WTF Friday: Do you hear yourself?

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Ken just returned on Wednesday from a 10 day trip to UCLA for some mad scientist shit, and I’m pretty sure the petri dish flavor of the week destroyed his “Are the words coming out of my mouth a good idea?” filter. I mean, it’s never been top notch*, but now I think it’s completely b0rked. Observe the progression into madness:

*My filter hasn’t worked in years, but that’s not what we’re talking about. Today, anyway.

April 21, 2011:
Gesturing at my breasts: “There’s too many babies here. Put those things away!”

At lunch
Poking his finger into my cleavage: “Oh, yeah…”

At Target
Me: “Last time I showed cleavage, you told me to cover it up because there were too many infants around. This is Target, home of soccer moms with twins in wide by side shopping carts.”
Ken “Hey, it’s dark there’s a lot of fog, and there’s a good chance there could be some ships lost at sea right now. Maybe if you let those puppies shine, we’ll have a better chance of bringing those boys home.”

Watching TV
Me, responding to a comment about the Zoot Suit Riots: “That’s actually a pretty hilarious song.”
Ken: “What’s that hell song about the afterlife or whatever?”
Me: …
Ken: “You know – “Iiiiin the afterlife!”
Me: “You mean Hell? By the Squirrel Nut Zippers?”
Ken: “That’s who does Zoot Suit Riot, right?”
Me: “No. That’s Cherry Poppin’ Daddies.
Ken: “So what does Brian Setzer do?”
Me: “Jump, Jive, and Wail. ‘Tard.”
Ken: “Whatever! I don’t listen to this swing shit!”

Which is exactly why he knows the lyrics to all three, and the genre to which they belong. No, Yeah, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.

These are a few lines from the archives*:

*I cannot honestly remember what some of this was regarding, but it’s somehow funnier now that I can’t remember the context.

March 26, 2007:
“Sounds like they might be trying to dress up a lot of beef chuck as prime rib.”
“I think you just called me beef chuck, and by extension a cow.”
“Well, you’re definitely filet mignon. You don’t need any dressing up. You’re as sexy as steak comes.”

March 17, 2009:
Ken, Regarding Cookie Monster/Sesame Street Kids Clubs at Beaches Resorts: “Yeah, that’s exactly what I need when I’m on vacation – some big, blue, furry retard with a cookie fetish bugging me while I’m trying to relax.”

I took the crime scene photos when cookie monster killed himself at the Temecula Sears store a week later.

May 24, 2008:
A random conversation about episiotomies:
Me: If they don’t make the snip and the woman tears during childbirth, then they have to do some restructuring and you won’t be having sex for a while. So you get the joys of new parenthood and a prolonged case of blue balls.
Ken: Why? You have a mouth. (At this point, Ken realizes what he’s just said and gets a horror stricken, panicked look on his face.) I’m sorry! That didn’t come out right! It wasn’t me that said that! It was Evil Ken! IT WASN’T ME!

I honestly don’t know which was funnier – the fact that he said it, or watching him drown in his own back pedaling wake.

There you go – more than you ever needed or wanted to know about the inner workings of my husband’s mind that should leave you saying, “WTF?!?”

Now go hug your perfectly normal husbands/boyfriends/sons.

Warning: Driver carries serious mental instability!

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No, the title is not a road rage joke, though I seriously wondered for a few minutes if that was how it was going to play out. (Let me tell you, bitch would have gone down faster than the Lusitania with lead sails.) As I was driving in to work yesterday morning, I was reminded of one of Misty’s posts about crazy people needing to do the general public a solid by at least having the decency to look crazy in their bugfuck pursuits.

I left for work at just before my usual time, coffee in hand and sleep boogers still in my eyes from another shitty night’s sleep. I maneuvered my little hamster powered Honda toward my downtown office at a reasonable, safe pace, which is to say 10 over the speed limit, but still totally safe for the conditions.

As I was pulling away from a stop light, some dick tickling cum dumpster of a cunt badger in the lane next to me decides to turn on her signal and start cutting into the lane space I was occupying. (Because a blinker is just fair warning that someone’s going to act like a total twat badger.) In order to keep her from driving through my door, I swerved into the tiny shoulder and sped up to get past her, flipping her off with one hand, sipping coffee with the other, and steering with my knee because I am fucking talented.

Because I am so fucking metal, I wear a badger on my head.

And then she ended up taking the same route I was while riding my ass along every mile. I figured she was just being a raging bitter cock about my decision not to let her become part of my vehicle by forceful osmosis, but as I observed her in my rearview, what I saw was just plain WEIRD.

She was having quite the lively conversation, complete with wild gesticulations and facial tics. At one point I had convinced myself that she must have been on a bluetooth because there was no one else in that car and no one can carry on a one-sided conversation as vigorously as she was.

Only she wasn’t on a blue tooth. And I know this because she almost slammed into me as I was stopped at a school crosswalk to reach into her purse and pull out a cell phone.

Which she proceeded to speak into with far less animation than when she was all by her lonesome.

While applying lipstick with her free hand.

I have no doubt that this was on the agenda for her return trip.

