evany, evany thomas

what was I inking?
Saturday, Apr. 26, 2008 | link

When I turned 30 (way back in 2000 eek!), I decided to permanently mark the occasion with a tattoo. I thought long and hard about what to get, and finally settled on a knife and fork, crossed just like Liz Dunn’s racing flags. And just like Liz Dunn, and actually Jill too, I decided on a lower-back placement. No, a little lower that that…a little lower…exactly: right there at the top of the ass crack, the tender real estate that has since come to be know as the land of the “tramp stamp,” something that many people over the years have taken great delights in pointing out to me. Titillated Giggler to me: “You know what people call that, don’t you?” Me to Titillated Giggler: “I sure do.”

I reverse-engineered a whole bunch of meaningful excuses for why I needed this knife and fork, like how it was nod to my family (I chose the silver pattern I’d grown with) and also lady-power (the hearty, steak-knife eating it represents being the antithesis of bird-like, weight-watching Cosmo girls, take that society, POW!) and even practicality (I already had a piece of cake tattooed on my middle, halfway between my stomach and my heart, and now here was a way to finally eat said cake!). But like many people who get tattoos, the real and true reason I got it was that I just kinda liked the way it looked.

So I went back to the same nice man in LA who did my first tattoo (you know you’re old when you forget the name of your tattooist), and just as he was snapping off his gloves after putting the last finishing touches on my tattoo, the other tattooist in the shop came over to admire (the new tattoo on) my ass. “What’s that,” she said to me, “like, ‘Eat Shit’ or something?” Me, suddenly picturing a life full of fending off ass-eaters stretching out before me, weakly: “Nooo…?”

Not only did I not really think that tattoo through beforehand, but I also idiotically decided to go and get it done as part of the first leg of a long cross-country road trip (with my awesome friend Todd Levin, whom I’d met only once before we decided on a whim to take the trip…man, that was truly the funnest vacation ever, full of BBQ pork and great get-to-know-you stories and also, weirdly, strip clubs). And let my me tell your you: There’s nothing quite like having a healing wound on your ass whilst sitting in a car, day after day, for 10 hours at a stretch…my ending was sad indeed.

And the tattoo just keeps on giving! A few years ago, my glorious friend Sunny joined a band called kNIFE & fORK, what are the chances, and while I was leaning over the bar buying a drink at one of their shows, someone came up behind me and said, “Wow, you must be a REALLy big fan.” And I just just nodded a tired I-give-up nod.

Now whenever someone spots those little tines and the pointy sharpness poking up over the edge of my pants (as happens more often that I ever could have ever imagined, yay) and asks, “Hey, what’s that tattoo of?” I just sigh and say, “Oh, you know…Regret.”

This is a "if you’re close enough to read this, we’re basically having sex" pick of the tattoo, wrapped in an insane, barely there pair of message-able underwear, a gift from the one, only Jill (they came with their own alphabet of beads, which you can string on to formulate whatever message you please). I ordered the photo as a greeting card from Kodak (née ofoto) and sent them out as thank you cards.

sometimes marco makes me mad
Tuesday, Apr. 22, 2008 | link

Things that make me irrationally irritated:

1. When Marco sneezes, which he always does very loudly and repeatedly, and which always reminds me of the allergy problem that he refuses to visit an allergy doctor to see if he can get medicine to fix.

2. The snortling and throat-clicking, also allergy-related.

3. When Marco’s screws the lid on too tight, which obviously means he’s trying to save all the good soda and pickles for HIMSELF.

