The Adnostic

I realized recently that this blog has gotten a lot less personal over the past few months and I'm not sure I like that. I think it dilutes the voice I had established earlier, so I consider myself tagged (thanks Clay). Now I have to reveal five little known facts about myself. Five little known facts that aren't already in my 100 (okay, 62) Meaningless Facts About Lauren. This will be tough.

1) I was a late bloomer when it came to music. I didn't go to my first concert until I was in college and regrettably, it was the Eagles' Hell Freezes Over Tour. I even bought a t-shirt. Pity me.

2) I tried out to be on Win Ben Stein's Money. I never even made it past the written exam, but it was something fun to do and I almost (but not quite) got a date out of it. I would think of answers to some of the questions I missed for weeks after. Manhattan Project still vexes me.

3) I have a scar in the middle of my forehead from when my grandmother dropped me on the edge of the coffee table when I was a baby. My dad rushed me to the hospital and sewed me back together himself.

4) I never really got into drugs. I tried pot a few times and it always just burned my lungs, made it painful to breathe the next day, and failed to leave me in any sort of altered state aside from the hacking and hyperventilation.

5) I seem to have developed a double standard when it comes to ego. I do very well when working with horses who have an inflated sense of self-worth, but I have little patience for it in human beings and I have difficulty hiding my distaste. I guess it's because those kinds of horses will just push back and test your resolve, while people can make you feel like you're not even in the room. They're very different expressions of similar afflictions.

With that I tag five more people . . . .

Jen - because she's always interesting and has lots of color to draw from.
Erika - because I wish she would blog more.
Dave - I know he won't do it, but I'm tagging him anyway. No one is above meme. No one!
Jelly - because it would be cool if she podcast it
Wendel - he needs to be baptised into blogging.

Jerusha of Unholy Smell has launched a new venture - she has started podcasting. Considering that I have no idea how to record anything on my computer, much less put it on iTunes, I am very proud of my acerbic friend.

The subject is mostly about reality television, but she ended her last post talking about her family and knitting projects. It's pretty entertaining and only a little rambling, but that's to be expected with podcast-newbeies. Subscribe and be entertained by her biting commentary on TV and life in general.

I think she needs to take up knitfiti.

I'm taking some time before a client research presentation to hang with Drew.

Me: So when are we having this party?

Drew: I don't know. When people are available, I guess.

Me: Well, ultimately it's up to you. You're hosting.

Drew: That's right. [pause] Wait a minute! I just threw that out there as an offer. I wasn't serious.

Me: Actually, you were serious. Jodi and I had planned to have you host all along and when you offered, it was perfect. You played right into my hands.

Drew: Dammit.

A friend of mine, Drew, is moving to South Africa. Why is he moving to the other side of the world? Because it's a darn sight better than Tennessee. You see his company, now my client, is moving from sunny California to Nashville, Tennessee and there was no way on God's green earth that he was going with them. So he's going to their South African division instead. Go figure.

So, it's also time for our little group of alcohol enthusiasts to have another party and I decided to make it a send off for our soon departing friend. We're going to have a "Why Drew Isn't Moving to Tennessee" Party. We're going to have pulled pork, Frito pie, Pabst Blue Ribbon, taters, and slaw, and to top it all off, the source of my inspiration, moonshine in a mason jar from BevMo and Deliverance from Blockbuster. Tell me that doesn't sound like the party of the year!

Drew is so excited about this party he even volunteered to host it at his place. I asked him if he could add to the ambiance by having an above ground pool and a car up on blocks, but that may be considered by some people to be overdoing it. Not me, but some people.

I remember one time, when I was working a really boring job, a friend of mine sent me a link to one of those online IQ tests. Sure, the validity is suspect, but what the hell. Waste a little time and make sure it gets billed to the client.

Now, it has been a few years since I took the test and got my scores back, but this is what I recall:

- I scored 135 and was deemed to be an Artist/Philosopher. This meant that I had equal talent for creativity as I did analytical thinking. I was pretty proud of myself. This sounded rare. It made me feel an unwarranted sense of exceptionality.

- I sent the link to the IQ test to my friend, Gary. At the time, we were classmates in the same graduate program and a bit competitive. I knew he was smart, but it was almost as though he had made the decision to be ignorant in spite of his education. This seemed like a frustrating waste to me.

- Gray emailed me the official results and I almost spontaneously combusted.

If you're bored at work, you can take your own IQ test. This is The Morning News version. It's shorter and a heck of a lot funnier.

My mother and I went shopping at Victoria's Secret during the After Christmas Sales Marathon and we were reaching a disconnect. I was pulling out sexy lacey bras to try on while she was going for the plain, unornamented t-shirt bras.

Me: Ooooh! Isn't this one cute, Mom?
Mom: No.
Me: You're being negative. Don't be negative.
Mom: What about this one? Do you like this one?
Me: Um, yeah. I guess.

