Monday, July 31, 2006

Day of Wretchedness

God, I’m having a crappy day. I had to go feed a friend’s weasels this morning, and now I feel like I smell like a nasty mixture of ferret and her cheapass faux apple room spray that is making me want to hurl. It’s like it’s coming out of my pores, and I want to go to the beach and scritch around like a dog in the sand until I am exfoliated of weasel. Blech.

And all of my interview contacts are falling through, which sucks, because these reporters are on deadline. Kill. Me.

And still...I smell like apple weasel.

A Later Note:
Day Improved but eau de ferret did not.

A Still Later Note:
To all those who don't know what a "nub" is, voila!

A nub, attached to the butt of one Beaulah Buckethead Devildog. It is very wagsome and jolly. Sometimes Simons and I sing about her nub, ie, "Can't buy me nuuuub!" "Let nub rule!" Or even, "I was made for nubbin you, baby. You were made for nubbin me." See, I am all cheered up after my crappy smelly day. All you need is nub.

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Nub, nub, nub

Simons and I are singing to our dog, drawing a building detail, watching Grey’s Anatomy and eating Lik-em-aid. Well, technically, only one of us is drawing some library in Paris, and that person is too sophisticated for Fun Dip. Isn’t that just too pretentious for words?

Our dog is hogging the couch, despite the fact that she is too exhausted to go eat her food. Our dog is broken. Maybe she is defective. We need a new dog. This one can't move even when I poke her like this...and this...nope, not even now.

In addition to not writing thank you notes for the sixth weekend in a row, yours truly did not run the designated 14 miles this morning. Instead, I slept off my hangover until almost noon, ate breakfast and then spent the rest of the afternoon frolicking at Botany Bay and drinking cold Budweiser. Consequently, I feel like it’s 5000 degrees thanks to Earth’s yellow sun baking me into one of those fry-type things you put on green bean casserole. I’m not burnt exactly...but damn am I ever hot.

Why was I hungover, do you ask? Because Simons and I made the most sumptuous supper ever last night for four friends. Every single weekend during one couple’s engagement, we were too tied up with our own wedding nonsense to throw them a party (they were only engaged about two months, so it really was hard). So we threw them a dinner party. One friend flew in from San Diego, and Simons’ best friend came too. Well, to be fair, the San Diego person was coming into town anyway, but didn’t it sound better to say someone flew across the country for my cooking? I think so too.

Here was the menu:
Cold butterbean soup with crème fraiche, truffle oil and curried salmon quoinelles
Roasted tomato tart with fresh herbs and parmesan
Grilled wahoo with mango salsa, rice with cocoanut milk and green beans
Mini berry pies with lime curd and lemon rosemary sorbet

Simons' friend brought us habaneros and some other peppers from his garden, which originally came from seeds that grew in my dad's garden, which originally grew in China or South Africa or Chile, or some other country with hot peppers that my dad has poached them from. But we sliced them in half and squeezed our limes into them and then poured them over the fish and rice. You wouldn't think it would make such a difference, but it did! HOT!

Here are the berry tarts. They were in the latest Gourmet. Aren’t they pretty? I had to cut them out with a cookie cutter, bake them, and then rub them in sugar and blowtorch them with my new implement of destruction. I bet they don’t make one of those in pink, Bitches! My sweet husband actually went out and bought me propane (or was it butane...anyway, it wasn't acetylene) so I could blowtorch the dessert.

It was the loveliest party. We all sat out on the screened in porch, while thunderstorm after thunderstorm rolled in, so the lighting was very exciting. We also had the hurricane lanterns out, and it was dark and romantic. Simons and I pulled out half the wine we bought on our honeymoon, because what better time to drink it? And who wants to drag all that across the country again anyway?

In the name of nub! One touch in the name of nub...