4. When Marco Early Parks, sometimes parking entire blocks and blocks shy of our destination.

5. When Marco leaves used Q-tips in places other than the trash.

6. When Marco insists on wearing his weird baggy elephant vagina jeans.

7. When Marco says “a little sumpum sumpum” or “check it out, dog.”

8. When Marco doesn’t hear me the first time.

And…that’s it. On the flip side, he almost never snores, and he gets genuinely sad whenever he hears about someone dying even celebrities that noone likes, and he does all our laundry, and he guitar-plays Jesse’s Girl on demand, and if he spots a garage sale sign that’s come unpinned, he stops and carefully rights it. And, best of all, this morning I discovered that his weird baggy elephant vagina pants fit ME to a yay!

litteral frame of mind
Sunday, Apr. 20, 2008 | link

One of my all-time favorite Onion headlines is “Want Boxes Of Shit In Your House? Get A Cat,” a sentiment that I know gnawed at tidy Marco just a wee bit when we first started talking about moving in together. Where, exactly, would Marbles’ dumping grounds live?

I’m a big fan of putting littterboxes in bathrooms, since they make thematic sense there. But the bathroom in this place is kind of an open book, with no nooks or available corners to tuck a box into. And the limited closet space is already dedicated to clothing, and who wants to smoke out their clothes with shit and piss fumes?

Ultimately we decided to put her box in the strange auxiliary cabinet that lives on the outer side of the breakfast bar.

Marco removed the door that was there and painted the inside an upbeat puce-y color, and I sewed up a little curtain using a fun woodgrain fabric I found on the internet.

And it kind of turned out okay! We use the miracle crystal litter (NOT the ball bearing kind), which sponges up the smell quite nicely so you almost don’t know the shitbox is in the room at all unless Marbles is actively mixing and scratching in there, something she likes to do for a good five minutes at a stretch.

But recently we’ve been talking about maybe converting the back room—which is now set up as a sort of second living room, with a couch and some chairs and my desk scenario—into an actual dining room, which may or may not help us break out of our bad habit of eating in front of the television. But if we do decide to refocus that area on serving food, I’m not so sure I want to have the shit where we eat?

So I’ve started doing some peering around at alternate strategies, scouring the design-focused sites for some examples of other people’s solutions for the problem. But there’s a surprisingly limited selection out there! Which I don’t really get—surely we’re not the only people who like having a cute-looking house but who also have an indoor cat? (And yes the whole feline toilet-training thing has been tried, but had to be abandoned after it triggered some nasty side effects along the lines of Marbles shitting up the bathtub, a fun habit that took years to break her of, yay.)

I did manage to find a few semi-interesting options (thanks Mosaic Maker)…

1. The Kattbank (via Design*Sponge, of course) is very pretty, and it comes in a satisfying array of colors, but at a whopping $1750, my sphincter says what? Also, do our friends want to sit atop a bench packed with feces? Don’t answer.

2. The Scandinavians sure know how to do meatballs, and also cat shitters. Meet the handsome Dog and Cat Cave (via Modern Cat, who knew?). Cost: a steep $480. Also I’m now thinking it’s not actually meant for litter, since there’s no way to get the shit out of there, which seems kind of key…hmm.

3. The Cottage Litter Box House, just $65. I kind of love the idea behind this, but I’d want to push it even further, with more ornate, Made With Love By Hannah-style detailing. Like a giant coo coo clock, or gingerbread house, only with shit inside!

4. I’m also weirdly attracted to the Red Barn Litter Box House option, also $65, though heads-up: “haystacks and sunflower pot not included,” which is a disclaimer I’m considering adding to my signature file at work.

5. Sara’s DIY wheel-away litter box (via Ikea Hacker), made from Ikea Snack Boxes.

6. Or Dee’s DIY kitty litter hideaway (same link as above, just scroll down) made using the Ikea Hol.

7. Dave’s Handcrafted Litter Box Hiders (via Apartment Therapy), $129.99. Dave makes these to order, and they arrive fully built, sanded, and ready to paint. Best of all, they’re “dog proof so they cant get to the litter and eat it.”

8. DIY Shoji Litter Box (via Apartment Therapy), another serviceable option.

9. Marly Gomman’s “Cats in Style” felt litter box (via Modern Cat), which you can actually watch in action. I LOVE this option, and really: a big, organically shaped felt box that mimics the birthing process with each exit, what’s not to love? But unfortunately even if I did have the millions of dollars it surely costs, I can’t seem to find it for sale anywhere, anyway.

