Sharing is Caring

I drove down to San Diego to visit our mother (not Lairin's mother) as she was there on business. We were sharing a hotel room, and I woke up in the morning after a really weird dream. I decided to tell my mom about it.

Dodo: "I had such a weird dream..."
Momma: "What happened?"
Dodo: "I got pregnant"
Momma: "WHAT??!?!.........Did you have an abortion?"
Dodo: "No I think I was going to give it to Brother and his wife."
Momma: "Oh Dodo don't do that to yourself!"
Dodo: "Mom it wasn't really a concrete dream. I didn't even know who the father was."
Momma: "WHAT???!?!"

Song Of The Week

I'm about a week behind with this, but I love Swedish music. Adore. I searched record stores in 2007 to find imports of the Robyn CD before anyone in the U.S. (including Katy Perry) seemed to think of her as anything more that a one hit wonder (see "Show me Love"). I then put her song "Handle Me" on every mix I made for 6 months, whether or not I thought the mix recipient would like it.

There are so many things going on in the Swedish music scene, and they've been going on for a while. For example, Britney's song "...Baby, One More Time" was written and produced by her frequent collaborator Max Martin, who just happens to be Swedish. Point is, there is a lot of Swedish-ness going on, and it is frequently great. I love poking around trying to find new Swedish bands and artists. I came across this group, and fell in love.

Sometimes I hear a song, and then I have to listen to it 8 more times just to process all the emotions it makes me feel. I know this song has been around for about 3 years, but I still fall in love with it every time I hear it. The trio, Fredrik, is always interesting, and in honor of their new album (which it looks like you can already download on itunes), I am declaring their song "Black Fur" song of the week.

xoxo

zuzu

p.s. there might be another song of the week this week, because i am so late!

Fresh Breath Is A Priority In My Life

Alright, I'll say it: I'm fucking terrified of the dentist. Yes, I'm afraid! So afraid that I had to cuss! Cuss on the Interwebs! Where cusses basically become etched in stone and follow you around for life! Now I can never run for President, dentist!

Just don't say the F-word and you'll be golden in 2012.

I'm so scared of the dentist that I didn't go to the dentist for approximately 5 years. Maybe longer. How can you expect me to remember when I have put all this effort into forgetting that I have ever even been to a dentist? At first I made all the typical excuses. "I'm really busy" or "I can't afford it" or "I've suddenly gained the ability to fly and need to concentrate on crafting an appropriate superhero costume."

(Not pictured: Me flying behind this guy and holding up his cape.)

Then I went to law school, and for three years I didn't have any dental coverage. There was an option of going to get "free" dental work at a local dental school. But I am already scared enough of the dentist, and I didn't want some baby dentist poking around in my mouth, and pulling teeth by accident.

No, it's cool. I probably didn't need that one anyway. I've got like 30 in here or something.

Also, the physical experience of going to the dentist is pretty close to my idea of hell. You're trapped in a chair, under bright lights, and people poke you in the mouth with sharp pointy objects. So instead of going to the dentist, I bought a Sonicare toothbrush and kept my fingers crossed. This worked really well until about two weeks ago when one of my teeth started hurting.



Apparently Sonicare toothbrushes are not capable of magic.

So I told Sparks about it, and she said to make an appointment with a dentist. Now, Sparks was raised by a dentist (and a lawyer) so pretty much she has brass balls about dental work (and pretty much everything else). I tried to co-opt some of her bravado, and, using my state provided health insurance, I made an appointment. But it turned out that I should never have listened to her, because after five years (or more) of neglect, I only had one cavity! And it wasn't even that bad! And it wasn't even in the tooth that hurt!

I'm pretty sure that this is evidence that my teeth are some sort of legends in the making. Willy Nelson is probably writing a folk-hero ballad about them right now.

Now, what rhymes with "tooth?"

One of the few places in my area that accepted this particular "budget" health insurance is in a fairly bad neighborhood in Boston. But in my mind, I thought that this fact didn't need to mean that I would get sub-par care. And then I scolded myself for even considering it a possibility. But the dentist was really shady. He told me some weird things. Like this gem: "If you yawn, your mouth will freeze and you will end up in the emergency room, so don't yawn. It has happened before."

For the love of all that is holy, somebody call a doctor!

