While we were away, someone stole the radio out of our car. The thief gingerly picked the door lock with a bobby pin, nudged out the radio, unplugged it (leaving no damage to the dash), and then re-locked the doors before leaving.
You know you’ve been in the city too long when you feel grateful to the person who robbed you.
In case you haven’t been watching MTV lately, or in case you just want to watch this again and again until you can perform your own routine at the gym, here’s the OK Go, “Here It Goes Again” video.
Today’s baby update email says “your belly may soon be big enough to announce to the world that you’re expecting.”
Soon? Soon?! Eat it, baby update. Strangers have been offering me seats and pointing out uneven spots on the floor for three weeks. Everyone is making twin jokes, which by the way are hilarious. Hilarious in a way that makes you cry and cry and cry.
Other things that are making me cry include:
– The Jetta commercial where the two guys crash and fly forward into the air bags. But then they’re OK! Just standing there all safe-like by the car! And honey, I just bought a Jetta. OK?
– The part in “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack where she sings “DAAAAANCE! I hope you da-a-a-a-ance.”
– The Where the Hell is Matt video (via Andrea)
– The hotel shower gel that smells like the honeysuckle in my childhood backyard.
Airport sinks should neverevereverever run out of soap. Note to self: Do not touch face for the next three hours.
We arrived at the airport ready to fly into New York, and there was a news crew in the lobby. This makes me nervous, I said. Bryan said news crews always broadcast from the airport. Really, I said. Sure, he said, they’re always here. Why, I asked. Because it’s a place where they can always broadcast live if they want to. I raised a single eyebrow at him. His look suggested he learned this information from an authoritative guide entitled Preferred Habitats of Local News Teams. In actuality a bunch of guys had just been arrested in London for plotting to blow up planes. Of course, we didn’t discover this until we were in the security line.
In the best of circumstances, airport security teams see me through a different lens. To them, I appear to have sharp objects taped in concealed places, and a mouth ringed with the gunpowder I’ve been eating for breakfast. Accordingly, they searched my bag and confiscated everything in it. Well, almost everything.
They took my Revlon Lipglide in Sparkling Sangria, they ignored my metal nail file. They confiscated my Origins Pinch Your Cheeks tint, but bypassed the box of matches. They pulled my Aveeno Sunblock Spray, but left my razor-sharp cuticle scissors.
With each item they took, my mental calculator added another $20-$30 to my cumulative agony. By the time they were finished, they’d yoinked about $150 worth of cosmetics. I was surprised to find that I actually wanted to cry in frustration.
I told the security guard that he was nearly doubling the cost of my ticket, and asked if there was some way to ship this stuff. You can, he said, but it’s $9 an item. Bryan finally just went back to the front counter and checked my box of toiletries. Of course, when we got to the gate, they made us check our bags anyway.
The upside is, our plane totally did not blow up en route to New York. So it was a good trip.
Mighty Goods is one of Time Magazine’s 50 Coolest Websites! What’s more, my friends at The Morning News and Not Martha are on the list as well. (Woot!) You’ll find the details on Mighty Goods here. I know a lot of you read Mighty Goods, so thank you for all the links and support. If you didn’t love shopping so much, I wouldn’t get to spend nearly so much time in my pajamas.
A few days into our Argentina trip, we have dinner at Te Matar Ramirez, a restaurant our guidebook describes as “sensual.” The all-red interior and French slow jams suggest a swanky gay club, but for the copious murals of masturbating women. (Closeted swanky gay club?)
We find our table and order champagne, which arrives with dubious pink straws in the flutes. We remove the straws and are about to toast when Bryan notices the sperm-shaped saltshaker. He picks it up and bumps it repeatedly against the round butter dish. This is the TGI Friday’s of sensuality.
The menu has more photos of women masturbating (methinks you doth protest too much, boys), along with some alarming menu descriptions. Bryan asks whether I would prefer to start with the “I smolder with the mist of your most intimate folds” clams, or the “You watch in ecstasy, I pour out and you slowly sip me” Camembert and pastrami. We decide to skip the appetizers.
There’s a stage in front where the pornographic puppet show is set to begin. “There’s a pornographic puppet show?” I ask Bryan. He nods. I pick up the saltshaker and begin to bump it against my head.
Four actors dressed in black take the stage and begin the show. It is plushly explicit, and though my sexual-pun Spanish is somewhat rusty, the basic plots aren’t tough to follow. A a French maid services a bald puppet; two puppet schoolgirls dally together in googly-eyed rhapsody.
Bryan and I are still preoccupied with the menu descriptions. Our waitress arrives, and I order the “Thrusting my desire deep into the temple of your body” salmon. Bryan has the “She played in me with her lascivious fingers, I caressed myself” grouper. Appetites curbed.
Meanwhile, the puppet masters are really getting into the hot puppet action. My eyes water in embarrassment for them as they moan, stretch their faces into expressions of orgasmic ecstasy, and move rhythmically to the action onstage.
As the actors gyrate in the background, Wonder Woman puppet straddles Buff Guy puppet, and they perform various superhuman acrobatic feats together. I wait patiently for the “Golden Lasso” scene, which never materializes. Wonder Woman without bondage? What’s the story, people? It’s like peanut butter without jelly, Anne Margaret without her tights, Julianne Moore as a blonde.
I suggest that we would enjoy the evening much more if we skipped the cocktails and ordered an entire bottle of champagne each. Perhaps they’d bring the bottles with giant novelty penis straws? Bryan declines on the grounds that it would take an eternity to drink them, and they would almost certainly come with giant novelty penis straws.
We push our food around on our plates, pay the bill, and wait for intermission so we can run for the door. Once outside, we gaze at each other, dumbfounded.
“I-am-so-hot-right-now,” I say. “Do-me-right-here-on-the-street.” We pretend to maul each other for a few seconds, then Bryan suggests that we go somewhere for dessert. Now this is a man who knows how to get laid.