Saturday, February 27, 2010

How Reggie Jackson tells me to get married

I love visiting the Boy this time of year.  He leaves for pratice at 6:00 in the morning, and I get to sleep until, say, 2:00 when he comes home.  This is my dream scenario come to reality…sleep, shower, go out, sleep some more.

The Boy works for a baseball team.  I can’t say which one.  If I did and the other boys found out, they would hound him relentlessly and then I would be forced to step in to defend him “boy-style” with references to his manliness and big, um…shoes, but I just don’t have the energy for that so said team will go unnamed.

But I digress.  I promised fascinating tales of sweatpants and Reggie Jackson.  OK, maybe not fascinating tales.

Very important fashion-y update…I found the fabulous James Perse sweatpants (discussed last Tuesday) that will help me fulfill my “sweatpants as eveningware” fantasy!  I was actually trying to find them for my friend K, who feels that she has cracked the sweatpants in the club code  but Saks didn’t have them in her size.  So in a show of sisterly solidarity, I bought a pair for myself. 

Having found the perfect glam sweatpants, the Boy and I parked ourselves at the bar at PF Changs.  The Boy leans over and quietly whispers that we are evidently sitting next to Reggie Jackson.  Being the subtle person that I am, I crane my neck in Reggie’s direction and do a very non-stealthy “GET OUT!”.  After a few awkward moments, the Boy turns and introduces himself to Reggie and so begins a riveting discussion about who has won every World Series since the beginning of time.  Which to me sounds something like…

Boy: “Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah”
Reggie: “Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah”

So I eventually tune out and text K about my fabulous sweatpant find … “Found sweats at Saks.  Didn’t have ur size.  Nah Nah.  Tell husband that the Boy is chatting up Reggie Jackson.”

K’s response “Is he related to Michael?”

I (heart) K.

So there’s still a lot of “blah blah’ing” going on next to me until I hear Reggie ask the Boy “Is this your wife?”

Eh?  Radar up.

The Boy: “No, but I’m trying!” (shares friendly man-code chuckle with Reggie)

Reggie: “Y’all should get married. Nice you meet you.”

And he leaves.

I frankly don’t know what to do with this.  Does Reggie do this to every couple he meets.  Are there scores of unhappy married couples out there that took the leap because “Reggie told us to”?   Does he also tell people to have children?  Change careers (“I was once a very successful accountant but then Reggie told me I had great promise as a professional scrapbooker”)?

I need to go now so that I can search the Boy’s apartment before he gets home.  There’s NO WAY that there’s not ring around here somewhere....after all, Reggie Jackson told him to.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Florida - Day 1

I slogged my way across country in the middle of the night yesterday to come see the Boy in Florida.  I left San Francisco at 12:30 am and arrived in cold-as-balls* Tampa at 10:30 am.

* Cold-as-balls is a favorite term of the Boy.  I'm not sure what it means except that he only uses is when it's really really cold outside.  Are balls really that cold?  Why haven't I noticed this?  Gotta follow-up on this one.

The Boy was at practice so he sent a car to pick me up and take me back to his apartment.  I'm so ridiculously tired at this point that all I want to do is crash and sleep for 10-12 hours.  But then I get to the apartment and realize that some commentary must be made.

The Boy said that he had gone shopping for some essentials in anticipation of my arrival.  This is evidently what he considered "essentials"...

Oh, and he did buy coffee, because obviously one needs coffee after a RedBull-fueled wine bender.

This was what was awaiting me in the bedroom...

Very sweet touch.  We may not have drinking glasses to use over the weekend, but - hey - priorities.  Besides, it is apparent that we will only need a wine corkscrew to survive anyway.  Glasses are optional.

I would also like to point out the greatest invention of the past 10 years on bedside table...Clocky.  Clocky is an alarm clock and an official member of the family.  When Clocky's alarm goes off, he revs up, spins his wheels, and takes off across the room.  Fantastically entertaining.  It is widely acknowledged that the Boy is still employed solely because of Clocky.

Yet another reason that I adore the Boy.  He puts up with this.  This is what the bathroom looked like when I arrived...

And this is what the bathroom looked like 12 hours later.

I've asked him to please be considerate and move his shaving cream under the sink.

