Month: June 2013

Oops, I Missed Retrobruxist Friday, Also the Information Age Is Creepy

For future reference, you can have Retrobruxist ANYDAY, you know. Scroll down a little. See that heading on the right that says Archives? Click the drop-down menu, make a selection, and—bippity boppity boo—a month’s worth of old classic posts. That’s what I do every week! Now you know the magic behind Retrobruxist Fridays!

[Disclaimer: I wasn’t that good at blogging when I started, so maybe skip the first year. Or two, or three. Basically, don’t bother.]

This last Friday, I was busy driving from New England to Queens to see a play that my friends wrote, directed, and produced (I’m biased, but it was objectively EXCELLENT), and I had to get the dogs to their uncle-in-law’s place in Brooklyn for babysitting, and traffic, and what-have-you. It was all very complicated. Forgive me.

In case you were lazy and didn’t DIY:

Three years ago, I was wondering why my friends C and K weren’t married.

Two years ago, I was given an assignment to come up with ten things I liked about my body. I came up with five.

I didn’t write anything a year ago because I was on vacation.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I cobbled together a WOD with the resources available to me, namely a picnic bench, a rock, and a Walker-Bay. By the way, I started Fat CrossFitter six weeks ago, and it already has more Facebook Likers than Avid Bruxist, which I began in August 2009. Granted, some are the same people, but still. Maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong tree this whole time—people don’t want to hear about dogs or dates or lawn mowers, they want EXERCISE.

Which reminds me, my birthday’s coming up (in 3 months), and I want this shirt.

We Are the Best

Anywhoodle, I got home from vacation last night. My fridge held an onion, some tahini, and a container of moldy lunchmeat, so I went Krogering this morning, and the cash register spit out these coupons with my receipt—you know, the ones for products similar to what you’ve purchased in the past?

20130630-142135.jpg

Pampers.

Pampers and wipes.

You know where I’ve never bought a product for a baby? Ever? Like ever-ever?

Kroger.

The whimsical-faerie-who-believes-in-a-speaking-Universe part of me wanted to believe it was a sign—a sign. About the time being right. About my capability to parent a child. I must procreate! The coupons decree it!

Alas, all I can think is that when I registered for an account with California Cryobank a couple weeks ago, they immediately sold me out to the grocery man.

Happy Conspiracy-Theory Sunday, y’all!

I’m Too Tired to Think of a Title/My Dad’s Funny

I drove up the mountain to pick up my Dad for our annual pilgrimage. The first night as we ate dinner, he said, “Earthfare’s pork chops can definitely use some seasoning. (muttering) Tofu-fed hogs.”

There was a pause, and then his eyes lit up. “There’s one for your blog!” he exclaimed.

I was concerned that this self-awareness might ruin things, that he might start trying to say things for your benefit. I needn’t have worried. He quickly fell back into his usual stream-of-whatever.

…

“I used to think I wanted to retire to Florida. Now I think I want to retire to Bosnia. I think I terrified my beautician yesterday when I told her I just want to go where the bullets fly.”

My favorite part of this is that Dad calls the lady at Supercuts his beautician.

…

(to Redford, who was nosing the garbage can) “Get outta there! (contrite) I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

…

(as he was packing) “Look at this organized guy!” (This one’s funny if you recall how he packs.)

…

It sprinkled for the first hour of our trip, but when the rains started in earnest, he said, “Who would’ve predicted?!… Well, a meteorologist.”

…

Me, around lunchtime: “I’m hungry. All I had this morning was a banana and some grapes.”
Dad: “I’m hungry too! I didn’t have anything for breakfast, except a banana… and lots of ice cream.”

…

“You always pick the most interesting places. I would never think to stop here.”

I had pulled into Burger King.

“Last year, you stopped at Taco Bell, and we had a fine meal.”

…

I turned on So You Think You Can Dance in the motel room. Mary Murphy was fist-pumping and wooing. “I wonder why Americans have the reputation of being dumb.”

After the second time Nigel made a dubious joke: “Is that guy funny, or is there a sign up above his head that says ‘Laugh’?”

We watched five routines, then: “What is this inane show about, and why does the audience keep clapping?”

