love handle

Friday, mar. 28, 2008   |   0 comments

Like child who needs to make sure its mother is watching before leaping off the diving board, or a needy pet that cannot complete a meal without you right there, administering pats and encouraging words, our toilet insists on having its handle held for the entire duration of its business. Unless you stand there, fully engaged, until the very end of its spiraling finale, it simply gives up in a discouraged, burbling sulk, too anemic and insecure to go the full distance on its own.

It means standing there for maybe thirty seconds, but it feels like a small infinity. Unlike almost every other moment in my day, that long, quiet moment with the toilet simply does not lend itself to multitasking. I can do nothing but the one simple act I am doing: dutifully standing there, face robot-empty, as I think on the elasticity of time; what bra to wear; how far I can stretch the truth of my taxes; the dire need to moisturize; whether or not my life is as and where it should be; vitamins, vitamins vitamins; and far-fetched, vaguely disquieting analogies of our toilet as a performance-anxious being in search of love, support, and a little ever-loving recognition.

the true price of free

Thursday, mar. 27, 2008   |   0 comments

Stephen has started reporting on what he finds crawling under that particular rock known as the free-giveaway section of Craigslist. Here's a stirring sampling:

"Ha ha! Crappy shelves and . . . wait, there's nothing funny about this. What's funny about a chair that looks like it's about to die of loneliness?"

And...

"Hi, how are you! We've decided this futuristic trigon of a cheese grater is either (1) too unsanitary (2) too dangerous, or (3) too useless for its intended purpose to allow it to stay in our home for even a moment longer. Right now, we've got it in the garage. But that's not quite far enough away. Do you want it?"

And...

"Retro Sofa poster, your piece of furniture is why god gave man fire."

Keywords he's felt compelled to use so far include broken, dangerous, dirty, ugly, unsanitary, useless, and old and busted -- it takes the true grit of genius to find the laughter in those defeated words. I bow to you, eyes shut respectfully, friend Stephen!

tamac attack!

Wednesday, mar. 26, 2008   |   0 comments

To my dear mid-century amoeba-shaped Tamac dish collection,

Ever since I stumbled across you on eBay and snapped you up as my own, I've admired the way your curves and indentations fit into my hands with a rightness that borders on sensexual.

I must admit that I worried your spring-singing "Avocado" coloring (so much more cheerful than your "Frosty Pine" or "Frosty Fudge" (!) sisters) would look less than toothsome as a backdrop for actual food.

But in practice you are a canvas of inspiration, turning everything from brownies to spaghetti into pure art.

I also love that your line of plates, bowls, and creamer detours for something called a "BBQ cup," a shallow vessel perfectly proportioned for saucy dippables.

Yes, my pretty Tamacs, you were well worth the many hours it took to track all of you down, and even the hefty price of postage. And how glad I am that you wended your way from your Perry, Oklahoma birthplace all the way to my Oakland, California kitchen and heart!

magic marco

Tuesday, mar. 25, 2008   |   0 comments

Last week I noticed a strange buzzing sound coming from the bathroom (no, not that sort of buzzing), punctuated by manic bursts of giggle. After about twenty minutes, Marco emerged, bald as an eagle. Apparently he found a pair of long-forgotten clippers in the cabinet and decided to try them out? The first tentative swipes went well, but then he hit one of the corners of his pointy head, thereby jarring the guide loose and leaving the unguarded blade to mow a naked furrow into his lux black hair.

When his regular hairdresser did something similar with his eyebrow a few years back, Marco just used a Sharpie to fill in the missing hair. But this bald patch was far too deep and noticeable to just color in with marker, so there was little else to do but shave off the rest of his hair to match the hole.

The results are pretty startling! His never-before-sunkissed dome is an infinitely lighter shade of pale; next to his dark brown face it looks like one of those swimcaps ladies who swim sidestroke wear. The bristles are so strong and so sharp, he can hang a towel from them, and it takes all your strength to remove it from his head's velcro grip. And though he insists he looks like a pre-cancerous Yul Brynner, I think, with his exaggerated features now untempered with the balance hair provides, he just looks like a gigantic mouth on a neck. Kiss me, my gigantic mouth on a neck!

the international language of sleep!

Wednesday, mar. 19, 2008   |   0 comments

This is exciting and also some kind of weird: My Secret Language of Sleep is now available in Russian! And it seems to be considerably sexier in translation:

The cover photo reminds me of one of those personal lubricant commercials, the one with the clock in the corner indicating that the couple's been actively at each other for like seventy-two hours solid, without breaks for snacks or reflection, just non-stop candles and mussled sheets and steamy, cramped bath sex? I don't know, to me that kind of endless-remix-extendo-play seems less like pleasure and more on the "pain"/"torture"/"get that thing away from me" end of the spectrum, regardless of how much K-Y a person has lined her larder with. And just think of the beard burn! Though I suppose I could be talked into it, if I were sufficiently incentivized with regular infusions of pie, and we turned on the television?

The Russian version also features some unexpected changes in the Legend section of the book, for instance the icon second down on the right seems to be the international symbol for gay men's right to adopt? Which I'm all for, unlike the wretched smiley face (not my favorite). And what's the symbol in the lower-left? Is that...your anus? Oh. Well then. Pleasure to make your a-taintance!

And I wonder if I ever did show you the little Italian version of the book, the ones printed especially for the reading pleasure of Italian people?

There they all are, just three Sleeps in a pod. So exciting! So weird! So profoundly cute on that amazing mushroom shelf from the Curiosity Shoppe!