Rowling's Mosh Pit

One of my favorite moments from an early episode of "Arrested Development" is when Jason Bateman's character Michael Bluth opens the freezer and finds a brown paper sack with a note on it that says, "Dead dove." He opens it, and you see his reaction, he closes the bag and says, "Well, I don't know what I was expecting."

Last night, my life played out its own version of that scene. In the Jason Bateman role were myself and my husband, a six-foot hobbit who prefers peace and quiet. In the role of the freezer was my favorite new independent bookstore, offering the delicious prospect of purchasing, at a discount, the sixth installment in J.K. Rowling's magnificent series of stories about the Boy Who Lived, "Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince." In the role of the literal brown paper sack? That would be the Harry Potter Party.

Around about 11:30 p.m. last night we were huddled away in a corner on the third floor, seated on concrete, pretending to ignore the crushing crowds with a game of Palm Pilot Scrabble. It was then that I found myself saying, "I don't know what I was expecting."

Let's explore that. What I was expecting was a fun evening spent with well-behaved children and their locally-minded parents, sitting around in squashy armchairs, sipping on a Baileys and coffee while engaging in low-key trivia games in order to keep ourselves awake until 12:01 a.m. Why was I expecting this? Maybe because when I'm reading the Harry Potter books, the characters and the places are written so well that Harry, Hermione, Ron, Hagrid and Dumbledore seem so real to me, and yet so totally in my own mind. The stories are forever burned on my brain and I can sometimes get the feeling that they are all mine and nobody else's.

I am dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

It was wall-to-wall people from 9:30 p.m. until 12:30 a.m. Three hours of rugrats in vaguely private school-ish costumes stepping on our feet and cutting into the butterbeer line. Three hours of listening to soccer moms with bad haircuts and worse taste in jeans shouting questions like, "What line is this?" "When do we get our books?" "Where does the line form for the books?" "Do we need a number?" "Where do we get the numbers?" "Where are the restrooms?" All of which, if they bothered to read the Marauder's Map handed to them when they walked in the door, would have been answered for them.

When the line started forming for the books at 11:50, it was starting to get pretty rank smelling in the old place, which no doubt has not the best air conditioning system in the universe, seeing as it was originally built in the 1800s to house hardened criminals. That, combined with a hot summer night in Texas, produced the sort of odor I imagine I would experience in, well, Azkaban. I was getting pretty surly, so I made my poor hobbit go on without me while I waited outside. It was the Violent Femmes concert all over again. It was a mosh pit of Harry Potter geekdom and I was getting verklempt in my genektegezoink. When we finally met up again, my husband informed me that he now smelled like many other stinky people's armpits.

Still, he managed to escape Azkaban with the book in hand, with the discount for having pre-ordered the book. We're still kind of fuzzy on whether or not we would have forfeited the discount if we hadn't shown up specifically last night to pick up the book, but it doesn't matter now.

I have to give props to the bookstore people. They may not have been expecting that many people to show up, but they handled the situation as best they could, and they created a special, memorable night for a lot of kids. They also did the right thing in throwing such a huge bash, as they brought in loads of people who might never have bothered to check out a local bookstore before driving to another town to buy the book from a major retailer. And maybe some of those people will come back again.

But at last, for now, I'm safe at home, and it's quiet, and I'm calm (except for the slight twitch) and Harry, Hermione, Ron, Hagrid and Dumbledore are mine again -- all mine.



Abyssinia!

I have cat vomit germs

Miss Kitty Fantastico was happily crunching away on her Hill's Science Diet kitten food this morning. I was down the hall happily typing away on my blue iMac G3.

After the trauma that ended the life of our last cat, I have a heightened sense of awareness about everything Miss Kitty Fantastico eats, drinks, smells, poops and licks.

Moments later, I hear her footsteps in the hallway, and then something like "Ack! Gurg. Gloop."

I was out of my chair and down the hall in .01 seconds. There she was, curiously sniffing at a teeny pile of Science Diet chunks that she had apparently not bothered to chew in her excitement over breakfast. And then, she proceeded to lick it.

"No!" I shouted.

"Hm," thought Miss Kitty Fantastico. "That tall hairless bi-ped is making that loud noise that happens when she wants me to stop scratching the couch. As I haven't seen the squirt gun in ages, I'll take that as an empty threat and proceed with eating my own tossed up bits."

And yes, like the dog I've always suspected she might actually be, Miss Kitty Fantastico started eating what was once the contents of her stomach. She got about half way through before I wiped up the rest with a paper towel. She watched me do this, then gave me a look like "You bitch," licked my toes, and walked off to sit in the window like nothing happened.

Let's just hope she doesn't decide she prefers ABC cat food from now on.

Abyssinia!