We eventually make our way over to Macy's, where I pull out some Calvin Kline plain cup bras with lace around the bodice.

Me: This is nice Mom. Maybe they have it in your size.
Mom: For me or for you?
Me: For you.
Mom: I'm not going to wear anything like that.
Me: You know, it wouldn't kill you to have some sexy underwear.

Yes. I told my mother that she needs sexier underwear. I don't know what the cosmic repercussions are for that, but I'm sure they exist and they are headed straight for me.

Poor Daddy.

I have always hated pet names. They just make my skin crawl. Isn't that enough of a reason to reject any attempt of some significant other to bestow upon me a pet name? You'd think so. Unfortunately, my therapist is in disagreement. A pet name, like "Sweetie," is a way for some people to establish intimate connection and my rejection of this can be interpreted as, well, not so good.

So, in my attempt to establish stronger interpersonal connections, I have bestowed one of my very good friends a brand new pet name - Sausage Casing.

Yes, there is a story behind this. Last night she invited me as her +1 to her company Christmas Party on the set conditions that I did not embarrass her and that I helped her into a brand new girdle so that she can fit into a sleek little black number she bought 5 years ago and wishes to pretend that she is indeed still that thin. I can safely say that I met both of these conditions adequately.

"I'm a small! I bought a small!"

"Umph! You may be needing a slightly lager size. Argh!"

She's just lucky I still have strong rider's hands, because I silently congratulated myself when I got the last hook safely in place. I stepped back to look at the girdle, which resided around her middle like a broken sausage casing around a partially cooked bratwurst. May I never feel the need for such a masochistic garment.

Now don't get me wrong. Sausage Casing is not fat. She is, in fact, a size 4. The problem, in her mind, is that not so long ago she was a comfortable size 2 and is in desperate need to regain her stick-like figure. Speaking as someone who fluctuates regularly between a size 6 and an 8, I find this ridiculous. She should enjoy the extra padding that comes with a 4 and get herself some new clothes which compliment the new shape.

We tried to spend most of the evening standing, which worked well until it was time to eat dinner. SC went running to the bathroom every five minutes and continuously complained of being pinched in inappropriate places. At one point in the evening I tried to pinch her, more to make a point than anything else, and I couldn't do it. The casing was too tight.

After four hours of self-torture, SC decided it was time to leave the event, where we drove back to her place, I released her from her bonds, and she was once again able to breathe normally.

Chicks are crazy.

A friend of mine earns money on the side "modeling" at foot fetish parties. This is something I've known about her unofficially for a while now. When I first learned about this somewhat questionable secondary occupation, my initial reaction was to call her a foot-whore (not to her face mind you). She's smart, she holds a Master's degree in business, and she has a good job. This is not a girl who needs to sell her feet to put food on the table.

She came out officially to our circle of friends a couple weeks ago at one of our get-togethers. For once I was glad I already knew because I could hold a straight face when she told me that she was going to be christening the top I gave her for her birthday at the next fetish party. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Then she started telling us that she makes anywhere between $100 and $500 for an evening of letting strange men lick her toes and pretending to like it.

Me: There's no way I could do that. I'm too ticklish.

Footsie: Actually, they pay extra for ticklish.

Me: No, you don't understand. I am kick-you-in-the-face ticklish.

I can see it now, some poor submissive vigorously sucking my toes, me trying desperately not to laugh until I just can't take it anymore and literally kick the poor john in the face and break his nose. THEN I would not be able to stop laughing because the situation would be pure comedy. This lack of remorse would inevitably lead to a law suit and my eventual financial ruin.

You may just see it as innocent foot sex, but I am looking at the big picture. Toe sucking = bankruptcy.

Ruben and Johan, originally uploaded by TheAdnostic.

Last Saturday some friends of mine and I got together in Long Beach for a casual wine tasting dinner at a Lebanese restaurant. It's really just an excuse to socialize and sample some fine vino (especially from Johan, he can always be counted on to bring something just this side of divine).

I'm glad Momiji Man made it. I've wanted to integrate him into my circle of friends for a while now.

Justin: Do you eat ham?

Me: I love ham!

Justin: But you're Jewish! How can you be Jewish and eat ham?!

Me: A lot of Jews don't keep kosher.

Justin: But that's WRONG!

Me: So is premarital sex.

Justin: [nervously glances at Sandra] But that feels good, so that's okay.

Me: Eating ham feels good too.

I have two, count them two, friends moving to the European Union before the end of the year. What are the odds and how soon can I afford a $1,000 multi-city round trip ticket to Dublin and Geneva? [scan checkbook] Hmmmm, if I calculate current savings, multiply that by the amount of money I've actually been able to put into my bank account since moving back to LA, and factor in the precise length of time I can hold my breath without suffering serious brain damage...... I would be dead before I finally had enough available cash to buy the plane ticket.

