Dear Oprah,
What gives? As a teacher, I look forward to summer vacation for three reasons: first, I like to read. Next, I get the chance to clean even more obsessively than I do during the school year. And finally, finally Oprah, I get to watch your show. I don't know quite how to say this, Ope. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but man, what a let down. So far we've had murderer confrontations, past lives, YouTube stars, and Suse Orman. Blech!!! Where are the house makeovers?? Where are the people makeovers? Get it together, Oprah.
Love,
Casey
In other news, I am a cleaning MACHINE. This is both good and bad. It is good because, well, I really like it when the apartment is nice. It is bad because for the first time, it's becoming really, really clear that cleaning never stops. No matter how much I do, there's always more. OMG, what will it be like with kids??? OMG. Yesterday, in a very nice two-and-a-half hour breakfast with my friend Jami, we discussed how I worry about things years and years before they are actually a problem. I do indeed. It's become clear that I will soon need to implement an infrastructure to curtail offspring disorder. ICOD.
Also, I can't find the charger to my camera's battery. I wish I had it this week, because I undertook A Major Project. We've recently been in a little bit of crisis mode at our apartment. Books have started to take over. I am addicted to book buying. Bob has his books, and a lot of them, poor guy, were stuck in the garage. Piles were everywhere. It was a desperate situation. So I bought a new bookshelf, and set to getting stuff in order. What a job! You see, this was not just a matter of putting some books on shelves. I HAD to merge and alphabetize. Yikes, that sucked. But it is done, and I am happy. The only problem is that Bob and I can only buy about four more books for the rest of our lives.
Oh, and by the way, it turns out I like Suze Orman. Sorry Suze.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Why Are People Fucking Crazy????
Now that I am on vacation, street sweeping day poses a little bit of a problem. It used to be that Bob would park in the driveway, and I would be gone to work before the ticket guy showed up, but now I will be, you know, asleep. Also, there is no way Bob is going to be up and out before the ticket guy. It's just not going to happen, so let's not use that as an option. Anyway, Bob moved my car for me Wednesday night (because I was drunk; it was the last day of school). Little did he know he was setting me up to later meet the craziest freaking guy I've ever encountered. I just went to move my car (a day and a half after parking it), and this old man literally sprinted to knock on my passenger window in order to yell at me. And yell he did.
Now, you need to know two things about me: a) I am extremely polite to strangers and my elders; b) I hate when people yell at me c) I am out of Diet Coke (that's just in case Bob's reading this). And so when an old stranger started yelling at me, I did not know what to do. First, I calmly explained that my car was not parked in front of his house for "four days," but one. After he kept yelling, I pointed out that I was parked on a public street. When he countered that "everyone suffers" when I park in front of his house, I also noted that it seemed both of his cars were parked in his driveway. He admitted that he always parks in his driveway, but I had "no business" parking in front of his house. And then he screamed, literally screamed for a couple more minutes, and then I rolled up my window, almost taking his finger with me, and burned rubber out of there.
And now I feel GUILTY!!! Why do I care about this?? Why are people in my neighborhood completely INSANE about where other people park??? Is this a middle-class white person thing? When I get old, will I also get inappropriately territorial?
One of the things I like about my city is that it is in L.A., but it is small and still feels like a community. Something that gets on my nerves, though, are entitled freaks. I need to stay, the entitled freaks need to leave. Or leave me the hell alone.
Now, you need to know two things about me: a) I am extremely polite to strangers and my elders; b) I hate when people yell at me c) I am out of Diet Coke (that's just in case Bob's reading this). And so when an old stranger started yelling at me, I did not know what to do. First, I calmly explained that my car was not parked in front of his house for "four days," but one. After he kept yelling, I pointed out that I was parked on a public street. When he countered that "everyone suffers" when I park in front of his house, I also noted that it seemed both of his cars were parked in his driveway. He admitted that he always parks in his driveway, but I had "no business" parking in front of his house. And then he screamed, literally screamed for a couple more minutes, and then I rolled up my window, almost taking his finger with me, and burned rubber out of there.
And now I feel GUILTY!!! Why do I care about this?? Why are people in my neighborhood completely INSANE about where other people park??? Is this a middle-class white person thing? When I get old, will I also get inappropriately territorial?
One of the things I like about my city is that it is in L.A., but it is small and still feels like a community. Something that gets on my nerves, though, are entitled freaks. I need to stay, the entitled freaks need to leave. Or leave me the hell alone.