…

Dad: “I don’t want to dull these scissors by cutting plastic. I might need them sharp later.”
Me: “What will you need them sharp for?”
Dad: “I don’t know. Cutting hair out of nostrils or something.”

…

Dad wanted to stop at Walmart or Kmart to buy “some $2.98 Chinese canvas shoes”. “A couple of years ago, I bought some Keen’s. They cost about $65. I got them wet once, and they smelled like a bucket of dead worms.”

…

“I was thinking, as a hobby, I should learn a couple hundred jokes and tell them to people. ‘Man and a monkey walked into a bar’—that kind of thing.”

Dad, I don’t think you need to.

And You Act Like One Too

Last summer, I posted on Facebook something like, “When I’m mowing the lawn, why do the guys in my neighborhood think that I’m putting on some sort of show for them?”

A guy-friend later told me it “sounded like a bit of a humble-brag” to him, and as soon as he said that—of course it did. But that’s not at all what I meant.

I don’t mow the lawn in a bikini. I’m usually in my workout clothes, post-WOD, because what the hell, I’m already stinky—let’s do this thing. So I’m out there, dripping sweat, hair disheveled, wrestling with my gas-powered cheapo. It’s not sexy. It’s not attractive. It’s not graceful, or even out of the ordinary (this is 2013, right?—women do all kinds of crazy things, like work outside the home and stuff, right?). What I’m saying is I can’t imagine it’s nice or interesting in any way to watch.

And yet.

They hang their heads out their windows. They slow down. They stare. I’m some kind of zoo animal.

Yesterday a dude stopped his car and gawked at me.

I gave him my best stankface, and he shlooped his head back into his car and drove away. But part of me wanted to turn off the mower and pretend to fling poo at him.

Retrobruxist Friday 6/whatdayisit?/2013

I was driving along this afternoon with all the windows down—yesterday’s squall having blown the heat and humidity elsewhere, thank god—listening to Top 40 radio, and I realized

Life is so, so good

Of course, all it took was trying on two sports bras to crush my soul.

You take the good, you take the bad, I guess.

Three years ago, I learned when puberty begins.

Two years ago, I altered my to-do list, and good things happened. Well, one good thing happened.

Last year this time, I learned whether my dogs were good guard dogs.

What you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I did the Filthy Fifty for the third time, and I’m genuinely scared/have a very first-world problem.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Has Anyone Ever Told You You Look Just Like Crispin Glover?

Some sperm banks have a Donor Look-Alike menu. Like, in addition to sorting donors by eye color, height, ethnicity, and astrological sign—are you fucking kidding me?—you can also search for jizz-givers that resemble your favorite actor, rockstar, or professional tennis player.

Some of them I’d never heard of, like Alexander Skarsgard who I had to Google—meow!—and Lance Guest who they clarified with a parenthetical “Last Starfighter”. I’m assuming that’s a recent starring vehicle of his, but I didn’t bother to search the internet for him because Lance Guest is a dumb name and “Last Starfighter” sounds like a rip-off of Star Trek on the CW network. You know, where it’s all sculpted 20-somethings playing angsty teens and doing a lot of chin-acting. While fighting stars. And I couldn’t tolerate having a kid who looks like anyone whose parents named him Lance and who has made such poor hypothetical career choices.

Several had “(young)” next to their names:

Alec Baldwin (young)
Al Pacino (young)

Just, I guess, so you wouldn’t think you were getting the bloated/wizened versions that show up on your TV or movie screen these days.

A couple had the name, and then the name again with “(young)” next to it:

Chuck Norris
Chuck Norris (young)

I mean, the cut-off age for donors is 39, so are they saying that have a donor who looks like a Chuck Norris in his prime and another less-than-40-year-old who looks 73?

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s Chuck Norris.

Unless he shaves his beard.

chuck-norris-jpg_234055
Then it matters.

If I were to choose the Chuck Norris look-alike, that baby’d better emerge from my womb fully bearded or I’d demand a refund.

They specified that it was the thin Seth Rogen and the Anthony Edwards from Top Gun. Whew.