The day culminated with episodes involving sweatpants and Reggie Jackson - but I'll save that for tomorrow.  I need to go sleep off last night's Cakebread bender.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Louis Vuitton: SVU

The Princess and I were just hanging out last night watching, of course, American Idol.  The Ex had been banished to the Princess’s room to watch TV on the Princess’s pretty pink Disney Princess TV because he wanted to watch Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.  I have nothing against Celebrity Rehab, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for the Princess to watch it until she has a bona fide addiction – maybe when she’s 12.

Seeing as American Idol has been PAINFULLY boring this season (i.e. everybody sucks), I started to flip through the March edition of Vanity Fair and stumbled across this little piece of art.

When did Louis Vuitton start featuring corpses in their ad campaigns?  How did she get there?  Did she pass out from hunger?  Did she trip and fall and hit her head because of the Uggs with the spring-loaded heels?

And what the hell is going on with the birds?

I’m getting a very Tippi Hedren/“The Birds” vibe here.  I think the birds are stalking her.  Waiting patiently, looking around for witnesses.  Getting ready to peck her eyeballs out.  The one by her feet is getting ready to make off with the bag.

Now that I think about it, I like my artistic vision much more than “skinny girl in grass”.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Things I have learned from Ted

The Ex got the Princess a very cute, very hairy puppy for Christmas last year.  She named him Teddy and visited him at the Ex’s house every other weekend.  Brilliant move by the Ex. 

Since the Ex is currently "between houses", he asked me if I wouldn’t mind taking care of Ted (I refuse to call the dog by anything requiring more than the utterance of one syllable) for a little while.  The Princess was ecstatic.  Brilliant move by the Ex.


Ted has been with us for about a month now.  He’s really very sweet and I have a hard time being bitter about having something else to take care of when he’s so damn happy to see me all the time. 

Which brings me to….unexpected things I’ve learned from having a dog again…

First, we apparently have a major snail problem in Northern California and its’ really really gross.

I don’t generally go outside after dark, unless it involves taking the elevator to the parking garage.  But now I have to walk the dog.  Evidently, the sprinklers come on after dark and the snails come out EN MASSE.  It’s impossible to walk along any sidewalk in my complex without stepping on the damn things.  It’s like walking through a field of snail landmines.  What was that crunching noise? Did I just step on glass?  Oh gross. 

Second, hide your hairbrush.

Conversation with the Princess last night:

Princess: “Mommy!  Look!  Doesn’t Ted look cute?”
Me: “Of course he does.  Did you brush him?”
Princess: “Yes!”
Me: “Did you brush him with the $75 Frederic Fekkai hairbrush in your hand?”
Princess: “Um……”

Third, dogs are therapeutic. 

My apartment is starting to smell like dog.  The management company will raise my rent if they find him here.  I hate picking up poop.  He occasionally yaks up a snail or two on my living room carpet.

I’m getting attached.

I’m also starting to think that the Ex is never going to reclaim this dog.

Brilliant move by the Ex.

Monday, February 15, 2010

"Why is this so much easier when I do it in my head?" or "100% leather / 0% baby"

Hi, I'm Jane.  So here's my first confession...I blog in my head all day, every day.  Since I haven't yet found a good anti-head-blogging drug yet, I've decided that the next logical step is to just write it all down.  For good, bad or ugly...although I'll try to keep out the ugly.  I hate ugly.  But sometimes ugly is funny, so then you have to write about it.  The obvious benefit to writing everything down is that I am no longer in danger of spewing blog entries at a unsuspecting people:

Unsuspecting person: Would like whipped cream on your Venti non-fat cafe mocha?
Jane: Whipped cream is for sex, not drinking.  And let me tell you why...

I love fashion-y stuff.  My latest acquisition - about which I am presently debating between (a) placing it in a giant security-wired glass case and hanging in my living room (like the Boy's signed sports jerseys - more on the Boy later) or (b) actually wearing it - is the soft as a baby's ass Vince black leather jacket.  I'm fairly certain that it is not made of baby's ass, but I'm not going to lie to you when I say that I seriously considered asking the small man in the ankle-length skinny jeans, sockless loafers and cape at Barneys whether or not it was, in fact, made of baby.

I wasn't feeling that I would get the appropriate level of shock value to my inquiry from a man in a cape so I took the high road.  It really didn't matter.  I was going to buy it regardless.  

I checked the worries...100% leather / 0% baby.  For you animal rights folks...well, we'll talk later.