July 10, 2006
I die, I goes to heaven, this is what they serve me
This past weekend the Bean and I made a brave solo foray down I-95 and crossed state lines deep into the heart of Connecticut. My mom is a chef on a private yacht and when the owner is away, the crew's gonna play, bitches! This means inviting your daughter and her two-year old to spend the night aboard a yacht, letting said two-year old put his greasy paws on every shiny service, and supping on the equivalent of a seafood turducken. Lobster! Stuffed with a shrimp! Stuffed with a clam! I have never been so satisfied with a meal in my young seafood-loving life. Plus my kid got to play golf, just like a real yacht-owner would.
Another highlight of the trip was when my potty-trainin' toddler, who enjoys doing his business with the door closed, came out of the bathroom and shyly announced that he had accidentally fallen off the toilet and pooped on the rug. First of all, who has a rug in the bathroom? Rich folks do, that's who - weird! As for falling off the toilet, well who hasn't a couple of times?
Speaking of weird stuff, the other night at about 2 a.m. a disembodied robotic voice started shouting something from our deck. At first I though it was my husband's cell phone, but soon realized it was the Bean's toy school bus repeating "The wheels on the, the wheels on the, the wheels on the..." over and over again due to dying batteries. Thinking our neighbors might not appreciate this, I staggered out to disable the blasted thing. As I stepped out onto the deck, the bus abruptly stopped its creepy half-song and announced "I'm happy."
Us too, bus.
Posted by Max at 10:07 PM | Comments (0)
June 08, 2006
winding down to wind it up
My gig as a work-at-home contractor for a long-time client is coming to a close soon, which means the end of long-distance staff meetings, IM gossip sessions with my former office pals, and mixing business with laundry. It also means I’ve been casting about for other sources of income, since my husband and I love to do things like live in a house and eat. Somehow in life, I’ve found myself inexplicably skilled at a couple of very specific and apparently not too common things: I’m an oligopoly of content management! This has made for a flurry of recruiter commotion, trips to other continents and most recently, meetings at Big Companies where they give you free sodas and make fun of you for wearing your interviewiest finery.
The meetings were in, you guessed it, Seattle, so that’s where I’ve been for the past week. It was the first time I've spent any serious time there since we moved away. I drove around in my rented Saturn Ion, peering at things like a toddler looking for bugs under backyard rocks. I love Seattle and more than that, I love my friends there. These are friendships nearly a decade old, forged in bars and break-ups, weekends in Vegas and camping, marriages and childbirth. But to me, at least on this trip, Seattle itself seemed like the tail end of really good yard sale. The Eames chair and the Fiestaware have been snatched up by savvy hipster collectors and what’s left are chipped Rainier Beer mirrors and broken foot massagers destined to languish in the “Free” box the next morning.
I could go on about my six-hour, unfed interview process (again with the no food! What’s with those folks, do they not need to eat?) and how by the end I was nearly hallucinating with hunger/fatigue/headache, or how I sort of fought with one of the interviewers because he was a dick and frankly I wasn’t in the mood but instead I wish to discuss TV.
It’s recently come to my attention that nearly every man I know hates the show Big Love as much as his wife/girlfriend enjoys it. This seems odd to me. My friend T. and I were enjoying Mai Tais one evening and extolling the virtues of polygamy to her increasingly annoyed husband. He suggested that in the finale of the show everyone should die and that next season, they could show eight episodes of a blank screen, which would be better than the actual show. And T. and I are like are you kidding me? You could have sex with three different women! There would be lots of folks to help out with the kids! Home-cooked meals every night! Think of it, it would be great! Then the subject of multiple husbands came up and she and I simultaneously gagged on our drinks, muttering, “What are you f-ing kidding me? Like I want to pick up three guys’ dirty socks.” My conclusion is that polygamy is a pretty great idea for the ladies since you’d have to do way less housework and also have more friends around to talk to especially when your husband straps an effing lamp onto his head and chases after fishies every night of the year.
My husband really does strap a lamp to his head and go fishing at night. Apparently when he does this, his rubber-coated water-walking feet look so sexy that horseshoe crabs are constantly humping him. Multiple loving wives or getting it on with crustaceans in the water, which is better? I fear my husband has made his choice. Ladies, you have my number. Call me, we'll work something out.
Posted by Max at 11:10 PM | Comments (1)
April 21, 2006
transatlanticism
in the taxi
I’m in a country I don’t know hurtling the wrong way down a freeway, weaving in and out of traffic while the taxi driver curses and pounds the steering wheel with a meaty paw. He tells me he’s been an Olympic-level judo athlete and then, later, a coach. I tell him I won’t pick a fight with him, but he doesn’t laugh. He says he liked coaching, but coaching girls was impossible because they were too emotional. “The brothers, the fathers, the boyfriends, they all hate you. You know, you get too involved, too emotionally involved, with the girls…” He stares sadly out the window and the rest of the ride continues in silence.
at the hotel
The lobby of the hotel is an oasis of white, with enormous chandeliers suspended from the ceilings, artfully set on Lucite tables and resting haphazardly on the floor. I check in to my room and then order coffee from the lobby bar, launching an unwinnable fight with jet lag. Ambient techno music plays softly in the background, making everything seem cooler than it is. I attempt to slide unnoticed into one of the over-sized white leather beans functioning as chairs and knock the table with my knee, spilling coffee everywhere. I frantically wipe it up with a tissue I find crumpled at the bottom of my purse, used days earlier and on another continent by the Bean.
on the tram
The Luas doesn’t rhyme with cows and it doesn’t rhyme with mouse. It’s pronounced “Lewis”: the locals call it the “Daniel Day”. It’s clean and convenient and eminently navigable even by someone who’s easily flummoxed in unfamiliar cities. Downtown is alternately splashed with rain and lit by sunbursts and there are flowers in every window box. A girl waiting across the platform is a vision of spring. I love the Luas, also known as the Daniel Day.
interviews
I’m picked up at 8:30 am and the day begins. By 2:00 pm, I’ve interviewed with five people and am still unfed. Jet lag sandbags me, making my sentences long and incomprehensible. Someone gets me a sandwich; a turkey wrap with shredded cheese that showers my plate in bright orange confetti while the hiring manager watches me. I then meet with the Boss of Everyone, who stops me mid-sentence if I’m not answering questions to her satisfaction. She is brilliant and terrifying: I am fearful and smitten. I’m sent back to my hotel in a cab, which I pay for with my own money. On either end, no decisions have been made.
coming home
On the plane back, I sit next to a kindly, snow-haired man and we drink together. He is eloquent and well traveled, a professional musician who’s lived in the States for thirty years but who is ready to return home. He invites me to a music festival at the end of the summer and, as we are leaving the plane, hands me a copy of his CD. That night, at home, my son and I listen and dance.
Posted by Max at 10:07 AM | Comments (0)