Day Two of Vacation
In this, my second day of my first work-free summer since I was 14, I have decided I will set some goals for vacation. These are not like New Year's resolutions, I would like to point out, though, as I think resolutions are really just another way for girls to hate themselves. So here, the goals:
1. Clean/organize at least three drawers/storage spaces a week.
2. Go outside.
3. Watch Oprah daily, except when it's one of those episodes where people confront murderers (Ahem, Oprah, wait to fuck it up on my first day of vacation).
4. Write on this blog daily, even if no one reads it.
5. Do some actual writing.
6. Finish watching the Brotherhood 2.0 vlogs.
7. Get really fucking good at Guitar Hero.
8. Read like crazy.
1. Clean/organize at least three drawers/storage spaces a week.
2. Go outside.
3. Watch Oprah daily, except when it's one of those episodes where people confront murderers (Ahem, Oprah, wait to fuck it up on my first day of vacation).
4. Write on this blog daily, even if no one reads it.
5. Do some actual writing.
6. Finish watching the Brotherhood 2.0 vlogs.
7. Get really fucking good at Guitar Hero.
8. Read like crazy.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
I can't help myself
Also:
Complications in Your Pants
Good Omens in Your Pants
and, forgive me,
The Tao of Pooh in Your Pants
Complications in Your Pants
Good Omens in Your Pants
and, forgive me,
The Tao of Pooh in Your Pants
In your pants
My new favorite people, John and Hank Green have this thing where every book title is funnier when you add the term "in your pants." John and Hank Green are geniuses. Here, some of the highlights from my personal library:
The Shock of the New in Your Pants
Let it Blurt in Your Pants
Backlash in Your Pants
The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing in Your Pants
An Honorable Profession in Your Pants
The Dharma Bums in Your Pants
(obvious, but still fun) Inferno in Your Pants (also, certainly better than The Divine Comedy in Your Pants)
The Hours in Your Pants
Eleven Minutes in Your Pants
Running with Scissors in Your Pants (not recommended)
How to be Alone in Your Pants
The Great Santini in Your Pants
Things Fall Apart in Your Pants
Flaubert's Parrot in Your Pants
and that classic, The Joke in Your Pants
Anyway, I could literally do this for hours. I urge you to do an In Your Pants review of your library.
The Shock of the New in Your Pants
Let it Blurt in Your Pants
Backlash in Your Pants
The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing in Your Pants
An Honorable Profession in Your Pants
The Dharma Bums in Your Pants
(obvious, but still fun) Inferno in Your Pants (also, certainly better than The Divine Comedy in Your Pants)
The Hours in Your Pants
Eleven Minutes in Your Pants
Running with Scissors in Your Pants (not recommended)
How to be Alone in Your Pants
The Great Santini in Your Pants
Things Fall Apart in Your Pants
Flaubert's Parrot in Your Pants
and that classic, The Joke in Your Pants
Anyway, I could literally do this for hours. I urge you to do an In Your Pants review of your library.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
AH!
Okay, I am going to try to keep up with this more. I always think of stuff I want to talk about, but then I forget. So, while I'm at it:
1. I have discovered that I have a slight infatuation with Whole Foods. I mean, I'd been in a few, but the new one near my house was overwhelming. I almost bought vegan shoes. The was a wall off Mrs. Meyers products. They had Ed Belgley, Jr.'s cleaning stuff. It was awesome. I've returned a few times for cleaning products and CFLs (we finally switched the whole apartment over) and I just can't help myself. Freaking Whole Foods. Oh, by the way, I don't actually buy food there--that would just be silly.
2. Bob and I met Emily and her friend Peattie at Father's Office today. I just love that office burger. And the Rogue Hazelnut Nectar. Mmm. It was delightful to hang out with Emily--we talked about Dawson's Creek and YA novels. Peattie was very cool. After that we hit up Surfas. We got a butcher block, spicy peanut butter, lemon curd, creole chocolate, and a lime squeeze-y thing. White People like me.
3. I have recently become semi-obsessed with a YA novelist called John Green. He is funny and knows his stuff. Sparksflyup.com. Read the blog.
1. I have discovered that I have a slight infatuation with Whole Foods. I mean, I'd been in a few, but the new one near my house was overwhelming. I almost bought vegan shoes. The was a wall off Mrs. Meyers products. They had Ed Belgley, Jr.'s cleaning stuff. It was awesome. I've returned a few times for cleaning products and CFLs (we finally switched the whole apartment over) and I just can't help myself. Freaking Whole Foods. Oh, by the way, I don't actually buy food there--that would just be silly.
2. Bob and I met Emily and her friend Peattie at Father's Office today. I just love that office burger. And the Rogue Hazelnut Nectar. Mmm. It was delightful to hang out with Emily--we talked about Dawson's Creek and YA novels. Peattie was very cool. After that we hit up Surfas. We got a butcher block, spicy peanut butter, lemon curd, creole chocolate, and a lime squeeze-y thing. White People like me.