He also told me my tooth hurt because my gums were receding. Which is like a receding hairline but about 900 times more gross. His proposed solution was to "seal the root." And then he proposed that he do this with 3 other teeth, too. And then he proposed he do this with silver fillings. He was telling me all these things while poking his sharp pointy thing into the area of the tooth that hurt over and over again. He kept doing this not out of necessity, but to underscore whatever point he was trying to make. I didn't want to look like a wimp, but at one point I realized that I had clenched my fists so hard that my nails were digging into my palms pretty bad. Needless to say I didn't understand almost anything he was saying because of the pain, claustrophobia, and anxiety. So I took the estimate for the work he was recommending (which despite sounding like something out of Dickens, somehow costs a way more than a "sixpence"). I said would call to schedule an appointment for the rest of the work.

And then I left.

And, you guys...I am never going back there.

Sparks is helping me strategize finding another dentist, but suggestions are appreciated. After Dodo's post about her dentist, I am beginning to believe that absolute fear and distrust are the only way to make it out of a dental appointment alive.

xoxo
zuzu

Sweat. Sweat Everywhere.

So, I am an English major and decided (yes, DECIDED) to apply to the honors thesis program. The honor being--to write a thesis. I asked to do this, it was not forced, but of my own volition. Which, I sometimes need to remind myself when I'm up to my neck in books focusing on 16th century lady times.

There are 11 of us in the program and we all have to do a presentation. And the first round of presentations happened yesterday--naturally, I was the FIRST to present. AKA super scary times. I actually was a bit taken aback at my own nervousness. I usually pwn at presentations (and talking, in general). [Fun fact: I won the English Department's poorly-titled, "Oral Communications Award" TWICE in high school].

Thankfully, Dodo was there for moral support and provided copious amounts of enthusiastic head nods when I looked out into the audience. Now, once I hit the front of the room, my nervousness decided to take its form in PROFUSE SWEATING. I guess, it could have been worse, I could have had a shaky voice, stutters, just straight-up collapsed, or vomited on myself. And, let me tell you dear readers, the sweat floweth mostly from my arse, which I suppose has its perks. It would have been far more noticeable and embarrassing if I was sweating all over my face. But, I guess I never knew how much an ass could sweat in a not-hot environment. Literally, a drip went down my leg in the middle of the presentation. Luckily, I was wearing a skirt that went past my knees, so no one saw (I also distracted the audience with an impromptu nip-slip).

I, for sure, left the podium with pit stains, so I refrained from doing my victory dance, which was a personal disappointment, but also confirms my suspicions that deodorant is giant, fucking scam.

I know this post has no photos, so allow me to give you this one, which is totally unrelated and just displays my 7-year-old cat, Mimi, being Cutez McGee on my backpack:

In relation to Zuzu's post about animals and their being wild and likely killing you...my boyfriend has been away for several months, with a few visits here and there. My first time really living alone for extended periods of time.

A few weeks ago I was eating something and it went down the wrong pipe, crazed coughing ensued and it sounded like a lung would come up. I drank a ton of water and then I was fine. Then I thought, what if I had croaked! My cat totally would have been like "Oh no! Foodbowl filler died!" and then in about a day or two would have eaten my face or something that they show on 60 Minutes. People try to act like this isn't a likely truth about their pet, but I kind of know it's true about mine. I think this picture says it all.

In Otter News

Friends, full disclosure time: This is a post basically just about how much I love otters. If you don't like otters, you can take a long walk off a short pier...hopefully into a body of water heavily populated by otters, where you can play together, and frolic, and see what you are missing! Otters are awesome!



Yesssssssssss!


I don't really have much to tell you. I just found myself totally thinking about otters today, and then I thought, "self, it's too bad there is no one here who will talk about otters with you." And after that I thought, "you have a blog! you can talk about otters all you want and people will probably ignore it, just like they would in person!"

Let me be clear, I don't want to own an otter as a pet.


I would never do this to you, Otter.

If mean, if Animal Planet's Fatal Attractions has taught me anything it is that wild animals will pretty much freaking kill you, and then eat you, and you can't be mad at them because: IT'S NATURE, YOU GUYS!

Ninja assassin.

There are a bunch of different kinds of otters, and I've never actually seen any variety in person.