And then there’s also the “Hide-in-plain-site” DIY cabinet, or the weird fake plant holder with hidden compartment, or the Merry Pet Cat Washroom, none of which are exactly quite right either. Shit.

one old-drunk-lady-proof bottle
Saturday, Apr. 19, 2008 | link

Oh dear. I went out for drinks last evening after a long, semi soul-crushing day at work, and one beer turned into two margaritas, and…cut to me, wide awake at 3am, lying in a sad ball on the couch, watching televised commercials about insomnia. Since I turned old, I keep relearning how drink is now the devilment of my sleeping time, ugh!

At about 4am I decided some saltines and fluids might be in order, and yay we had a half-full liter of rootbeer in the refrigerator! But boo, Marco and his gigantic man arms had screwed the top on so tightly, my dinosaur arms weren’t strong enough to access the sweet fizzing sips inside which I so desperately needed!

I’m not sure why but Marco seemed somewhat befuddled when I woke him out of a deep, zombie sleep and handed him a giant bottle to open, open, open?

what's growing on?
Thursday, Apr. 17, 2008 | link

Things have taken a turn toward the science experiment in our house, what with the pussy willows growing totally crazy (I guess we weren’t supposed to put those in water, did Gremlins teach us nothing?), and the garlic suddenly deciding to stop being food and start being some kind of visual poem about spring and renewal and hope?

a rainbow of credenza
Tuesday, Apr. 15, 2008 | link

Marco and I have been looking and looking for a television pedestal for months now, measuring and remeasuring, poring over catalogs, emailing each other links, and falling in and out of love with a whole string of fun maybes and cound-have-beens.

Some were too public (where to run, hide your wires?):

Mondrian Media Buffet at CB2, $249

Too leggy and too dumbly named:

Jazz Buffet at Eurway, $299

Too tall:

Trollsta at Ikea, $349 (thanks to Better Living Through Design for pointing the way, I thought I’d seen everything Ikea had to offer?)

Way too tall:

mshelving at the design-your-own Loadbearing (first spotted in the SF Rare Device store, which uses these pretties as display cases), $1375

Or too dollarful:

webb console at Kerf Design, $1500

But then our search finally came to a big-yay end on Craiglist, with this mod-nod of a credenza, all cute and hand-hewn:

The doors arrived naked, just some unfinished slats of wood, so we went and painted them, with the theory being that we can just repaint them or even get new wood at not much cost if and when we got tired of the pursey colors. And four sides means four different color combinations:

So pretty, yet still brawny enough to support our Death Star television, even with its heavy load of Marco’s hockey, basketball, and baseball (who allowed such a devilish scheduling overlap?) — a total home run slam dunk hat trick!

a perfect match
Monday, Apr. 14, 2008 | link

This nut-cracking squirrel has been wandering aimlessly around the house ever since the lovely Maggie gave him to me two whole Christmases ago. Frankly, we were a little worried he was never going to get a job, what with all our nuts arriving pre-shelled from Trader Joe’s and the like?

But then one shining day, it all just came together:

Doesn’t he look excited to be of help? So eager to assist? Fear nothing, Madam! I am here with the required sticks of flame! Tzzt, tzzt!

bedside table talk
Saturday, Apr. 12, 2008 | link

Update! Thanks so much for all your suggestions! Everyone had such smart ideas for what we should do with these tables, and Keith even sent a link to Colourlovers, which as he said, lets you “upload a picture and it will analyze the colors in the picture and
create a design palette out of them,” pow!

But after all the hemming and hawing and palette analysis, we ultimately gave in to the tractorbeam pull of proximity and went with the green paint we already had on hand after the great credenza paint off, and I think it looks pretty okay! Not too shabby (chic)…

You probably can’t quite see it, but rest assured that both bedside clocks have been carefully adjusted to the exact same time. Can you guess who took the time to time things so perfectly? (Marco.)

Best of all, we can always paint right on over the green if and when we get sick of it, yay for non-permanent decision-making!