Hope, for as long as I have known her, has made her living as a freelance writer for the LA Zoo and various independent art magazines and a burlesque dancer. I always felt unbelievably square in comparison to her, but now that she's moving to Switzerland to be with the father of her child who is also the sole member of a one-man band, I feel like June Freaking Cleaver! Could my life get anymore painfully normal? Only if I moved to the suburbs and married a lawyer.

Jen, my former roommate and person to blame for the existence of this web site (I prefer the avoidance of responsibility whenever possible), is moving to Dublin to get her Masters in Multi-Media Systems from Trinity College. I am so incredibly proud of her and thankful that a graduate institution with Trinity's stature is finally giving her the opportunity she richly deserves. I look forward to seeing her earn tenure at a progressive university and warping the minds of America's youth on a daily basis.

For now, I will help Jen move the last of her boxes into storage (and maybe have one last dinner at Felix's) tomorrow and keep up with Hope to see when she'll need help packing up her house for the big move. I may not know when I can see them again, but at least I can give some support as they prepare for the next big step in their lives.

I miss you both already.

Anne Bancroft, a phenomenal actress and who I'm sure was also a very tolerant woman (she was married to Mel Brooks for over 40 years), died today.

This was very sad news for me, but I knew it would be devastating to my sister, Leah. She adores her. So, I did what any good sibling rival would do.... I alerted her immediately. This is the response I get:

This is the saddest news EVER! I love her! You just ruined my night you bitch. Love you, Leah

We're really into doling out the love with equal amounts of rage. It keeps everything in balance.

The future King of Bean Paste Cakes has informed my ignorant self that the correct name for the cakes is Momiji Manju; and that if there ever was a contest to prove who indeed is the real Momiji Manju King, he would take out his opponent Nancy Kerrigan style and win by default.

He also reminded me of his status as a musician and therefore doesn't have to know how to dance, people dance for him. Obviously, he is unaware of what a triple threat he would be if he was a musician, a dancer, and a momiji maker. Now that's a man who never goes to bed alone.

Please pardon me, your Royal Momiji Manju Highness. You reign supreme over little known Japanese foodstuffs.

When are you coming home? When will we see you again? When are you coming home? When will we see you again?

Are you noticing a pattern? My usual answer to this series of parental inquisition is, "I dunno." But then I realized that Sunday was Mother's Day and that I would win the Worst Daughter of the Year Award if I didn't head up the 405 to the Sauna Fernando Valley to see the units and miscommunicate with Mom and watch Deadwood with Dad. (Ever see an actor perform a monologue while receiving oral sex, all the while the man who washed your bottom when you were two is sitting in the chair next to you? I'm surprised more families don't spend quality time like that together, and Ian McShane totally deserved that Golden Globe)

I called Mom earlier in the week to tell her I would be coming up too see her on Sunday.

Mom: What will you want for dinner?
Me: I dunno. (please refer to pattern afore mentioned above)
Mom: Well, what do you want to make for dinner?
Me: (laughter)
Mom: Oh. Never mind.

You see, I was once very excited to make dinner for my family and make Mom proud of my prowess in the kitchen. I made a chicken curry stir-fry. It turned out well, but my mother complained about smell the following day and ended up lighting incense to mask the stench of curry. My mother hates incense and I haven't cooked in my parents' kitchen since. Heck, her oven is sill a mystery to me.

I told Jen about this and she was bewildered as to why I wouldn't cook for my family, especially on Mother's Day when it was clear that my cooking is exactly what she wanted for her special day. Once again, I was a prime candidate for the Worst Daughter of the Year Award. I hate that award. The bouquet of guilt that comes with the prize package will crush your very soul.

So today I called Mom to ask her if she still wanted me to cook dinner tomorrow.
Mom: Yes.
Me: Okay. I was thinking of making Pot Roast Pasta. Do you think you have two pounds of bottom round roast in the freezer?
Mom: I'm not sure.
Me: Well, find out because you better start defrosting that thing now.
Mom: Yes dear.

After I got off the phone Jen mentioned that I talked to my Mom like she was an 87 year old (my candidacy renewed). So I explained to Jen about the freezer of meat.
Me: My mom has a full sized freezer in the garage. It is as big as our fridge/freezer combined, and it is filled with meat.
Jen: Why would anyone do that? Why doesn’t she just buy food as she needs it?
Me: She buys meat on sale and then freezes it until she needs it. This is why she is the biggest Jew of us all.
Jen: Think of it this way - when she kicks off, you'll be rich.

That award is all mine.

These are my family's reactions to my blog:

Mother: Why are you doing this?

Father: I read some of it. Something about Gary, but there was just too much to go through.

Sister: It was wierd, but I liked it. Don't hook up with some psycho from the inannet.

I can always count on the people I have a genetic commonality with to take the fizzy out of my funny.