Seen at the gym today

Teen-age guy showed up in basketball shorts, white socks, and house slippers. The big, nappy, worn out faux-suede kind with the woolly insides all matted down with age. I didn't see a hospital bracelet or a portable IV on him, so I have no idea what that was all about.

(Let me just point out here that I do not make a habit of staring at people at the gym. It's just that I work out at a very small fitness center so everybody sees everything you do.)

Me, I'm from the old lady school of fashion. I have two kinds of clothes: Clothes to be worn in public, and house clothes -- those that will never see the harsh light of day because they are pajamas, or are old, misshapen, ill-fitting, threadbare and ugly but still comfortable. Hmmm, let's think about that for a moment .... Yep. House slippers are still in the second category.

Whatever. The really interesting part came later, when he was getting ready to work out on the heavy weight machines. He actually changed OUT of his grimey house slippers, and INTO a pair of flip-flops. Gee, I hope he doesn't drop something and break a toe. Then who would be there to turn on the community boombox and force all the ladies on the treadmills to listen to Blue Oyster Cult?

Abyssinia!

I've just sandpapered my face

In the name of mitigating ugly bridesmaid dress humiliation: Oh, the lengths Miss Abyss will go to. Today's attempt: "Hair-Off Facial Buffer -- As Seen On TV!"

What makes a thirty-something woman, who should really be pondering her moisturizing regimens at this stage in life, want to actually attack her precious baby-face with something that literally buffs the hair off her upper lip? Two things: Dark hair on fair skin.

No, actually, it can be better explained with a brief flashback to October 27, 2001. Come back with me, won't you? (cue dissolvey, wavy lines . . . now.)

There I am, the glowing bride on the morning of my wedding day, having just spent way too much money for a stylist to jam this hideous veil into a lacquered up-do -- a veil, it should be noted, that my mother insisted I wear, and which I only finally agreed to wear after my father guilted me by saying, "It would really mean a lot to your mother if you would wear a veil."

So, I've just had the veil surgically attached to my skull, and I'm now sitting down to get my makeup done by yet another professional. She's done the foundation, the eyes, the blush, and she starts applying the lipstick and she pauses. She is looking at my mouth. She says, and I swear this is true, "Oh, you should have come in yesterday. I could have gotten rid of your mustache for you."

Yes, she said this. To me. Hours before my wedding. Nobody has ever, EVER, even on my worst day, informed me that I had a mustache that was noticeable at all. What paid professional in her right mind would tell a bride this on her wedding day, especially now that it is too late, because even if she washes off the makeup and has the wax job, everything will be red and swollen the rest of the day. I ask you, why didn't she keep her big mouth shut? The world may never know, but now I have this terrible memory always associated with what otherwise was the happiest day of my life.

The point is, now I'm totally paranoid about my facial hair, and I'm always looking for ways to get it removed above my upper lip.

Now, it is July 13, 2005. I'm in this wedding in less than three weeks. My cousin, whom I used to babysit, is putting me in a bubble-gum pink and white job with an tea-length skirt and spaghetti straps. For the past six months, I've been toning the arms and the calves, tanning and sunless tanning, and buying undergarments that are truly feats of engineering. So now, I have bulky swimmer's arms and shoulders, orangey-streaky ankles, tan lines, and I'm so obsessed with girdles I wear them under jeans and T-shirts when I leave the house. So, you can understand my interest when I learn of a new product that will remove unwanted facial hair without wax, chemicals, or tazers.

Well, it works. I was so excited, I showed the box to my husband and told him I'd just found my new best friend. I said to him, "I don't know what's actually ON that little buffer thing, but it works!" And he looked at it and said, "Sandpaper."

Yes, people, I paid $6 to sandpaper my face today. The bad news is, I rubbed a little too hard, I think, because it's all red and irritated. The good news is, no little dark hairs above my upper lip, which brings me one step closer to the ideal of femine beauty.

Brides, you'd better appreciate what we bridesmaids do for you. Because what we do best is we LIE. If we told you the honest truth, we'd all say the one word that would bring an end to the torture we women put ourselves through to look halfway decent in taffeta, and that one word is, "Elope."

Abyssinia!

A Few of My Favorite Podcasts, Part 1

So many podcasts, so little time.

Actually, that's not true. There are too many bad podcasts for me to even begin to comment on the badness. So I've decided to include a regular feature on this blog to sing the praises of my favorite ones.

Today's shout out: "This And That With Jeff And Pat."

The world's best all around podcast has the added benefit of being local to me, so I may be a bit biased. "This And That With Jeff And Pat" is far and away the winner because it excels in all categories -- production, content, originality, consistency. They put a lot of work into it, and the two hosts are funny and entertaining grown-ups who talk about grown-up things, without having to resort to extreme gross-out humor and cheap sex jokes. Their content is topical and their commentaries are witty but also from the heart.