So wine + wine + wine + champagne = hangover. It was the second day in a row for poor Simons. We went to the Ryan Adams concert (see how 1985 I am? Everyone else says “show.” I stick with “concert.”) and out to Raval afterwards. He didn’t want me to leave, so he kept sneaking off to the bar whenever my drink would get low and buy me another so I’d have to finish it. Waste not, want not, I always say. Anyhoo, his little ploy backfired, because he was still barfing at 1:00 the next day, while I was fit as a fiddle after sucking back a Gatorade and taking a dip in the ocean. I had to go grocery shopping, vacuum, mop, cook and do the dishes and laundry, and do it quietly, so the moaner in the bedroom wouldn’t start spinning again. A friend popped over for breakfast at about noon, and in the middle of eggs and turkey bacon, he pushed back from the table and went screaming off to the potty. And I do mean screaming. Is anyone else a loud vomiter? Um, isn’t there anything y’all can do about that? Because that shit ain’t right. I can puke silently into a Dixie cup if I have to, and I have always sort of felt, that the quieter you do it, the less likely it will take over your life and force you to do it again and again and again. I am the Zen Vomiter. “Here is my body vomiting. But Me, I am floating here in my happy place, far away.”

Sweet Mary-Lou...I’m so in nub with youuuu!!!

Holy fuck, Simons' brother's dog farted. I’m outty. No fucking good deed goes unpunished. This is the last time I volunteer to take care of a giant smelly dog who farts.

Thursday, July 27, 2006


This is my dog...Buckethead. It is a testament to how much she loves us that she actually allows us to jam this thing on her head every day and abandon her to blunder into furniture and ricochet off of the walls while we blithely go about our daily lives. This poor animal has worse allergies than even I, and the constant sounds of her gnawing and chewing and scratching and disgusting and overzealous personal hygiene have driven us to this point. Cortisone and Benadryl and Timiril and shampoos and very expensive dog food...none of these things help. The dog is allergic to the WORLD. So now, she cannot scratch or claw at her ears or chew on her paws. This seems cruel, but she seems so much less exhausted and anxious when she spends the day not scratching herself silly. Her skin isn’t covered in hickeys and chew marks, and perhaps someday her fur will grow back and she will cease to look like a mange-ridden cur. And Simons and I, well, we are enjoying having breakfast without shrieking, “Goddammit, Beulah, quit gnawing your ass!”

Monday, July 24, 2006

I'm sorry for ruining your black panther party...

We had an awesome partay on my parents’ island on Saturday. The Puerco Pibil was OUTstanding, if I do say so myself. And there was tons and tons of food and lots of margaritas and beer. My niece had a perfectly marvelous time drowning her auntie, and riding an inflatable alligator and eating things that her mother would never have allowed her. The dogs romped, everyone swam...lovely.

The high point was lunch with everyone gathered at the long picnic tables. The low point was my getting into a fistfight with my friend/bridesmaid/former neighbor.

I was swimming with my three-year old niece, and this neighbor (who was beyond drunk) kept encouraging Beulah to jump off the dock on top of us, which was funny exactly never. Other people were getting really annoyed with her, because she kept doing it, while everyone else was having to do all the work to fish Beulah out. So after the eleventh time of hoisting Beulah back up on the dock (dogs can’t get out of the water without a lot of help and getting awfully scratched), I got out and pushed this neighbor off the dock for her to cool off. I did it in jest, and we’d all been swimming, so it wasn’t like she was fully clothed and dry, plus she was sitting on the edge of the dock at the time. Perhaps a better plan would have been to suggest that she knock it off, but I think I’d asked her that a couple of times while I was swimming to no avail.

Anyway, about fifteen minutes later, I was standing with a bunch of Simons’ friends when I was suddenly clawed across the back by this same slurring friend, who started trying to push me into the water...which was about ten feet away and, in that particularly spot, riddled with boat propellers. She stomped all over poor Belle, trying to push me off the dock, and then when that didn’t work, she grabbed my left breast, drawing long bleeding furrows, clawed off a mole, and proceeded to expose my boob to about five of Simons’ male friends in an attempt to drag me off the dock. I was so embarrassed, because she was screeching away drunkenly, while I was yelling, “Fucking let go! That hurts!” She wouldn’t let go of my bathing suit, and I was trying very hard to cover my exposed breast with my right hand, so I finally reached over and punched her in the head with my left.

She was absolutely slurring drunk and said, “I just got bitch slapped! You started it! Why did you hit me?”

And I said, “Because you fucking hurt me! What did you expect me to do? You were pulling off my bikini top and wouldn’t let go!”