- – - – - – - – -

Marco and I just bought two bedside tables on Craigslist for forty little dollars!

And while we’re very happy with the ability to finally store things away in a drawer (a surprisingly big relief, what with Marco’s Swatch watch always trying to tick me to death), and we’re both in love with the new tables’ dainty footprint, we’re not so happy with the color.

Actually the color isn’t really the problem, it’s more the country-cutesy distressing along the edges that we’re not so crazy on. And if we’re going to repaint, that opens up a whole world of colorful opportunities, a freedom of choice that has left us feeling somewhat boggled.

Do we worry about trying to select a color that complements our rough low-thread-count Ikea bedding? If so, whatever color we choose will also have to mesh with the very green green of our other main duvet cover (purchased at one of those gargantua Anthropologie sales):

Or, since bedding is typically more temporal than paint jobs, should we just boldly go forth in an entirely new color direction, untethered by concerns of matchy-matching? With all boundaries removed, the color I keep coming back to is a deep-greenish sea turquoise. Or a burnt orange. Or maybe a nice, comfortable olive green? Basically any of the bold, beautiful colors found in my new favorite handbag (Sale! Zara!):

But maybe matching the bedside tables to the purse isn’t the best idea? Possibly those colors don’t translate too terribly well to furniture? Which means we’ll find ourselves sick of them the second the last coat of paint dries? Wait, do we even have to paint both tables the same color? Perhaps we should double our trouble and select two totally different colors?

What do you think? Please, help my brain think!

I'm not sure I want what Idol's giving back?
Friday, Apr. 11, 2008 | link

I can fully appreciate that maybe last night you were otherwise gainfully occupied and so did not catch this week's THIRD installment of American Idol, but if you did, then maybe you caught this split-second flash of crazy...

...which appeared and disappeared with subliminal swiftness right at the dark, bitter end of the wildly ill-advised montage nightmare of B- stars wiggling and lip-syncing to I'm a Believer?

I no longer know what's happening.

note from me to me: achieve something, stat!
Friday, Apr. 11, 2008 | link

Updated! I got a nice email from Jill after I wrote this, pointing out how much I have actually accomplished in this life, having some of my words published, etc. And I felt a small feeling of heelishness for so glibly ignoring the things I have managed to do up until now? But! I still say that, as far as "proudest" achievements go, I don't think I have one of those. Yet? Maybe never? Either way, though, I felt compelled to report that I am very and totally happy with my life so far, full as it is of quiet, small- to medium-sized accomplishments, even if they aren't quite large enough to be mounted on the break room walls at my place of employment.

So at work they've initiated this put-a-name-to-face scheme where they're putting up photos of everyone in the break room, along with our name, role, and some fun get-to-know-you tidbits, such as "something coworkers would be surprised to learn." Oh, you mean besides the syphilis? Or the thigh-high ALF tattoo? Or that time I used the breast milk from the new-mommy quiet room refrigerator when we ran out of half and half? Then I guess I'd have to say it's my deep, discomfiting phobia of share-a-thons in the workplace!

Oh, I jest. We do have fun, don't we?

One of the other things they asked us to list was our "proudest achievement." I wonder, is there anything more effective at triggering a mid-life crisis than asking a person to pinpoint her crowning achievement? Unfortunately I have run no marathons, birthed no Mensa babies, donated no bone marrow, or any other work-appropriate brags. On the other hand, I did manage to floss every single day in March!

a good clip
Thursday, Apr. 10, 2008 | link

I’ve misplaced many precious things over the years: a perfect pair of 501s (dropped somehow/where between my house and car…who? huh?); the perfect scoop-necked, puff-sleeved black shirt (stolen from the laundromat, jerks); and, most painful of all, my great-grandmother’s delicate sage green-sparkle costume necklace (left, I think, in the pocket of a shirt I gave to Goodwill, ugh!).

