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Friday, March 27, 2009 - 21:40:04
Maybe the Guy with the Mysterious Scratches and No Alibi Did It
I just finished an online class, so I've been giving my brain a much needed break. I picked up a stack of mysteries from work, and I've been making my way through those.
When I want something light, I read "cozy mysteries," which are mysteries that frequently feature some sort of theme (coffee mysteries, Sudoku mysteries, gardening mysteries. One day we'll talk about the absurd number of hobbies and professions that have been the basis for a mystery series) and usually have titles that are puns on the chosen theme. In these books, somehow the dead people are almost never the point. Murder is mostly a puzzle to solve. I also only read mysteries written by women. I’ve made a few exceptions, but the last one I read is a pretty good example of why I tend to avoid the male authors.
It was a standup comedy mystery written by a guy who is a professional comedian. It was a weird mix of cozy mystery and attempts at noir. There were basically two women in the story, a sexy redhead and a sexier desert goddess. Both women slept with our hero—a brawling, Irish comic—but other than that, they didn’t DO anything. One of them actually orchestrated the murders, but she outsourced all the actual work of putting her schemes into action. *Sigh.*
So, I read books written by women because the chicks are always in the middle of the action. That doesn’t guarantee that I’ll like them, though. When I found a book called Ninja Soccer Moms, I didn’t have high expectations, but I read a few pages on Google books out of curiosity. I forced myself to read until our heroine got her shirt caught in a paper shredder, but that right there is a deal breaker. I’m pretty sure that’s neither funny nor possible.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009 - 18:24:47
I'm a Simple Girl Really
I called my best friend today to find out where she would be doing her residency, but she reminded me that she finds out on Thursday, helpfully clueing me in that today was Wednesday. I felt bad until she reminded me that she never calls me on my birthday. We've known each other since we were 18, but she always thinks my birthday is the 7th instead of the 8th. The one time she called me on the day, she apologized for the late birthday wishes.
Since we weren't figuring out where I would be traveling to visit her for the next four years, I told her I was going purse shopping. She agreed that sounded fun until I said, "I know exactly what I want."
"NOOOO!" she said with a laugh because she knows what I always forget about me, which is that I think what I want is simple until I start looking for it. Then, I realize that I have a lot of opinions. I don't think that's a bad thing. It means that I know what I want. But, then again, I remember the first time I saw Meg Ryan order pie in "When Harry Met Sally," and I realized this person was me, basically. This is what I look like to people who have witnessed me buying shoes or shopping for underwear. Or purses. It's why I usually shop for those things alone now. "I just want it the way I want it," Sally says, and I think: Exactly.
So, Christi made fun of me because it's possible I will spend an improbably long time looking for a black bag in which to stash my stuff. Because I've started looking, and now I know that want I really want is something that doesn't have much structure. It should be big enough that it could hold two books, my lunch, a magazine, makeup bag and a sweater. Ideally, it could be used as carry on luggage in a pinch, but not look like luggage. Minimal texture. A braided strap is a deal breaker. Two straps are preferable to one, and length matters. Simple.
Which reminds me of another line from the movie where Harry concludes that Sally is a high maintenance woman who thinks she's low maintenance. I think I actually am low maintenance, but then again, if that characterization fits me, I would think that. It's a conundrum. But if I meet a smart, funny guy who is okay with how much I hate tomatoes, and onions, but not if they're cooked in olive oil. Deep frying them is out of the question, though. Or the way I'm creeped out by mayonnaise, unless it's in chicken salad or maybe on French fries. And if that same guy can respect how much I dislike mixing salty and sweet flavors in one dish, well, then I might just have to fake an orgasm for him in a deli.
Monday, March 16, 2009 - 22:36:16
Oifig an Phoist
Sometimes I refer to myself as faux Irish. I'm pretty sure my last name is Irish, and I like their beer. Occasionally I refer to the Irish as "my people" because I think that's funny, but, I mean, that's a stretch. I have a fondness for Ireland, but that's mostly because I spent a semester in Cork. It's travel nostalgia.
I took a semester of Gaelic while I was there, and the title for this post is my favorite thing to say in that language. It means "post office." I can also say "It is raining" and I know the verbs for "to run" and "to be pregnant," although let's not get into the whys of that. My Irish friends used to infuriate me by saying that Gaelic is a very phonetic language. Spanish is phonetic. Gaelic is a language where, like, if you put an L and an M together you get a V sound, but only if it's proceeded by a certain vowel. So, ask yourself, if you were going to take a purely phonetic attempt to pronounce "oifig an phoist" what would that sound like?
But for all my superficial Irishness, I get a little excited about St. Patrick's Day. Is it because I look good in green and like dark beer? Probably. But I have a CD that I picked up in Killarney (my friends and I went to hear a band play based mostly on the fact that a man outside the pub warned us against going in to hear "the devil's music." Apparently, Satan loves a good reel.) that will find it's way into rotation along with The Frames and The Pogues. I'll have a pint of Murphy's Irish Stout and think fondly my time living in a tiny apartment on Pope's Quay.
Sunday, March 08, 2009 - 17:24:59
31
Today is my birthday. Every year when my friends and family ask what I want for my birthday, I always think what I'd like is for someone who is not me to plan something and tell me when to show up. That's what happened last year, and it was AWESOME!
I'm never quite prepared for my birthday, but his year I have an excuse. I got a bad case of food poisoning that's kept me out of it since Monday. By the time I felt better, I didn't have time to plan anything. Since I've done nothing since I got back from vacation except sleep and catch up on "General Hospital," I spent a lot of my birthday washing laundry and cleaning my apartment. Still, it was a beautiful day, so I did a little run outside. All of my friends contacted me to wish me a happy birthday. I'm going for coffee later and may buy myself a little something cake-like to celebrate. Come to think of it, the fact that I can hold down solid foods seems like a pretty fantastic gift considering the way the week started off.
It's certainly not the worst birthday I've ever had. That would have to be the year I spent my birthday on a geology field trip. My friend Jay Carney--whom I adore--cast the final vote that meant I'd spend my birthday ankle deep in liquefied shale where they were building the tunnel on I-540. We went inside the hill, which was partially dug out at the time, so Jay gave me one of the hard hats the construction crew was passing out as his present to me. It's hard to be mad at Jay, but I managed for several minutes that day.
Maybe the worst part was when our instructor, whom we all secretly called "The Gooch" pulled over on the side of the interstate and made us all get out. We stood there as traffic whizzed by, and people honked and yelled at us, and all the while, The Gooch was sketching on a small white board and trying to point out a nearby example of rock folding. She was so absorbed with the white board, that she didn't notice when a small faction of our class broke away to run after a car of people they felt had been particularly rude. They screamed obscenities and extended their middle fingers. Happy freakin' birthday.
So, I'm a year older. Because of Daylight Savings Time, I also lose an hour of my birthday. It's been pointed out to me that I should party extra hard today, since it's the shortest birthday I'll ever have. I haven't exactly done that, but unless a crazy lady in a geology van shows up (and if I get in, really, I deserve whatever happens after that), it's been a pretty lovely day.
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