3. I have recently become semi-obsessed with a YA novelist called John Green. He is funny and knows his stuff. Sparksflyup.com. Read the blog.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Perfectomundo
First, let me say that I hated Bee Season. It did not make me happy. However, the mother was always on a quest for something she called "perfectomundo." This quest led her to break into to strangers' houses and steal truly odd, random things: a lipstick, a teacup, a rubber ball, a piece of brightly colored thread. Eventually, it's discovered that she's packed her loot into a storage facility (and if you see the movie, they do this part really well). And it's beautiful. It's also clear that the bitch is CRAZY.
And though I did not like the book, I loved perfectomundo. It's why I love tchotchkes. So I bring you my own perfectomundo. I take crap pictures, but I'm going to try to make a bit of a series out of this...
And though I did not like the book, I loved perfectomundo. It's why I love tchotchkes. So I bring you my own perfectomundo. I take crap pictures, but I'm going to try to make a bit of a series out of this...
Monday, April 28, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
I've moved on to cheese
Well, I started making yogurt. We always made it in Ireland, and at the time I thought it was kind of gross. However, I am trying to cut down on packaging, and making stuff instead of buying it makes sense. So I've made a couple batches now. It's pretty good. I sweeten it with vanilla and honey or berries. I like dipping apples in it. Also, I made some yogurt cheese. I put a folded tea towel in a strainer and set that over a bowl. I put the yogurt in the strainer and let the whey separate. Apparently whey can be used in a bunch of different ways, but I don't think I'm emotionally prepared to deal with whey. Anyway, it turned into a pretty decent cheese spread. It's good with the basil that I'm trying not to kill. I also made some humus. 'Tis tasty.I have a little bit of a cultist back-to-the earth in me. Self-sufficiency, man. Bob thinks I'm crazy but he likes the yogurt so he's not saying anything.
America
Robert Pinsky recently did a piece for Slate answering questions about modern poetry. I thought it was completely awful. He started the article by quoting David Garrick:
The gentle reader loves the gentle Muse.
That little dares, and little means;
Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,
Or flutters in the Magazines.
This basically says, "Hey, fuck you if you don't get it. You probably don't deserve to. And even if this article is claiming to help you understand modern poetry, it's not going to, you fucking fuck."
And then he just supplied a bunch of poems with the sage advice to "Read the following aloud, listening to the vowels and consonants, the sentence movements" There was no "see how the alliteration speeds up this line?" Or, "See how the rhyme scheme falls apart here? Don't you think it's for a reason?" Nope. Never mind that as a former Poet Laureate, he should be dedicated to forcing people to love poetry. The whole article was an exercise in complete ass hattery.
He did, however, point readers to "America." This is one of those poems that, had I been required to write a line-by-line analysis for, say, Poetry and Poetics, I would have been miserable. It's all over the place. That being said, it's one of those poems that I--I don't even know how to explain it, exactly--understand viscerally. Does that make sense at all? Well, here it is. Uh, listen to the vowels and the consonants:
Anyway, I go back and forth on Ginsberg. As you both may or may not know, I went through a deeply obsessive Beat phase in seventh and eighth grade. In fact, I have to admit that I'm pretty sure the first adult penis I saw was Allen Ginsberg's (in his book Snapshot Poetics). As a result of my Phase, I knew, at twelve, more about sex between two men than I did about the act in any other form. I also started reading the Tales of the City books about the same time, so I was able to supplement my knowledge neatly. When I think about the writers now, it's not with completely the same devotion I once had. I still like Ferlinghetti, I have come to find Kerouac tedious. Ginsberg's somewhere in between. Sometimes I think, "Well, that's just a bunch of words strung together." And sometimes he hits me right between the eyes.
One thing's for sure, though: Robert Pinksy's an asshole.
The gentle reader loves the gentle Muse.
That little dares, and little means;
Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,
Or flutters in the Magazines.
This basically says, "Hey, fuck you if you don't get it. You probably don't deserve to. And even if this article is claiming to help you understand modern poetry, it's not going to, you fucking fuck."
And then he just supplied a bunch of poems with the sage advice to "Read the following aloud, listening to the vowels and consonants, the sentence movements" There was no "see how the alliteration speeds up this line?" Or, "See how the rhyme scheme falls apart here? Don't you think it's for a reason?" Nope. Never mind that as a former Poet Laureate, he should be dedicated to forcing people to love poetry. The whole article was an exercise in complete ass hattery.
