cutest thing ever:
We are totally ipodding our theoretical baby. Sweet!
cutest thing ever:
cutest thing ever:
We are totally ipodding our theoretical baby. Sweet!
Way back in February, when Mr. Fizz and I first looked at the condo where we now live, I remember thinking: “Great closet space in the bedroom, but where am I going to put all my sweaters?” Indeed, the bedroom has His’n’Hers closets:
being slightly more full than Mr. Fizz’s
Problem being, in our old apartment I had TWO closets, plus a clothes rack in the basement for belly dance stuff, plus three tupperwares under the bed.
Now, I have one closet, plus another for bellydance things and the three dresses I own. And the under-the-bed tupperware. Oh, and also, three huge tupperware bins full of sweaters.
Last night I decided it was time to do the great summer-winter clothing swap, and replace all my shorts and capris with sweaters. Much to my dismay I discovered that my shorts and capris (and cute skirts, and light summer shirts, and an under-the-bed bin full of summer nightgowns) do not equal three bins of sweaters. So my closet is JAM PACKED with sweaters right now. As is an under-the-bed bin.
I think my problem is that I am a sweater hoarder. I will buy sweaters for occasions (“oooh! perfect for christmas!”) that come only once a year, and Mr. Fizz does not like it when I change my outfit more than three times a day in order to get maximum usage out of all these sweaters. And clearly I can’t give a sweater away when I’ve worn it for only one christmas. So these sweaters pile up. And up and up and up. I think I might need a sweater intervention.
Major PMS this week, people (duck and cover, Mr. Fizz!), so:
1) American Eagle Salesgirl: what the fuck are you doing having only two people in the store? In the mall? At 5 o’clock? Just after school started? Are you insane? And also, if there are only two of you in the entire store, why is one of you a designated greeter? Do you not have little theft prevention tags on your merchandise? So you don’t have to position half your sales force by the door?
2) People in lab: Please stop pretending you were raised by wolves and put your own damn tissue culture crap away. I HATE DOING IT FOR YOU! Soon I will just start spitting in it.
3) Cashier at Harvest Co-op: Good cashiers who keep their jobs do not contemplate every item that passes their scanners. There is no need to fondle my bag of pretzels. Also, a word to the wise: you do not need to hold up the entire line while some dipshit ransacks her purse for her Harvest Co-op member card. It is perfectly acceptable to scan her card AFTER you’ve scanned her purchases. And lastly, I very rarely complain to managers or write on those complaint cards, but you were so freakin’ slow that I did both. You were named, slow-ass cashier, and I hope your days of terrorizing commuters at rush hour are numbered.
4) Dipshit who waits in a 20 minute line and fails to get her co-op card or cash out of her purse: die! die! die!
Mr. Fizz and I had a jam-packed weekend.
Friday I went to an interview about a possible new gig. It was a long, long (2 hour!) interview, but I thought I did well. I even presented the interviewer with a nice presentation folder containing photos, a cd with videos, and a dance resume/bio. If I’m not the best dancer, then at least I’m the most organized! However, Mr. Interviewer said he’d call me on Sunday, and never did (though I did get an email telling me that the contract I’d sent had been rejected by the company’s lawyers – which I’d expected, since the contract was pretty darn sweet for me. So we’ll see. I’m not the best at negotiating (Mr. Fizz is), and sometimes my people skills need work – but I’d like to get this gig.
Scooted back from the interview to meet two out of town friends, Al and Amy, for dinner at our local vietnamese place. Then back to our house for dessert and a rendezvous with Steve (from last weekend) and his new girlfriend. Said new girlfriend held up very well for someone dumped in with five other people who have known each other for at least five years (mostly nine or more) and who can get through the entire Muppet Manamanah Song when given the least bit of alcohol. (Thanks to Mr. Fizz’s Extremely Alcoholic Lemon Slush Al and I also got through all of The Chicken Dance, including the part where you skip around with linked elbows, in the small space between the couch and coffee table).
Saturday Mr. Fizz visited my parents’ neighbor’s six-month-old daughter, Carrie. I don’t know that Mr. Fizz has actually ever held someone so small, so he floundered for a few seconds trying to figure out HOW to hold her, and then settled down to ignore her while talking to Carrie’s dad. Carrie is a marvelous finger holder and gnawer, and also has the cutest blue eyes, big cheeks, and big smile. I was hoping that she’d charm Mr. Fizz into immediate baby-wanting mode, but sadly Mr. Fizz remains recalcitrant. Also, Carrie’s dad’s stories of flying poo didn’t help at all….
