They just posted my Wedding Guide: Part IV, Wedding Tips over at The Morning News. If you’re getting married, you should go read it.
If you live near an ocean, this is especially useful. It’s the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s wallet-sized Seafood Watch Card. It rates seafood consumption by how safe it is for the environment and the particular species.
We are the proud owners of 692 candle votives, three party jugs of SKYY Citrus, and five large jars of maraschino cherries. Come on over. We’ll get drunk, light shit on fire, and see how many cherries you can fit in your mouth at once. Married people know how to party.
People, please. I do not want to say this again, and I know I need to talk slowly because you’re obviously not the brightest bulb:
Keep your children away from Michael Jackson.
The man breathes out of two holes in the middle of his face, you can see his entire circulatory system through his skin, he dangles his children from balconies, and he’s had his penis described by a thirteen-year-old boy. What needs to happen before you think, “You know, maybe I shouldn’t send Johnny over to play on the merry-go-round.”
Scenario: Two high school girls discuss AJ, who is a “friend” to one and love interest to the other.
What your grandma think of AJ?
She don’t like him.
She think he’s lazy.
He is lazy.
Yeah he is. Mom likes him, but grandma don’t like him.
He sits around all day. Like, all he do is play video games and watch movies.
He always, like, “I’m so tired!” and I’m like, “Why you so tired? You don’t do anything.”
Yeah, but you with him.
No, I ain’t. It ain’t gonna work.
You say that now, but later…
No. No. I’m serious as a heart attack.
Yeah, he always callin’ me and sayin’ blah blah Natasha this, blah blah. She’s always on me.” I be like, “Why you callin’ me? Why you callin’ Asia to talk about Natasha?”
He just gotta make up his mind what he want from you. Quit dragging you.
He gives people mixed emotions. You know?
I’m through ’til I know where I stand.
He’s funny. I told him I thought Matt was cute, and he’s like, “You can’t say no to that, but you’ll say no to this?” (laughs)
What? He’s so weak. He’s always between me and you.
Well you can’t expect him not to call me and stuff. I’ve known him eighteen years.
Yeah, but he tells you everything.
But then you’re here tellin’ me about him too, so…
Yeah, but that’s different.
No it’s not.
I guess it’s not.
He tells me everything, if I ask him to. Why wouldn’t he?
I mean, I wouldn’t ask him. I don’t care.
He’s just being honest.
Well, it’s up to you.
Me and AJ, nah. It’s not gonna work.
We spent the weekend in Carmel, where you can pass an entire day chatting with strangers about their Labradors and reading The New Yorker on the beach. Strolling into town for a latte, you’ll note a tide of applique sweaters and track suits (many of them on the Labradors). We took long neighborhood walks; donned fleece pullovers and played frisbee on the beach; drank wine out of red plastic cups around a bonfire.
Last night, we drove back to the city. As we pulled up to our apartment, I remembered leaving the house a few days ago to find a man pissing near our front stoop.
No place like home.
From White Oleander by Janet Fitch:
“I crawled under the bed, pulled out the sack of her letters, some packets thin as a promise, others fat like white koi.”