Unless these count.

 However, in spite of their differences, all otters are the same kind of cute.

Stop. You're killing me.

Here are a few confirmation videos...

Now I want an otter and a child!

I want to snuggle with all of you!

It's how otters do the Dougie!

Eeeeee! Otters!

xoxo
zuzu


update: i am not alone! http://dailyotter.org/



Song Of The Week

As tempted as I was to post that Rebecca Black song that has been contemplating world domination all week long, it is only Thursday, and I'm still not even sure which seat I will pick in the car during my Friday morning commute to school. So I'm just going to leave that situation alone until another time when I'm not so overwhelmed by seating decisions.


Instead I decided to go with one of my favorite songs of all time. Basically, I love the Talking Heads, but I can't claim to be a diehard fan. I would say I'm "conversational" in Talking Heads, but by no means "fluent." Howewer, I sincerely think that this is one of the sweetest songs I've ever heard, and it might be a good reminder of a simpler time in music. A time when nobody even knew what auto-tune was, and people danced with lamps. This is the version of This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) from Stop Making Sense. I love both versions, but just in different ways.




xoxo
zuzu

Cats, In So Many Words

Zuzu, Dodo, and I grew up with a cat named "Little Girl." When I found her, at the tender age of 8, she weighed less than a pound and fit in your hand. She has since blossomed into a bodacious babe, so the name is more ironic than descriptive.

Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:

Now, Little Girl lives a lavish life with my mom. Because of the size of her body, she has trouble jumping up on beds (her space), but if attempt to help her up, she acts as if she doesn't really need the help. Point is, this cat has got some attitude--not an attitude that results in scratches or bites--just straight 'tude.

Anywho, I was home for approximately 3 seconds this past weekend as it is now my Spring Break. While home, I noticed a new tradition in the world of the big LG. My mom gives Little Girl treats before she goes to bed. On my first night, my mom handed the bag to me and told me to give her the treats in my room (at the other end of the hall). When I went into my room and shook the bag, I saw a sight I had never before seen--Little Girl running (and, by running, I mean trotting) down the hall with excitement, her large belly sweeping the floor as she went.

When telling Dodo, Zuzu, and Sparks of this event, they insisted I get video evidence of this. I was able to do this successfully on my last night. This is really only meant for those who know, and appreciate, the greatness of Little Girl.

These Are My Confessions

Friends, I have something to tell you. It's actually probably going to ruin my street cred (which  is already struggling according to recent statements from my bank). But I can't hold it in. I'll understand if you can't associate with me after I tell you this, but I am not strong enough to carry this burden on my own. So I'm going to need you to lean in really close and I'll whisper it to you...

I saw Red Riding Hood over the weekend.


Even Amanda Seyfried can't look me in the eye anymore.

 No, no! It feels good to tell you! I wish you could take away my pain, too! But there are some things no one can undo. One of those things is the existence of this film. Another of those things is the fact that I saw it. I spent about two hours after seeing the film accusing Sparks of trying to sabotage my life by suggesting we see it, but in all fairness, she also suggested we leave about 20 minutes in. Which we should have done, but I have a strict "never walk out on a movie, or stop reading a book before the end" policy. I like to think this policy is endearing and shows commitment, but, pretty much, all it really means is that I have had to force myself to watch (and read) some horrible things.


If you think sitting through this is hard, try reading the book. 

Anyhoo, back to my shame. Guys, this movie is bad. I mean really bad. My conversation with Sparks immediately following the movie went like so:

Me: That was the worst movie I've ever seen.
Sparks: Yeah, I think that might be the worst movie I've ever seen, too. It felt like I was watching a terrible high school play.
Me: I've been thinking about it for the last half of the movie as something to do to help keep my brain from dying, and I can't think of a movie worse than this movie.
Sparks: Neither can I...neither can I.

We weren't the only people that felt this way: Two rows in front of us a woman had brought her boyfriend to the film (I'm pretty sure it wasn't his idea). When the opening credits started to roll, she literally started to bounce up and down in her seat with excitement. I restrained myself from telling her that this sort of anticipatory celebration is only allowed at midnight showings on the opening day of a Harry Potter film, but within 10 minutes the film had taught her a harsher lesson than I ever could. She turned to her boyfriend at one point and said "I'm sorry."