But, by some great miracle, I’ve managed to hold on to these barrettes throughout the many thick and thin years since I first scraped together enough allowance to buy them:

You remember these, right? They were a very big deal in the late 70s, or at least they were at my grade school, right up there with googly-eyed puffy vegetable stickers and orthodontics…my best friend and I wanted retainers so badly, we unwound a paperclips and tried to wind them around our front teeth.

The barrettes came in the most inspiring array of truly good colors, so it was always very difficult to choose — a young person could spend hours thinking on which ones to invest in…the delicate peachy-orange one, or the deeper, darker, truly orange one? So hard to know!

Some girls, in particular the Horsey Girls, would get the whole rainbow and wear their entire collection all at once, right down the side of their heads, which always seemed so fantastically decadent to me.

Best of all, these clips were big and strong enough to actually hold my hair, which was and continues to be a beast that few clips have the fortitude to rein in.

(As you can see, my hair has grown beyond all reason. Now when I wear it down like this, it actually feels like I’m trapped inside some hot, heavy costume…a lion outfit maybe, or a rubber Sam Kinison head.)

And, as anyone who wore these glorious clips will remember, they always leave a very distinctive mark, both on your heart and your hair:

Maybe, what with the resurgence of high-waisted jeans (look! Dittos!), one of you time-traveling entrepreneurial geniuses will also re-release these wonderclips into the wild? I hope? And hey, while you’re back there, could you also pick me up some metal-slide Village Lip Lickers balm? Thx.

PS: How about that do-it-myself ten-minute Clairol Nice ‘n’ Easy Perfect 10 dye job? It was indeed nice and easy, and cheap! Just $14! (Or $28 for those with OED-thick hair like me who need double the amount of blonding agents, yay.)

kungfu-grip hand models: get your smudgy resumes here!
Wednesday, Apr. 9, 2008 | link

I live on a street overrun with nail salons (we have six, all essentially indistinguishable with the big, brown vibrating chairs and the gigantic hand-claw-holding-rose stencil on the window), dusty copy shoppes (we have four, each packed with elderly, sun-darkened Xerox machines that look too decrepit to do anything but tear and crunch your documents, and usually are), and martial arts studios, of which there are three:

First we have the very competent-looking place up the street, which is always filled with grim-faced men with zero body-fat and oatmeal-hued outfits, no real surprises there.

Then we have the dojo downstairs, scene of the pugly surprise party and home of the flashing sign (with swap-out-able seasonal framing) that scrolls out the most be-typoed, maddeningly mis-punctuated craziness ever: “Dont be a stastic Learn ‘HOW’ to be aware in any setting!” and “Come in and feel ‘how quality’ martial arts can enhance your Life!” They also seem to specialize in a strange sort of slap-fighting, with gangly, acne-prone children facing off in a Pattycake stance and paddling each other with loose, flappy arms?

And then there’s the fantastic place just up the street, which first of all has the world’s greatest and most optimistic sandwich board out front: “Self defense! Grappling! Tumbling! Motivation! Confidence! FUN birthday parties!” I love that “FUN” they added in there, like, “Looks good, looks good…but should we add some FUN in there? Because otherwise, that birthday you’re describing, it sounds less like a celebration and more like military school or maybe a fraternity party? Just a thought.”

Better still, they have a huge television sitting in the window, and it’s on a 24-hour video loop that is just packed with the most sweaty, erotic-looking grappling I’ve ever scene:

The windows of this strangely office-y looking dojo are always steamed up, so you can’t really see inside, but thanks to the semi-porn they have playing in the window, you can always well-imagine what’s going on in there. It’s a lot to think about. And people do often stop and ponder out front.

I once left the house on a drizzly morning, walked up the block, then circled when I realized I needed an umbrella. When I returned five minutes later, the same Alhambra Water delivery man I spotted my first time out was standing in front of the dojo, rooted in front of that looping grapple video. So FUN!

a $10 dream
Tuesday, Apr. 8, 2008 | link

How about this: If you send me $10, I will mail you a photograph of me sending David Horvitz $10 to take a photograph of a mailbox in NYC and then mail me that photo from the very same mailbox!