She kind of giggled lamely and protested she didn’t, but I don’t think there’s really any dispute since I looked down and my left boob was right there reflecting sunlight. I didn’t even realize how much I was bleeding until my mom freaked out. I took my niece back up on the island and stayed there for the rest of the party, not being able to face George, Charles, Cope, Braxton and John after flashing them. This friend evidently passed out on the dock about five minutes later until it was time to go home.

She’s just like that. I guess being an only child, she doesn’t know how to play nice. Because if you ever get into a tickle fight with her, she ends up wrenching off your nipple or something. Our other neighbor usually gets to bear the brunt of that, and has had this friend expose her boobs or her underwear on any number of occasions and REALLY hates it. She’ll pull your shirt down like a five year old. In a whip cream war, she’ll stab you with the Readi-Whip container. And she’ll laugh, like if you’re upset, it must be your fault.

Anyway, I have no idea how this is going to end. I know she won’t apologize for coming to MY island on MY birthday and humiliating me in front of my husband’s friends. Nor will she ever recognize that by getting drunk and having no self-control, she was being a total asshole to everyone around her. I’m sorry for pushing her off the dock, but I’m not very sorry for punching her.

But I am embarrassed as hell. Who gets in a FIGHT on their own birthday? What type of friends must I have that would expose me to a bunch of guys like that?

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Happy Birthday To Me (thud, sniff, waaaaah!)

I had a dreadful morning. Simons didn't help me do the pork marinade for the three batches of Puerco Pibil we have to make for Moise Island tomorrow that has to sit for 12-24 hours, so I had to do it THIS MORNING before work. I got one batch out of three done. Note to self: never de-fat pork before morning coffee. Then I got habanero in my eye. And Simons left the breakfast stuff out so the dog ate all my kashi. And then he hid my keys in a gift bag, so I didn't find it until I had reached full steam lost key weeping hysteria and finally kicked the immortal crap out of the bag and heard my keys jingling. And then I had to go get a shot at the allergist. Thirty sucks ass.

Yes, today is my fucking birthday. And no, do NOT wish me a happy birthday. I’m OLD! And I’ve done NOTHING WITH MY LIFE! I’M A TOTAL FAILURE! WOE! AGONY! AND A GREAT WAILING OVER ALL THE LAND! Soon my hearing will start to go and I will have to wear ill-fitting wigs and muumuu’s and protective undergarments, and will never write anything good or win a Pulitzer and will end up living under a bridge, drinking cheap gin out of a paper bag, yea verily.

So how is your day?

For all the people who have asked recently, my last name is now Young, which is much easier to spell than my old name. Only I don’t like it. Having a new name is like having to make friends with a new person, when really you’re just too lazy and can’t be bothered and you’ll just make meaningless small talk over your cafeteria trays but never ask her over to play after school. You know what I mean? I’ve spent thirty (egads) years getting to know Jemima M. and filling her name with meaning and memories, and now, she’s just gone...POOF! And I’m not sure about this new person. She sounds boring. I bet her dog has fleas. Of course, it could be worse. My poor friend Lindsay is having to change her name to Hujsak, which is pronounced like Hudgesick, but really, wouldn’t YOU call her “huge sack?” Yeah, me too.

In other news, I’m training for marathon Number Two. It will be Chicago this year, which is good. I’ve never been to Chicago. I have, however, run 26.2 miles in a row before, and I’m trying to figure out why I am considering doing it again? Was training in the Charleston summer so much fun I need more of the same? Um, no. Did I enjoy lying around feeling sore all day Sunday and hovering in front of the fridge like a human garbage disposal? No, that was pretty much the low point last time. Ice bags and Advil and smelly laundry...all of these things have I.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Bridal Blog

How was the wedding?

Gorgeous, romantic, fabulous. I don’t have the professional photos yet, but here are a few from friends and family:

The Portrait:

It’s the Amsale Sash Dress. Isn’t it gorgeous? Architecturally minimalist, modern, unexpected and slightly different with its blue, blue sash. I chose a dress just like Simons! The photo was taken at the plantation where Simons proposed, and Nothing But Bonfires' sweet boyfriend did the portraits. He's talented, hire him!

But really, ordering my own dress was a breeze compared with something really hard, like picking out the bridesmaids’ dresses. Words of advice to anyone ever getting married: Bridesmaids dresses will all turn out looking bridesmaidy, so forget finding “something they can wear again.” That will never happen.

