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Touch my monkey.

27 Oct

With Halloween approaching, my sister and I were recently chatting on Facebook about costumes. She was planning to go as Frida Kahlo, the Mexican painter.

Me: That’s a bit obscure. How would people know?
Alicia: Long wig. Flowy Mexican dress. Uni-brow. Mustache. Monkey.

Me: Got it.

Fortunately, she lives in Ann Arbor, so most of her (well-educated and artistic) friends would be able to put that together. If I tried to pull that off in DC, where things run a bit more political and less cerebral, I think people would just think I was aiming going as a transvestite with a monkey fetish.

A few days later, I chatted her again.

Me: How is the costume progressing?
Alicia: It’s not. Too expensive. I’m at $35 already and I don’t even have the wig or the monkey. Pulling the plug. Besides, I don’t know where I would get a monkey.
Me: What about that monkey you had when we were kids?
Alicia: ???
Me: The puppet. Where you velcroed its arms around your neck and stuck your hand up it?
Alicia: I had this monkey?
Me: Yes. It had a squeaker in its mouth you could squeeze.
Alicia: Sounds like you were jealous of my monkey. You remember it a little too well.
Me: I was. You wouldn’t let me play with it.
Alicia: Had I known, I would’ve worn it around constantly.

Me: No doubt.

And because older sisters never outgrow their urge to taunt and get a rise out of their younger siblings, the next day this is what she posted on my Facebook Wall:

In case you’re curious, her latest costume idea is even better than Frida and would play well anywhere. Any guesses?

That’s right – she’s going as a bad ventriloquist. We’ve already decided that has the potential for sheer comedy after a few glasses of wine.

The best part? She’s been practicing saying, “Who’s your daddy?” through gritted teeth all week, which – even without the puppet – is pretty awesome.

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Revenge is best served in clogs.

24 Oct

I haven’t posted about my noisy upstairs neighbor for a while, not only because I didn’t have much fodder for a post, but also because I didn’t want to jinx things by telling you how good he’s been.

Oh, don’t get me wrong — I’d never mistake his unit for vacant. But he’s been pretty good about limiting his walk-abouts to more normal hours, quieting down by 11pm and not starting up (officially) until around 6am most day — unless it’s the weekend, in which case he’s pretty good until around 7am.

That’s a vast improvement over his previous schedule (during which I could only bank on silence from 1am – 4am each day).

This weekend my parents were visiting from Michigan. I always get a bit tense when I have guests, hoping Michael remains on good behavior so everyone can get a good night’s sleep. Before going to bed the first night, my mom asked how the noise situation had been lately.

“Great,” I told her. “It’s much better than it was. I can actually live with the pattern we’re in now.”

“That’s great,” she responded. “You know what you should do? Take him a bottle of wine or something and make a big deal out of how good he is – a little positive reinforcement.”

I nodded thinking, “No thanks — he’s not THAT good.”

Fast forward to the next morning. I was brewing coffee when my mom emerged from the bedroom around 8am, which is early for her vacation schedule. “Sleep well?” I asked.

“Until the last hour,” she commented. “Ever since Michael got up, I’ve been hearing him.”

“Well, at least it started around 7am,” I said. “That’s at least reasonable.”

The look on Mom’s face told me she didn’t find 7am reasonable. “You know what you should do?” she asked, oddly reminiscent of the previous evening’s conversation. Bracing for another lesson in positive reinforcement, I was halfway through an eye roll when she said, “Make friends with the people who live above him. Then you can go up there and stomp around to pay him back.”

There we go. Now that’s the kind of advice I expect from someone who once gift wrapped dog turds for a guy who let his dog crap in her yard. In fact, I won’t be surprised if the next time they visit, she brings along a pair of shoes that look like this:

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A Somewhat Rambling Ode to Steve Jobs.

5 Oct

I knew Steve Jobs resigned in August for health issues, but I had no idea he was cutting it this close. The news that he died shocked me.

At first, I was sad that he had barely gotten a month of retirement under his belt before dying. That would SUCK, I thought. But then, I revised my opinion and came back with: Good for him. 

Good for him. He, who was passionate about technology? There wouldn’t be a pasture engaging enough for someone with a mind like that. It would’ve been a slow death, being killed a thousand times over, sitting on the sidelines and watching technology emerge without having a hand in it. Smart Man to work until he wasn’t able. I can appreciate that.

But that’s not what this post is about. This is about how Steve Jobs changed my life.

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In which we propose bringing back maternity pants.

30 Sep

I don’t even how it came up, but on chat earlier today, my sister and I agreed that pants suck.

(The guys reading this are like, “Huh?” so let me explain.)

Alicia summarized it best, so I’ll just cite her reasons:

  1. If you get them so they fit when you’re standing up, they cut into your gut when you sit down.
  2. If you get them so they’re comfortable to sit in, you can pull them down without unbuttoning them when you stand up.

(All the women are nodding.)

I had to laugh because I had a perfect example. Yesterday, returning from NYC, I was wearing pants that fit well when I’m standing. But on the train, they felt like they were bisecting my muffin top, so I took (what I deemed to be) appropriate action: I unbuttoned and partially unzipped them.

The problem was that I completely forgot until I exited the train. Walking down the platform with my bag trailing me, my pants started sliding down my legs with each step. Hello, Washington!

Apparently, in my home state of Michigan, if the infographic above is to be believed, this would’ve been a punishable offense.

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I love bacon, but PETA might recruit me.

12 Sep

More my speed.

Alan has decided he will never fish with me again.

It seems extreme, but I can’t really say I blame him. Not after how I behaved last week.

We were in Michigan, visiting my family. My parents have a cottage on a small lake, and – in accordance with some unwritten Michigan Lake law – a pontoon boat. One night at sunset we decided to grab some fishing poles, some bait, and putter out into the lake to see if we could catch anything.

As a kid, I loved fishing and was generally pretty lucky with what I’d catch. Before our annual trek to visit my grandparents in Alabama, I’d be out in our back garden, digging up worms so I could take down some Real Michigan Nightcrawlers for Papa. He always swore they were bigger than Alabama worms, and I believed him.

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