And apparently without my mad knee-driving skills, because at one point, she was squarely in the lane for oncoming traffic.

And then she was off the phone and back to her passionate jazz hands soliloquy, albeit with a more angry look on her face this time around. Maybe that lipstick made her feel more like a bad ass and less like a bad driver. Eventually, she turned onto a side street and I continued to work, breathing a little easier without the threat of being hunted for my skin, but finding myself a little bored.

I’ve seen myself through the eyes of surrounding motorists when I’m singing along with ear-splitting rock music – the looks are of sheer amusement, or poor terror, depending on the lyrical content. And given my experience as a one-woman vehicular rock opera, Stepford Mom wasn’t singing.

A pretty apt visual description of me in the car.

In short, I have no idea what this woman’s deal was. Maybe she was running lines on the way to an audition. Maybe she was rehearsing her “fuck you, I quit” speech for the boss. Maybe she was a raging bitter cock at the way I slighted her and she was living some sort of violent fantasy where she flays me alive while she tells me off.

All I know is – Fuck you, bitch. My keychain is a swiss army knife.

Sit & spin, bitch.

Sweet Strings and Inappropriate Things

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No recipe today, kids. It’s still just me and the cat and I’m still working on a pizza from Friday night. I don’t imagine I’ll be cooking again until Wednesday night. In the absence of cooking this weekend, I did manage to be super productive. I finally went through 5 months of Bon Appetit and catalogued the recipes so that I could finally rid myself of that monstrous stack.

I’ve also been working on a lot of special craft projects and I nearly finished the big one this weekend. There’s still black appliance epoxy up my nose from the box I painted last night and I was high as balls watching the Niners game, which is why I probably enjoyed it.

Saturday was also Symphony Night! It was performance #3 of my 5 performance series, so I grabbed my favorite audiophile Tina, and went out for dinner and an evening of music.

Alone, we're bad enough. Together, we're someone's horrifying experience waiting to happen.

This was the first performance of the season where I didn’t wear a dress or skirt because it was snowy and cold, and brrrrr bitches! I initially intended to wear a skirt with some tights and ankle boots, but then I remembered Johi’s post about tights and I got scared. So I had to go to Kohls and buy a new ensemble instead. Oh, the Huge Manateeeeeee! I’m going to stop eating for a while.

My ass is prone to similar explosive tendencies.I clean up okay...

 

Anyhoo… Tina is freaking hilarious. And as she gets more pregnant, she gets even more inappropriate and hilarious. Something about that pregnancy hormone turns her into a human honey badger, and she just don’t don’t give a fuck. Case in point – Tina hates cell phones. Or more specifically, she hates people who can’t separate themselves from their phones for more than 5 minutes at a time. So when we came back from intermission and the announcement was made to turn off our phones, a girl in the row in front of us took that to mean “keep texting.”

Tina got seriously indignant and said to me, loud enough for the dear little social butterfly to hear, “When did turn off your phone start meaning text as you wish. Stupid bitch.”
Me: “Do you want to move to the seat behind her so you can kick the back of her chair?”
Tina:  ”No, I can kick her in her inconsiderate head just fine from here.”

Other notable quotes from Tina:

“Cello players are wimps! You never see them in the marching band.”

*referring to a ticketholder in the seats next to ours who has a well documented history of flatulence during performances*: “He uses too much Irish Spring. He smells very soapy tonight. But it’s still better than farts.”

 

The performance itself was lovely. Debussy’s Iberia was first on the program. In my opinion, it wasn’t a bad representation of  Spanish-Andalusian melody for a guy who only spent 10 hours in Spain for a bullfight once.

The featured solo violinist, Augustin Hadelich, despite being fodder for a lot of Phantom of the Opera posts from Tina, is incredibly talented and rad as shit to watch. His super quick fingers and overall passion for the instrument is a truly awe inspiring and wondrous thing to behold. His solo performance of Caprice #4 was nothing short of amazing and in that 4 minute piece, he more than made up for the 27 minutes of drudgery that was Prokofiev’s Second violin concerto.

I honestly don’t know what I expected from the Prokofiev. To his credit, the guy produced the same caliber of work as always, which is to say that the works always start out with striking melodies before retreating into a pnderously heavy and mind numbingly repetetive status quo.

Tchaikovsky’s “Little Russian” symphony, on the other hand, was pure delight, as are all of Tchaikovsky’s works. The piece is certainly a melodic journey from end to end. Each passage is reminiscent of a meandering progress which stops to enjoy each new locale for a bit before arriving at the final destination which is the finale to much fanfare and celebration. The difference between the Russian composers is just night and day, but I guess that’s what happpens when one composes during Russia’s golden era and the other composes under a murderous fuckhead’s communist nightmare.

On the whole, the night out was just what I needed, since I think I was overdue to let my inner snob out to play for a bit. And as usual, I’m sure I’ll pick my violin up more often for a while, at least until I get sick of my shitty strings again.

Happy Monday, mah peeps.

I love how, despite a mournful lack of alcohol, I look shitfaced and Tina looks ashamed to be seen with me.