my biggest pet peeves, i.e. having people speak English, but with a non-commital 'accent' so we American's get that they are foreign from a foreign land. I will however, point out that this movie is not only badly written/acted/directed, but is also rather racist in that blunt way that movies were racist in the 40s and 50s- like, it's almost as though they just don't know any better.
Case in point, a bunch of caucasian-type Olde Time Cave Men Beings are squatting in their houses (Houses, mind you, made of mammoth bones. They look like gigantic piles of birdshit) when what to their wondering eyes did appear but a little girl. And they worship her, because, get this, she has BLUE CONTACT LENSES. Ok, this plot line was lame when it appeared in Big Trouble in Little China, but it's utterly asinine and repugnant here.
Like, is whitey so obsessed with his own whiteness that we WORSHIP people because their eyes are light? Ridiculous. But on it's own, it wouldn't make this movie a paragon of racism...until....UNTIL.....
White Cave Man's Blue Eyed Woman is stolen by some pseudo-Eqyptian/Arabs and he has to journey "afar" to go get her back. On the way he stumbles on a whole shit load of black tribes in the desert (he walked three days and goes from the Tundra to the Desert. And both locales have Wooly Mammoths. Ok). These black tribes have been tolerating having their women/children/etc stolen for decades by the same weirdo race that stole Blue Eyed Woman . But then White Cave Man shows up to lead them. And suddenly, they are all ready to Fight the Power. Like, in the end, the army that fights the bad guys is composed of 99.99% black folks, with 3 white leaders. Why did they need these assholes to lead them? Why couldn't they just get their shit together on their own? Was it their undesirable brown eyes? Give me a f&*%ng break.
And then we jazz the whole mess up with some magic and voo doo and prophecy and spirit animals. And the whole movie can just suck it, in my humble opinion.
But because the universe loves balance, I finally read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. Ashley hearts this book and I was looking for a good one to read and there you have it. What a lovely, simple memoir. The writing is plain and honest, and you just kind of find yourself gently lulled into the world of the book. I laughed out loud a couple of times and had a good cry after one chapter. And as a bonus, it is set right next to my old neighborhood in Brooklyn (albeit in like 1912). The family actually moves into a railroad flat with the exact same layout our apartment had. And they hated it too. Seriously, reading this book is like eating a lovely little petit fours- just perfect in it's small deliciousness. So read it. Go on. Like, now.
Ok. That's all. Have a great weekend!

Let's Get Physical!

Ok, this may shock some of you. Actually, it will shock none of you. I don't really like working out. I know, right? Of late, I have had to come to terms with the fact that I must, for pretty much the rest of my days, do something I really don't like to do. And I mean I really, really, don't like it.
I don't like being out of breath. I don't like the naked chicks who saunter through the locker room, boobs flying every which way. I don't like the salty, basketball PE Class smell of the whole thing. I hate the crappy tv they invariably have on while you do your cardio (re-runs of "Charmed" and whatever sports is in season), and the oily looking men with their weight belts and excessive grunting as they lift barbells. I hate the upbeat dance music I must have on my Ipod in order to have any hope of getting thirty good sweaty minutes on the elliptical. I hate the weird moments of eye contact you make with strangers when we are both in extremis, faces knotted up in pain. But the only thing I hate more than all of this, is feeling flabby and tired and generally out of shape. So I go. And I suffer. I martyr myself for fitness. St. Nicole of 24 Hour Fitness. Patron Saint of bitching.
I have discovered through the years that I must engage in a series of psychological tricks and traps to get my ass to actually show up the the gym. For example, I must tell a lot of people I plan on going, so the shame of admitting I didn't will push me out the door. I must have the ipod fully charged, with one or two new songs a week to kick my own ass. And lately, the ultimate mind-trick, I must go immediately from work, to the gym across the street, before I even think of home and the couch and nice dinner with my hubby.
Yesterday, I tried a new one- "class with a friend"- I figured having someone go with you can only be a motivator, and besides, it breaks up the monotony of my usual tired routine. So Jen and I geared up straight from the office to take "24 SET"- a class, according the online schedule, that is conveniently at 5:30 and taught by someone named 'Smitty'. We get there, guns blazing, and notice that everyone has like every peice of equipment the fitness room has to offer set up in front of them. I shit you not- 3 sizes of hand weights, a barbell, 2 sizes of weights for said barbell, a mat, and a step. We grab all this crap, scratch out a territory for ourselves, and await Smitty, who, by name alone, I have assumed to be a squat, square muscular man, maybe like a human bull dog.
When what to my wondering eyes do appear, but a heavy-set lady about 60 or so, dressed head to toe in black spandex. This is Smitty. And Smitty sounds like Cartman from South Park. I have no words, just thoughts. And those thoughts are "Wha??".
The class begins easily enough, hopping cheerfully up and down off our steps, holding free weights (I haughtily chose heavier ones than most of the class. I am a stupid ass who deserves what I get). And then slowly, surely, things get hard. Squats. Lunges. Chest Fly. Pelvic Pushups. Crunches of all persuasions. And all of it intermingled with that giddy stepping up and this woman's weird voice: "Singleeeeees!! Push it!!!! Howya feeeeeelin?". At one point, my response to the "Howya feeeelin?" was something like "Yargghhhmehh!".
After an hour, I am utterly, utterly spent. Smitty has rocked my world. Jen and I vow to return next week, and maybe even to try kick boxing on Thursday with "Kip", who by the logic of 24 Hour Fitness Instructor names is no doubt an ex-marine covered in ink and muscles.
So today, I am sore like I had been in a car accident. And happy. I will never pre-suppose old ladies named Smitty who talk like Cartman cannot and will not kick my ass. And I have found yet another method of sneaking excercise onto my psychological plate. Hoorah.