One scene in the movie showed a young woman offering her body to the Van Helsing-esque character in the film (just like Coco Hernandez in Fame, but I cared less). A woman in the audience pointed out to us that although this display had no effect on the Gary Oldman/Van Helsing character, his African bodyguard was full on staring at the young woman in her state of undress. "Why is he looking?" She asked us. "Why do they always make the black dude a pervert?" No one answered, but we all hung our heads in shame.


It definitely couldn't be the one in the middle, Officer.

Here's my brief recap of the movie...spoiler alert! It's Twilight, except way worse (something I couldn't conceive of as possible until two days ago. In fact, I had to watch Twilight after I saw Red Riding Hood as a palate cleanser).

Mind parsley.

Okay, here are the actual spoilers: The acting is bad, the script is really bad, and her dad is the werewolf. There. Now you don't have to see it. And don't email me saying "Oh, man! I was totally going to see that movie but you ruined it for me, and now I hate you!" Hate me all you want, but as long as you live under my blog you will get spoilers by my rules...or something like that.


I'm still somewhere towards the beginning of the index, but I think I'm doing it right.
(Also, remember when everyone owned like 8 of these books? I totally miss 1997 a lot of the time.)

Invest the ten dollars you would have spent on the movie on something worthwhile, like planting some trees, or donating to the American Red Cross.

And as for you, Amanda Seyfried, come here. Take a look at yourself! You used to be so awesome!



  Exhibit A: Awesome.

 You were in Mean Girls, and Big Love, and some other stuff I never saw! And you were so good! Or maybe you weren't good, but I never actively questioned whether you were good or not before this movie, so I'm going to just assume that you were actually good. Point being, look at you now:



They dressed you up like a huge vagina, and they weren't even subtle about it.


What were you thinking?

Don't give me that look. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure this is somehow your fault.

Let's just try to move on from this. I forgive you, okay? But one last thing, if I could just ask you to add some sort of clause to your contract stating that you won't be in a movie that features your onscreen father waking up in his own vomit ever again, I would really appreciate that.

xoxo
zuzu

A Shitstorm be Brewing

There's some pretty horrendous stuff going on around the blogosphere that pertains to USC. Basically, a numbnut in a frat wrote an email that was disgusting, racist, misogynistic, the whole 9 yards. Now, while the email itself is so upsetting (I felt like crying when I first read it), the response has doubled the effect. It's atrocious, to say the least.

But, I really do not want to do a post on this holy-sweet-mother-of-god-what-is-wrong-with-humanity situation.

What I can tell you is that Lairin Paris and I are perpetually in a mental fetal position as we are writing our theses. [And by writing, what I really mean is chicken-scratching out pages of complete nonsense].

Also, about a week ago, a female coworker rubbed my belly--insinuating that I was pregnant. Upon realizing her mistake, she simply said, "Oh...I guess you've been eating too much pizza." WRONG. I've been eating copious amounts of break-and-bake cookies. That's what my thesis wants and that's what my thesis gets.

So, in sum, I'm not in a happy place and to top it all off, this happened, which spurned this conversation between me and Lairin Paris:

Song of the Week

In all honesty, I don't know more than about two facts about this band, (one of those facts is the name of the band and the other fact is that I like this song) but I think it's a pretty good song of the week...even though I can already tell Dodo's not gonna like it. But Dodo should still watch to the end, because it's got a message, and also because it demonstrates why it's okay for me to have an apparently deep-seeded love for videos using finger puppets and/or miniaturized worlds.




(also hands up if this video reminds you more than just a little bit of Modest Mouse's "Dashboard" from 2007...in a "full of nautical goodness" kind of way).

xoxo
zuzu

Seriously, that's all I got

While everyone else has all this cool political stuff to talk about and make intelligent interesting points in response to, I got a whole lot of near-nothing. Exciting things that happened today:

1. I went to urgent care because for the past few days I could feel the feathers of a sinus infection working into my skull. The doctor there was probably the best I've ever had at the urgent care -- he was super super nice, really calm and intelligent, and assessed my issues quickly and with care. In addition he asked me about my life, education, etc with real interest. He was a complete professional. Overall, it was probably the loveliest urgent care visit I've ever had in my life. After our chat, as he walked out for a moment to write my prescription, I noticed his (very unique) last name. It was the same last name as a horrible (horrible) dentist I had a few years back. I knew she had a son because I was doing research on her to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau, and his name popped up. The spiel: she charged me $1k for a crown when I should have gotten it for about $100, by having me sign form with a barely visible note saying this was a non-necessary procedure. Then she drilled INTO my tongue while I was numbed and I could hardly eat for a week. I got in a huge argument with her over the phone about this and told her I wanted it all free of charge, which didn't fly. Instead she gave me a free filling which, upon inspection by my excellent new dentist, is apparently a really shitty filling that I'll need to have replaced relatively soon. Clearly this was done intentionally. It was awful. My anger for her was so great she is probably in my top 5 people I dislike intensely. But then her son was this...super nice, professional, great doctor! It was kind of amazing. How did she produce this person?? Her womb made him? Really? Maybe she's not so horrible. Or maybe she's a better mother than a dentist. So that kind of made my day.

2. I found this little itty teeny bulb in an old pot that I had neglected for months and saw it wasn't dead, so I started "forcing" the bulb with some pebbles in a shot glass a few months ago. During the night (somehow) it shot up a bud! Wow!
I'm excited about it anyway.

I H8 Huckabees

Ever since Bush was elected during the first election where I was actually old enough to vote (thereby destroying my belief in humanity), I have had what I like to refer to as "republican blindness." I think it's similar to what happens to the people on those awesome hoarding shows that seem to be on whenever I am quilting ("Buried Alive: Extreme Animal Hoarding Intervention: The Block" is a personal favorite). The psychoanalyst types on the shows always say the same thing: "At this point Jimmy can't even see the feline carcasses decomposing all around him. It's as if they don't exist...as if they never existed." Whatever trauma occurred to prompt the hoarding in the first place is aided and abetted by the ability to look at a molting pile of newspapers from 1925 and see something else.



What we see.

 



What Jimmy sees.

 

My point is I do the same thing with republicans. I find them so overwhelming and unavoidable, that I simply cannot see them.




What you see.



  

What I see.



 

Some part of my brain knows that a cute little puppy would never go around spouting anti-semitism while engaging in a mutual mental masturbation session with the latest conservative pundit to don a bowtie. But the louder part of my brain says "Look a puppy! Bellyruuuuuuuuuub!" Anyhoo, this is all to say, that when I read this article about how Mike Huckabee claimed that President Obama was raised in Kenya, I suddenly regained my republican sight...and it was a sight horrifying to behold.






My republican blindness has manifested itself with particular strength regarding Huckabee...I think because he scares me the most. Literally everytime I hear his name I think of the movie I Heart Huckabees and then I start thinking about what happens in a meadow at dusk (answer: everything). And then I curl up and nap for five minutes. But his brand of crazy finally forced its way through my protective candy shell.




Not even you could save me, Jason Schwartzman.

 
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, MIKE HUCKABEE! I mean, really. I don't get it. At first I thought maybe there was a city in Hawaii also named Kenya, because only an idiot would imply that Obama was raised in Kenya the country.



Fact: None of the cities in Hawaii are named "Kenya"...but they are all fun to say.



Then I thought: Maybe he is referring to the birth certificate thing that pretty much has been dispelled about 800 times. But Huckabee clarified that theory pretty quickly (hinting that the Clintons are the new KGB in the process).  In the midst of my ponderings, some sort of Huckabee minion decided to explain that what Huckabee actually meant was "Indonesia." Which is not Kenya, for those keeping track.


 

I fucking love maps.


Oh, now I see, Mike Huckabee! You meant Indonesia both times you said "Kenya." You must also have meant "Dutch" instead of "British" when you were alluding to colonial rule in "Indonesia." And I guess when you said that bizarre thing about Winston Churchill's bust being returned to the British, what you really meant was Queen Wilhelmina's bust being returned to the Dutch.



Give her a cigar and they could be twins.



I totally get it now. You were absolutely not trying to cast doubt in any way, shape, or form on the President's dedication to the country, his identity as an "American," or his capacity to handle foreign relations. You were just talking about the few years he spent in Indonesia as a child. Well okay then.




Whoever told you this was a good idea is not your real friend.


xoxo
zuzu