Where the Rest of Us Say William H. Macy, He Says "Billy"

As I walked past the office of one of our partners, he answered the phone, then said,

"Yeah...


... Mamet....


OK."

Then hung up.

I choose to believe that someone on the other end of the phone was babbling about something in a slightly misogynistic, expletive-filled, but still incredibly compelling fashion.

Citizen Kang

Many days, there's a guy right outside my office building sitting on an upside-down bucket. He sits there with a large handful of tiny American flags, smiling, offering them to passers-by. He doesn't say much, and he doesn't have a "these colors don't run!" sign, or anything. He just hangs out with his tiny American flags.

And every time I see this little scene, all I can think of is the Simpsons' Treehouse of Horror special in which the aliens Kang and Kodos hijack the American electorate, and one of them intones, "ABORTIONS FOR ALL." "Boooo," says the crowd. "ABORTIONS FOR NONE." "Boooo!" "ABORTIONS FOR SOME... TINY AMERICAN FLAGS FOR OTHERS." "Yaaaaaay!"

I haven't ever asked the guy if that's the response he's going for.

Toys

OK, if anyone out there has or knows any pre-adolescent girls, I would really appreciate it if you could explain the appeal of Tanner the Dog. Not the dog itself, per se - rather, the idea that one would want to spend one's Barbie-playing time cleaning up faux dog poop "after the pup goes potty." Anyone?...

Update: He pointed out that it's not just the dog that Barbie cleans up after....

One of His Many Nicknames is "Spazzmatazz"

I try not to anthropomorphize the cat too much, but sometimes he just makes it so difficult!

For the last two weeks, the husband has been at home many mornings, and sometimes for much of the day, which means the cat was getting LOTS of attention at all hours. Yesterday was the husband's first day of law school Orientation, though, which meant we were both out of bed by 7:30 (no post-breakfast cuddle time, something kitty had gotten used to), and the house was devoid of humans for about 12 hours. And I swear, the cat was PISSED. When I got home at about 8:15 last night, all he wanted was to cuddle, but shortly thereafter, it was like he suddenly remembered, "That's right, I'm pissed off at you." And he started racing around the apartment, yowling like a maniac. Here's hoping he gets over it soon, because I sure as hell don't have the energy for it.

Keeping the Husband Occupied

Given that he's got another week before he starts school, and that he is obsessed with all things meme, I figure I'll post another one just to entertain him (ok, ok, and to entertain myself!)....

FIVE THINGS

In my refrigerator:

1. Beer. Always beer.
2. Light cream cheese that I bought in a panic one time when Trader Joe's was out of regular cream cheese, which does not taste nearly as good as regular cream cheese but which, DAMN IT, I am GOING TO FINISH before buying more cream cheese... even though it doesn't taste very good, thereby ensuring that I eat it very, very rarely.
3. Left-over red beans and rice from dinner last night.
4. A somewhat questionable lemon half... not sure how long it's been in there.
5. Smoked salmon pate from Trader Joe's (yes, I do love me some Trader Joe's).

In my closet:

1. Most of my jewelry, except that which I am wearing right now.
2. Two laundry baskets - one for gentles, one for regular.
3. The husband's impeccably folded t-shirts.
4. My significantly-more-sloppily-folded t-shirts.
5. Possibly the cat, who is forever trying to get into the closet, despite my exhortations that he should be out and proud.

In my purse:

1. Burt's Bees lip shimmer - the most awesome colored lip balm there is.
2. My iPod.
3. Love, by Toni Morrison (always travel with a book... and always carry a purse big enough to hold a book in it).
4. Altoids.
5. My 30-day CTA pass (commuting by train being one of the many reasons for the rule cited in #3).

In my car (see commuting by train note above, and also note that it's not even, technically, my car, although the husband isn't overly possessive about it or anything... but either way, I don't know much about what's in the car, though I'll give it a whirl):

1. One of those shiny windshield cover things that keeps the car from getting hot, although we never actually put it up, and then every time we get in the car and it's all hot, we're all, damn, that windshield cover thing would have come in handy today.
2. The parking pass for the gym, which gets used maybe once a week if we're being particularly productive.
3. At least 50 sets of directions from mapquest, google maps, or yahoo! maps.
4. Probably infinitesimal shards of glass from the chip in the windshield that we first noticed several months ago.
5. Quarters.

Another Sign That I Am Getting Old

Out and about Saturday night for the almost-26-year-old stepsister's bachelorette party (with many of her almost-26-year-old friends), I found myself resisting the urge to exclaim to some of the young men who wanted to be my friend, "Are you so young you haven't even learned to look for a wedding ring???"

Scenes from the Neighborhood Bistro

So the husband and I were at a neighborhood bistro for dinner last night, when the following incident actually occurred:

[Older man, maybe in his 60s, makes his way past our table towards the bathroom.]

The husband: Damn, that guy looks a lot like Neil Young.
Me: Uh-huh.

[Wanting to get back to very important discussion which probably centered around the Real World/Road Rules Challenge, or some such thing; said discussion does in fact resume until older man, returning from bathroom, walks past our table again.]

TH: Seriously, it's totally Neil Young.
Me: Dude, I didn't even look at him, I don't know if he looked like Neil Young or not.
TH: No, I mean... I think it's really Neil Young.

[Waiter arrives bearing beer - mmm, beer.]

TH: So, um, is that Neil Young, or just some guy who looks freakishly like him?

[Except that everything after "or" doesn't actually get said, as Waiter immediately responds.]

W: Yeah, they opened up the back room for him. Apparently he really likes it here, eats here a lot. It's pretty cool.

[The husband and I quietly drink our beer, contemplating the fact that our restaurant choice has been validated by an American rock and folk icon. I am pleased to report, however, that the next time he came through the room, to talk to the bartender, I finally looked at him myself. And, hey - Neil Young!]

Don't Bogart My Name

You know, when I was growing up in the '70s and '80s, there were no other Michaelas (except Michaela Balfe, but that's another story entirely). It was just a crazy-ass name in that era, prompting most people to assume that my parents had longed for a boy to be named Michael, and just panicked when I popped out. The name is much more common now, of course, but the spellings are all over the map - McKayla, Mikala, Mykaela, etc. So, frankly, I still feel a little possessive about "Michaela" and I really sort of consider it my own and nobody else's. And, as a result, I actually felt a little shocked when I saw this site, via Mimi Smartypants... and now, having perused it, I am deeply, deeply traumatized....