They had a few I was drawn to—Andy Samberg, Jason Segel, Ricky Gervais—until I remembered these were look-alikes, not funny-alikes. I don’t want somebody who looks like Andy Samberg unless he can also generate some “Threw It on the Ground” action.

Same with John Krasinski. What if my baby’s a dead ringer for Jim Halpert but can’t do a perfect deadpan-followed-by-minute-eyebrow-raise? I’d be so disappointed.

Before I saw No Country for Old Men, I would’ve picked a Javier Bardem doppelgänger in a hot second, but his portrayal of Anton Chigurh insured that that’ll never happen. Also that I’ll never sleep a perfect night’s sleep again.

And then there was Bronson Pinchot. I… I don’t think looking like Bronson Pinchot is a selling point. I think, just as a business decision, the sperm bank might want to keep that to themselves.

They Should Be Called Bloatdragons

There is no food whose name so belies its evil constitution as hushpuppies.

You have hush, as in “quiet”, as in “calm”, as in “mama singing you to sleep”. And then you have puppies, and who doesn’t love puppies?! OMG puppiiiiiiiiiiieees!

Me & chug puppySpeaking of which, I got to hold this chihuahua-pug puppy on Friday! He was 8 weeks old and so scrambly and smoochy. He wouldn’t stop smooching me on the face! I hated it. Hahahahahahaha.

IMG_5657_2Seriously, look at how cute he was! He was the size of that pint! And he got passed around the table, and he scrambled and smooched everyone so hard, until he fell asleep in a little ball in my friend’s arms—waaaaaaaaaaaaaah I want him.

OK, I got derailed.

Yes, hushpuppies. What an innocuous name for something that hurts my very soul. But also/mainly my stomach because they’re full of gluten and sweet, sweet crack cocaine so I can’t stop eating them.

Last night I walked out of Squid’s, unzipped my pants, and drove home with my angry gut spilling out over my lap.

And at The Q Shack, where they have that honey butter Country Crock business that you dip ’em in—nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

Let me paraphrase Louis C.K. here and say, I’m not done with hushpuppies when I’m full. I’m done with hushpuppies when I hate myself.

They’re probably one of those foods that I should just make off-limits.

But who am I kidding? I could never live like that because what’s life without the delicious fried goodness of bloatdragons every now and again?

RetrobruxOMGSchool’sOutBvvvvvvvvvvt

SCHOOL’S OUT. SCHOOL’S OUT. SCHOOL’S OUT.

Also, I QUIT MATCH.COM. Wahooooooooooooooooo!

I’ll have to find my man some other way. Thinking I might build a trap.

With all my dating woes, people frequently ask what I’m looking for in a man, and remarkably (considering how generally wordy I am), I’ve never been able to put it into words, you know? I mean, I want funny, but funny’s not enough, as evidenced by a recent two-date sequence. He has to be physically attractive too, but my taste in what’s physically attractive is (1) not all that conventional (I ain’t got no problem with bald, and sometimes a big nose just works) and (2) varies widely (lithe rock climber, sure; Viking with a mead gut, also good). He should be smart but not an übernerd. Kind but not a pansy. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW.

But then yesterday, I was stopped at a stoplight, and I saw this.

IMG_5646

Pretty sure I could be down with any man who says, “Amy, you and your parts come first.”

Thanks, Sport Durst.

**********

Three years ago, I discovered that I was NCGS. That’s like NCIS but infinitely less badass.

Two years ago, I was unsure of everything. Man, things don’t change much.

Any dude who wants to get with me must be definitively pro-gay, as I learned a year ago.

Some of the things you may have missed on Fat CrossFitter: I was OK with scaling. Then I wasn’t.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Sorry About All the Protected Posts

I’m kinda working through some shit. Don’t worry. You’ll get to read every last juicy detail in my tell-all memoir.

In the meantime, remember you can check out my other blog, the Fat CrossFitter. I’m equally ridiculous over there, just with a lot of numbers and stupid vocabulary like “metcon” and “snatch-grip deadlift”. What even.

And I installed a comments plug-in, but then I didn’t know how to see the comments?, but then I totally figured out how to do that too so we can chit-chat! I’m pretty much a computer programmer now. Larry, Sergey, don’t let the-boon-that-is-me slip through your fingers.