He did, however, point readers to "America." This is one of those poems that, had I been required to write a line-by-line analysis for, say, Poetry and Poetics, I would have been miserable. It's all over the place. That being said, it's one of those poems that I--I don't even know how to explain it, exactly--understand viscerally. Does that make sense at all? Well, here it is. Uh, listen to the vowels and the consonants:
--Allen GinsbergAmerica I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.Asia is rising against me.
I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
I’d better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they’re all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don’re really want to go to war.
America it’s them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I’d better get right down to the job.
It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Anyway, I go back and forth on Ginsberg. As you both may or may not know, I went through a deeply obsessive Beat phase in seventh and eighth grade. In fact, I have to admit that I'm pretty sure the first adult penis I saw was Allen Ginsberg's (in his book Snapshot Poetics). As a result of my Phase, I knew, at twelve, more about sex between two men than I did about the act in any other form. I also started reading the Tales of the City books about the same time, so I was able to supplement my knowledge neatly. When I think about the writers now, it's not with completely the same devotion I once had. I still like Ferlinghetti, I have come to find Kerouac tedious. Ginsberg's somewhere in between. Sometimes I think, "Well, that's just a bunch of words strung together." And sometimes he hits me right between the eyes.
One thing's for sure, though: Robert Pinksy's an asshole.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
WOO
I have finally perfected the popover. The secret: you absolutely CANNOT, no matter what they tell you, use a muffin tin. Alton Brown be damned, go buy the unitasker. Then while the oven is preheating, put the tins inside to heat up. And when you put the batter in, only fill them about a third of the way, probably even less. They will be excellent, I promise.The great thing about popovers is that they seem like they take a lot of work. They are therefore the perfect breakfast to make for company, because the guests will be all impressed that you went through such effort and they will feel a little guilty and then they will go out and buy you an expensive bottle of wine or a nice cheese. This has yet to actually work for me, but you should try. Also, serve with honey, jam, cheese, and microwave peanut butter and Nutella and half a chunk of Baker's chocolate and you will be a superstar. I promise.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Ay!
Yeck, I'm still in the Hillary camp, but I think the joint ticket stuff she's been doing now is TAA-KEE. It also seems clumsily obvious. Hil, you do not come off well here. You successfully negotiated the too much Bill problem, I want to see you get out of this one.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Hellhole be gone!
I have a confession to make. I am a closet slob. That's right, I secretly cultivate messes in all the storage areas of our apartment. I can't help myself. I am a pack rat, and also a firm believer that if you can't see it, it's technically not a mess. However, my closet had just gotten too horrible. It was at the point where I had about three things hanging up and everything else had just been shoved in there. Okay, faithful readers (both of you), please don't judge me too much....here's what my closet looked like:
Yes, I know. Disgusting. It occurred to me that I had been going about things all wrong. Yes, I hate hanging and folding, but I LOVE organizational systems. Clearly, a trip to Target was in order. I bought a bunch of linen cubes and sweater boxes and such. Also, I bought the Rubbermaid "Configurations" closet organizer thing. The problem with my closet was that it only had one rod. There was no place for folded clothes, and my shoes were everywhere. So, I talked my beloved boyfriend into sawing out the rod and helping me to install the kit, and I was on my way to recovery. I folded everything I could, and 
only hung jackets and such. Here's the half-way point:
Now, some people would be done here. Some people are not crazy. I decided I needed a little more. I decided I needed some geometric cloth. And a shadowbox. And a frame-turned-tray. A a vase. With a fake flower. Thank God for Ikea (Did you hear that? That was the last bit of my soul turning black). I bought some "Petronella" fabric and a couple "Ribba" frames. And here's what I came up with:
Yes, I know. Disgusting. It occurred to me that I had been going about things all wrong. Yes, I hate hanging and folding, but I LOVE organizational systems. Clearly, a trip to Target was in order. I bought a bunch of linen cubes and sweater boxes and such. Also, I bought the Rubbermaid "Configurations" closet organizer thing. The problem with my closet was that it only had one rod. There was no place for folded clothes, and my shoes were everywhere. So, I talked my beloved boyfriend into sawing out the rod and helping me to install the kit, and I was on my way to recovery. I folded everything I could, and 
only hung jackets and such. Here's the half-way point:
Now, some people would be done here. Some people are not crazy. I decided I needed a little more. I decided I needed some geometric cloth. And a shadowbox. And a frame-turned-tray. A a vase. With a fake flower. Thank God for Ikea (Did you hear that? That was the last bit of my soul turning black). I bought some "Petronella" fabric and a couple "Ribba" frames. And here's what I came up with:
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