Saturday night Mr. Fizz and I attended a joint engagement/birthday/anniversary/general-pat-on-the-back party held by one of our friend’s parents. We had our second baby dose of the day playing with two year old Cooper (or Conner, depending on who you asked, and Cooper/Conner just looked confused when we asked him whether his name was Cooper or Conner), and enjoyed catching up with friends and friends’ parents.
Sunday Mr. Fizz took me on the fastest coat buying trip ever (in and out in five minutes…wish I could do that!), and then we watched the sister of my friend perform in her Freshman Arts Program show at Harvard. Mr. Fizz and I were forced to conclude that kids are strange, and could’ve used a bit more direction. But there were funny bits, and we got to see some amazing vocal and instrumental performances. We expect big things from Harvard class of 2009 (2009! Dang!).
I am excited about this week because belly dance classes start again, which will hopefully force me to practice more regularly. I should also probably get around to updating my dance website, which still shows my schedule from August. Or maybe I’ll just wait until October.
Before this weekend and its out of town guests arrive, I should give a shout-out to last weekend’s out of townies. So hi to Steve and Deb, both at UCLA, both visiting the same weekend. Steve is from my undergrad days, whereas Deb has been a friend since high school. It was great to see them both, relive old glories, and find out where their lives are going.
And now, on to this weekend….
Dear Mr. Drummer:
Duuuuuude, get over it. You might be shy, or weird, or a bit high, but for crying out loud: watch the dancer when you’re drumming!
Dear Ms. Dancer:
Oh, boy. So many, many points of etiquette. For the benefit of my sanity I will assume that you are new to dancing. So listen up, because you are just a catalog of ways to get fired from a family friendly restaurant.
1) That thing where you bend over at the waist, grab the BOTTOM hem of your skirt (which is already slit up to the waist), and spin? Appropriate at Centerfold’s, not a middle eastern restaurant.
2) I do not care how well you know people in the audience – it is NEVER appropriate to just plunk down at a table after a set and start chatting. In full costume. Gracefully exit, PUT ON A COVERUP, and come back.
3) I did not see this, but I assume that in order to plunk down at a table while in full costume you also pulled all your tips out of the various recesses of your costume while in full view of the audience. You should never, ever touch money where customers can see.
4) And on the subject of tips, move it along already! Standing (not dancing, STANDING) at a table and chatting with patrons is fine, once you’ve (say it with me, now) put on your coverup and returned after making a graceful exit. That is the time to give out your life story and business cards.
5) Not a point of etiquette, but: the zils? Play them or don’t. But definitely don’t play them every once in a while when you remember what the painful elastic straps on your fingers are for.
It is fortunate that you didn’t come over to me after your set (how could you? You were schmoozing! In costume!), because I probably would have pointed out 1-5 to you not-very-nicely. Being made to wait for an hour before my set because the dancer before me (ahem!) takes half an hour to finish collecting her tips makes me cranky.
Yours in dance,
I have a theory.
Hypothesis: Labor Day weekend spawns as many resolutions among grad students as New Year’s Eve spawns among the normal population.
Rationale: Despite loads of good intentions, a total lack of annoying undergrads, and the ominous absence of one’s advisor, very little good work gets done in the summer. Something about the day after labor day makes us realize that we just wasted a perfectly good 8 weeks and are no closer to graduating.
Speaking of which, I have experiments to run.
I spent Sunday with some girlfriends at my friend’s parents’ beach house in South Dartmouth. The beach house is part of a 100-building victorian collective which includes a beautiful beach.
Anyway, we were lounging on the beach, discussing ideal men, when I declared that Mr. Fizz was exactly my type – and announced rather loudly that he looks just like David Duchovny, who we all know is the epitome of manhood. At this point, my friend shushed me loudly as she looked around the beach, and said in a whisper, “Tea Leoni’s parents have a house here…sometimes we see David Duchovny on the beach with his kids!”
Fortunately (or unfortunately) there was no sign of clan Duchovny that day….
Dear Mr. “I have to change the settings on my laptop so nobody else in the entire building can connect to the internet with their laptops”:
I know being a rogue DHCP server sounds all cool and X-Men-ish, but there are currently dozens of disgruntled grad students who would gladly throw your dumb laptop off the top of the building, and possibly toss you with it.
Also, I am fairly sure you’re an undergrad, since the internet comes back when you go home at 5pm – and what grad student goes home at 5pm? So whatever might have been cool when you were dreaming about going off to college and scoring some chicks and drinking yourself into a stupor (that will hopefully result in you getting beer on your laptop, rendering it and its evil settings nonfunctional)…well, it’s just not cool now. See the chicks? Do you? I can almost guarantee, from your choice of school, that there will be no chicks. And the drinking? Go for it. I trust Darwin will remove you and your stupid-ass rogue DHCP settings.
Looking forward to hearing of your demise,