They will say something like, “Well if I’d have known the horror you were going to end up with, I’d have kept my mouth shut about the orange.” Or “Well, I’m going to have to dye my hair red, because gold washes me out.” Or “Gold makes me look like a maid.” Really, don’t ask for opinions. Don’t try to be nice. Just pick them. Everyone will be happier, most of all you.

Another bit of advice: pick bridesmaids who are pregnant. Ignore those stupid etiquette books that advise you to gently replace expectant mothers as maids, because whoever wrote them has zero foresight. It’s an excellent tactic, since for every pound you lose, they gain two! Cluster them around you and make them stand sideways! Hell, have them give birth at the altar and combine the services with a christening. The more pregnant the better!

The day of the wedding arrived, and whether they liked their bridesmaids frocks or not, my friends all looked gorgeous. And as my sister buttoned my dress in my parents’ living room, the place of Christmas trees and parties and illicit napping on the fancy down sofa, the tears emerged and everyone wept in a most gratifying fashion.

I felt beautiful in it, but I think I would have felt beautiful in sackcloth that night. The things I remember were my father getting flustered and fumbling the handoff, the three little flowergirls scluffing their feet on the altar railing and making me laugh, stealing my grandmother’s handkerchief back from my sister during the Lord’s Prayer when no one was looking (I had the most vile sinus infection that started that morning, and grandmomma’s hemstitched hanky was not designed for serious business).

[Jemima and Aloysius at the rehearsal]

I loved that Aloysius cried reading Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, and that a mockingbird was singing during the vows. Everyone was so surprised that Simons was so loud and self-assured during the vows, while I trembled and whispered and nearly fainted. Seriously, my rosemary stems were waving with nerves. The bouquets were heavenly, and IF the bridesmaids hadn’t lost them after the reception, they could definitely have thrown them into a pot and cooked with them. The symbolism was all from Shakespeare and Milton, and they couldn’t have smelled or looked prettier.

Rosemary- for remembrance
Sage- virtue and esteem
Lavender- best wishes
Myrtle- a symbol of love and fertility
Ivy- friendship
Globe amaranth- unfading love
Mint- virtue
White Roses- love and simplicity
Thyme- courage, energy

My sister cried the second the bagpiper started the processional, which is EXACTLY what I did at her wedding ten years ago, when I SWORE all along I never would. I’m not a crier. But she had her wedding at Christmas, and my Dad had gotten the children’s choir of St Philip’s to sing, and the church was all lit up and decorated with red poinsettias and green garlands with gold ribbons, so it was very rich and romantic. Mine was more simple, country-church, but then the reception was very grand.

I never saw the food, but apparently it was there: gazpacho shooters, crab claws, shrimp and churrizo skewers, Serrano ham and sweet potato biscuits (about 1200 of them, all made by my mother because they’re my favorite), and smoked duck and marinated beef tenderloin. I would have liked to have tried it, because I was so hungry and sick when we got to the hotel, we sat on the bed and tore into the picnic like marooned sailors. Hanky panky had to wait!

I barely remember the first dance, so we needn’t have made such a trial of the song beforehand. But the Blue Dogs were fabulous, and if they ever play in your neck of the woods, prepare yourself for a good time. The cake was a blur, and what a weird little ceremony that is. Do you have any idea how hard it is to cut a cake that big (where, what tier, what if it isn’t the flavor you want?) and not dump crumbs all over your dress? And you get cake in your teeth, and since you’re smiling like a madwoman, it looks like you’re missing a tooth. Ick.

OH! GET THIS! SOMEONE GOT SHOT AT, AT MY WEDDING! If that isn’t redneck, I don’t know what is. Apparently this little town in the middle of nowhere, near where the plantation was, has its own GANG. What the hell do they fight over? Trout rights? Deer shining territory? Anyway, my aunt and uncle missed the turn to the plantation and drove by the town hall and had their rear window shot out by a .22, which LODGED IN THE BABY SEAT! The baby was safe at home in Florida, but my GOD, what if...

Fortunately, I didn’t hear about any of that until the next day.

The honeymoon was wonderful, but that is a separate blog, and I’m going to get busted at work, so I have to go.