Recently, Jeff and Pat have started to delve into satirical skits about politics and the media, and the results haved proved funny, biting and original. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that they could probably produce these satirical pieces as individual shows (As if podcasting doesn't already take up a huge chunk of their spare time).

A sidebar: Jeff is also a talented musician (with great taste in REAL JAZZ, I might add) who has written original music for the show, including a catchy little song called "I Want To Be a Podcast Star," which I believe got a mention on Podfather Adam Curry's daily podcast. In addition, he's produced a hilarious, but also really cute, song about podcasting as a parody of the theme from "Love American Style." I know, you're thinking, "wha?" But trust me, it's adorable.

I think what I like best about Jeff and Pat is, unlike so many other man/woman podcasts, they are not married. They're not even dating each other. Now, I love a good Old Married Couple Podcast, because I can relate to them. But Jeff and Pat are like a breath of fresh air. It's like a spontaneous get-together with your single friends that makes you realize there are other things in the world to talk about besides babies and marriage. But that only happens to us Old Marrieds every once in a blue moon. Fortunately, we have Jeff and Pat to look forward to every weekend.

An added bonus is actually something that is absent from the show and from their website. No tip jar, no paypal buttons, and no begging for money. Podcasting just for the love of it? What a novel idea!

So, instead of sending them money, I decided to buy this great throw pillow from cafepress.com. It features a sketch of Jeff and Pat done by Len of the Jawbone Radio podcast, and it's his take on Jeff and Pat's "Brady Bunch" graphic. As you can see, it spices up our somewhat granny-ish sofa.

In conclusion to my first installment of Favorite Podcasts, keep up the good work, Jeff and Pat, and Miss Abyss will keep listening. Thanks for all you do to give us an alternative source of entertainment.

Abyssinia!

'Me Drive Big Pick'em Up Truk'

Hey jerkwad who drove the gigantic black shiny Ford F-350-whatever to the Frisco Roughriders game and tried to park in two spaces in the parking garage last night: You. Are. Not. Special.

You know why? Because every other daggum Texas redneck good ole'boy with entitlement issues ALSO drives a ginormous pickup to compensate for his lack of brainwave activity.

Abyssinia!

It's Summer. In Texas. Now Shut Up Already.

Let me start by saying I HATE talking about the weather. I hate having conversations about the current weather conditions because it's boring and usually it's brought up because two people have nothing else to talk about. I also hate news stories about the weather. Unless we're talking about a summer in Chicago when 700 elderly people died in a heat wave, or a Texas tornado flattening a small West Texas town, I don't want to see it on the news or read about it in the newspapers. It's lame-ass, slow-news-day journalism at best; easy amateur filler at worst.

And yet. Every time I call home to my mom, who lives up North, she gives me my weather report. It usually goes something like this: "I've been watching the Weather Channel. It's really hot where you are!" To which I reply. "Mom. It's Texas. In June. 92 degrees? Not all that bad."

Having that conversation every other day is not nearly as irritating, though, as listening to other people WHO CHOOSE TO LIVE IN TEXAS complain about the weather. True, there was me, newly transplanted about three years ago, in awe of the fact that, unlike the Midwest, nighttime in Texas in June, July, August and even September, doesn't feel any cooler than the daytime. But you know what? I got over it. If I can't sleep, I crank the AC up a notch and go back to bed and shut up about it.

Still more irritating are NATIVE TEXANS who complain about the heat. You'd think they'd be acclimated by now. But they're not. Why? Because every home, every business, every school, every office, every store, every restaurant, every soul-sucking shopping mall, has its air conditioning set on 72 degrees from May through September. And nobody, NOBODY, drives with the window down anymore. True, there are tons of people who smoke cigarettes and therefore need to crack their car windows to let out the smoke and dispose of their nasty cigarette butts (don't even get me started on that), but after their done poisoning their lungs for that hour, back up the windows go. Nobody cares about just creating a breeze and enjoying the fresh air anymore.

Right now, I'm sitting in my office at 11:30 a.m. with the window open. It's sunny. It's warm. The AC in the house is set on about 88 degrees, and hasn't kicked on yet. According to the Weather Channel website, it's 90 degrees outside, but feels like 91 degrees. My guess is it's about 85 to 87 degrees in here. And you know what? I'm not sweating. I'm not short of breath. I'm not going to die of heat exhaustion. I dare say I'm pretty comfortable right now, enjoying these dry, warm, slightly breezy days while I've got them.

Besides, come August, when the grasshoppers get to be the size of small gophers, I'll have a lot more to worry about than the heat.

Abyssinia!