Thanks to Jordan Ferney, writer of Oh Happy Day, and indirectly her husband Paul, for the great link!

did he stay on the bus? forget about us?
Sunday, Apr. 6, 2008 | link

It’s been three long weeks since Matthew Baldwin last posted. Where could he be? Why for has he gone?

Wherever you are, Matthew, please know that we are out here, yearning for the safe and sound return of your internet typing fingers.

And until that happy day comes, here we sit…

…wondering…

…and waiting…

…and keeping our deliciously White-Grapefruit-scented candles (just $12.95 at Old Navy!) burning bright and ever hopeful.

some evany rules to live by
Thursday, Apr. 3, 2008 | link

1. If the outfit you’re wearing now is cuter than the one you’re thinking about buying, don’t.

2. A lapel pin will make you feel better about almost anything.

3. There are few things more depressing to come home to, yet so easy to take care of before you leave in the morning, than a dirty coffee pot and an unmade bed.

4. Gaining weight is just as much of a golden opportunity to go outfit shopping as losing weight is.

5. You can put a price on friendship: It’s the amount it costs to hire professional movers.

6. Never get a haircut when you’re feeling blue.

7. Do some small nice thing for someone you love at least once a day.

8. If you like the way the wine tastes, write down its name and year now! Quick! Before you get too drunk to remember, or write.

9. Set aside a corner of your closet for a Gift Larder, then line it with fun $20-or-less finds—that way you always have something wrappable when emergency gift situations arise!

10. Buy the very best mattress you can afford.

11. Take an alternate route home.

12. Keep your friends close.

13. Floss. Sunblock. 401(k)!

14. Try not to leave the house in anything less than the outfit you’d wish you were wearing if you ran into either the ex, the one you most want to feel the sear of regret for not getting you, and/or The Sartorialist.

15. Don’t save your special items for special occasions—wear those sparkly heels to the hardware store! Put on the $100 underwear for brunch with your mother! Wear the pin you inherited from you great-grandmother, the one with the real rubies, to all-day Diversity Appreciation Training at work! This is your life!

bird bath!
Tuesday, Apr. 1, 2008 | link

Easter of last year, Washington Mutual (an evil, evil bank that PS: Ate up $700 of Marco’s dollars in its maddening and always hungry bureaucrazy) ran a “Free Range Checking” campaign (a glorious pun, I know, too bad and sad that they’re awful and wrong and you should never, ever bank there!) They celebrated this campaign as anyone with endless (and surely shadily obtained!) resources does: They plastered their windows with gigantic posters of hypnotically cute baby chickens.

My want-o-meter went deep into the red the very first second I saw that poster, oh! And then, upon closer inspection, I realized that the poster was mounted on the OUTSIDE of the window, and surreptitious picking revealed that it peeled away with unexpected ease! My internal needle soared into white-hotter realms of desire, and I started hatching great, Marco-alarming plans of visiting the bank in the (t)wee(t) hours of the night and robbing it of this, its most precious asset.

But before I could even purchase a ski mask, the campaign winds shifted, and (that rotten bank!) Washington Mutual started systematically removing the chickens from its branches. I came home and dejectedly delivered the news that the chickens had all but disappeared, and Marco clucked sympathetically.

But! The very next morning, luck lightning struck with astounding timeliness when Marco decided to stop at our local branch to deposit a check in the blue, pre-dawn hours before his frighteningly early work begins, and he caught the chicken-removal team just as they were putting up the next round of posters. After much hand-gesturing (the chicken-removal team spoke little English), Marco learned that the beautiful chicken poster had been crumpled into a big sticky ball and shoved into the trash. Sadness! However fears that the poster was balled beyond rescue proved unfounded when the poster softened in the warmth of the back of Marco’s truck and over the course of the day it unfolded all on its own, just like a pretty flower.

And now those gigantic chickens have a new lot in life: Now they must focus their Rasputin stare upon our naked bodies as we scrub our skins and hairs with foaming agents!