1. Uncork that Valpolicella
2. Pop up some Redenbacher on the stove
3. Invent a drinking game for “Numb-Three-ers” — I mean, NUMB3RS.
4. Pass out
Monthly Archives: October 2005
Changing the subject
OMG Did you see Lost last night? I totally cried. I want to hug … everybody. How’s about America’s Next Top Model? I like the lesbian one and Kyle from Michigan [because her accent reminds me of home]. And I’m so fucking psyched that Angular Eyebrows Coryn got kicked the hell off. I don’t like her.
ANNND. Did you know that FOX is showing Sex and the City at like, not-midnight-as-listed-in-TV-Guide-thing, but 1 a.m.? I taped it. Watched it with my coffee.
And, this is important, I am going to the movies tonight. At six o’clock. With Karen. To see IN HER SHOES which is based on a book by JENNIFER WEINER and contains the hotness of CAMERON DIAZ.
It’s funny. I almost wrote “Wish me luck” in this space. Because that’s what I’m feeling.
Things you may not know about me
- I used to be a cartoonist
- I have social anxiety disorder
The Owen Show!
Some Owen notes while I debate posting a more whiny, personal, introspective piece on the state of my mental health.
- Pincer grasp, bitches: We’ve totally got this thing down. The smaller the item to be picked up between thumb and forefinger THE BETTER. Crumbs. Paintchips. Fuzzballs. Miniscule pieces of acorn tracked in from outside. No article too small, dirty, or inappropriate for my little guy. He’s as dexterous as jeweler.
- A stand-up kinda guy: The better to reach things on the table, y’see. Step one: crawl to table leg. Step two: grasp, shimmy and pull like a paraplegic exotic dancer at her pole. Step three: STAND! BEHOLD, world, and gasp with wonder as his chubby legs support the weight of all that body. ‘Tis a sight to see.
- I’ll have what she’s having: He’s on a Baby Food Strike. Nothing from a spoon, nothing of a consistency less than chunky, and most importantly NOTHING that can’t be picked up between thumb and forefinger [see Pincer Grasp, above].
Things he will eat:- Cornbread
- Teeny pieces of deli roast beef
- Teeny pieces of mandarin orange
- teeny crumbles of italian sausage
- teeny pieces of Cheddar cheese
Things he will not eat:
- Anything from a spoon
- Anything he liked last week
- The Incredible Non-Napping Baby: This kid, he has a nose problem. Has to know what’s going on in every room of the house during all daylight hours. Sleeping, by himself? You know, napping? So not going on. Pfft. Napping is for pussies. He’ll just rub his eyes and bitch and moan but keep on going. I’d be impressed if I weren’t so impatient for him to take a NAP already DAMMIT.
- I win! I win! If I wasn’t sure before, I’m damned positive now: His first word is Mama. Like so: [crying] MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMMAMAAAAAAHHHH!! It’s never conversational, only pleading and sad and wailing, but I know without a trace of doubt that he’s talking to me, that “Mamamama” means me. He also says “ba-ba,” “da-da”, “gog” and “guag.” I think he wants me to make guacamole with all that avocado he refuses to touch.
Be a source for the Sun
Or, I GET MAIL, PART 3
I’m doing a story for The Sun about people who choose to spend Thanksgiving
with friends rather than relatives, especially as an enduring ritual. I’m
looking for interesting folks in Maryland who are willing to talk about
their holidays with friends — or with people who routinely host such
gatherings (probably a few college professors do this).
Contact reporter Kate Shatzkin: 410-332-6753 or toll free 1-800-829-8000 (dial 1, then 6753 for extension) or kate.shatzkin@baltsun.com.
Supafine through the ages
A handful of previous blog designs to distract you from the ORANGE my god the ORANGE.
Would they just kiss already?
I love The Office. It is the highlight of my week. But man … if Pam and Jim don’t do it in the supply closet one of these days I’m going to shoot myself.
My li’l punkinhead
The three of us went to Weber’s farmer’s market yesterday with Baby Cassie and her mama and papa. It was a beautiful day, unlike Yom Kippur, which was rainy and crappy and the original day we were going to go.
We did the obligatory Baby in the Pumpkins shtick.
Cassie didn’t like it so much.
But Owen was fascinated.
He really, really likes pumpkins.
I mean seriously.
And then we’d all had enough and it was time to go and we got in our cars and left. Our stereo was playing Sweetney’s autumn mix, and Stevie Wonder was singing “You Are The Sunshine Of My Life,” and I looked back at my boy and thought You Are The Apple Of My Eye, child, you really are.
Hometown news: Riots in Toledo
Toledo Blade, AP stories.
“They accomplished what they wanted,” Sheriff Telb said of the Nazi group. “They got chaos.”
Indeed.
In my experience as a Toledo-area journalist five years or so ago, these traveling White Power groups were not much to get worked up over. A handful of Klansmen shouting from the courthouse steps; 300 professional traveling protesters shouting right back; the locals going about their business, detouring around the rallies to get to the grocery store.
I’m sad this one led to violence.
Portraits of Baltimore County: The Wrath of the Receptionist
She’ll forward all your calls AND spit in your coffee. Do not fuck with her, man.
I saw her in person. It was during a smoke break at work, out by the dumpster. She spewed forth such shaking, vitriolic ire that spit flew in many directions and her voice reached an octave only select breeds of dogs can hear.
She was a certain kind of Baltimore girl, a downeast On The Bay take-no-shit Baltimore girl, the kind of girl that will stop in her tracks, roll up her sleeves, and beat you until you cry. The kind of girl who’s always itching for a fight, always dialed to 11, always done taking shit from you. “I’m done taking shit from you,” she’ll say.
I had an encounter with this certain kind of Baltimore girl a couple of months ago, driving to Emily Flake’s booksigning at Atomic Books, in Hampden. My last-minute decision to make a right hand turn pinged the Pissiness Meter buried in her subconscious, and off she went, that’s all she wrote, please send flowers. Epithets, curse words, fist-shaking. Steam rolled from her ears. Flames blazed from her nostrils. Her golden chains and many-hooped ears began to glow. The opening of the car door combined with the blank, dead heat in her eyes convinced me that no red light in the history of traffic semaphores had power enough to keep me within striking distance.
This girl, this certain kind of Baltimore girl, is so tough that to look at her will make you cower. You fear for your as-yet-intact face, your hair which is currently still attached to your head. Words which only Satan himself dare speak froth forward from her lips.
No, you do not want to anger this certain kind of Baltimore girl. And if this certain kind of Baltimore girl is your receptionist, I suggest you bring your own coffee and field your own telephone calls.