whiskey in a teacup . com

Saturday night found Jared and I sitting on a slab of cement studded with bits of smooth, colorful glass.  Waiting for a table to open up at a local seafood restaurant, we lazily chatted and people-watched.  Suddenly I saw a couple approaching, the female half of which looked a great deal like an old roommate who has demonstrated persistent ill will towards me.  “Oh shit, I think that’s–” I started to say, before realizing it was not the roommate, but a movie star who happens to resemble her precisely, hand in hand with her movie star husband.

The male star in question is no Klaus Kinski, by my estimation, but upon seeing him the other women in the vicinity started to emit pheremones and squeal things like “He’s so gorgeous!”  When we were called into the restaurant a few moments later, it so happened that we were seated right near the celebrity lovebirds, and due to the striking similarity between the actress and my ex-friend I could not stop staring at the side of her face . It was eminently frustrating that the one time I wind up sitting next to famous people, whose presence wouldn’t normally merit gawking, I actually had a reason to gawk at them, like some common hag who reads US Weekly and watches romantic comedies.  You know not the depths of my suffering.

Fortunately, the next day I had occasion to spend time with a much worthier set of movie stars.  The local independent film festival was screening a documentary that had been filmed in my workplace and features many of the clients I see every day.  Some of them came to see it, and special room was made in the front row for their wheelchairs, and I was very proud of their awesomeness and how clearly it translated on the big screen.  I’m never able to explain why I enjoy my job so much; why, despite the periodic deaths and setbacks, it’s an incredibly fun place to be and one that has changed me for the better (which is certainly much more than can be said of most jobs).  It’s one thing to spout platitudes like “These severely disabled folks are just like you and me and have all the same wishes and desires!” It’s another thing to convey what it’s like when someone spends ten minutes fighting their spastic arm to point at letters on an alphabet board, just to spell out a dirty joke for you, or somehow manages to hug you or grab your hand and cover it in drooly kisses.  Though imperfect, the film managed to communicate some of that sweet, bizarre magic and show what it’s like in our surreal little world.

Various political commentators are shitting themselves blind because some beauty pageant contestant said she believed marriage should be between a man and a woman.  They aren’t focusing on the fact that she answered the question incoherently or that she seems to be unaware of the actual legal status of gay marriage in the U.S.  They’re wetting their pants over her “controversial” opinion.  Hey, fuckos!  The opinion she expressed is the exact same one espoused by Jesus H. Obama.  When he openly states that gays shouldn’t be allowed to marry, people just plug their ears and jerk off to their Shepherd Fairy posters while muttering “HOPE, CHANGE, YES WE CAN!” to themselves.  But when this chick says it, it’s totally different–now it’s offensive!

My take on the matter:  Gay marriage is terrific, Obama is meh, fake tits are awful, and who the fuck cares.

The girls-only gym I recently quit sure sucked in its own way, but at least it didn’t smell like Old Spice and testicles.

This is awesome! Sistagirl utterly silences her haters and ably represents the whiskeyinateacup ethos.  Rock out with your cock out, madame.

Finally, a self portrait that captures my true essence!

On a gray Saturday we sallied west to the Higgins Armory Museum, where we slowly wandered the halls and admired suits of chain mail and shining steel.  On Sunday the sun came out and we walked around the neighborhood, up to the monument, and through the industrial wastelands that zigzag weirdly throughout our town.  Today it is raining again and I, tired and convalescing from a minor virus, just want to lie under a blanket and watch this video over and over.  (That’s the song I sing in the shower, in case you were wondering.)  But -alas!- even I must admit that listening to Rammstein doesn’t count as studying German.  Therefore I will force myself to plod through another translation of a Grimm fairy tale, which might not improve my actual ability to communicate on our upcoming trip, but is a damn sight more enjoyable than studying with a textbook.

Hot:

Brushing your teeth with your non-dominant hand (necessitated by a repetitive stress injury to the dominant wrist).  It really does feel like it’s someone else!

Leaving the dreadful all-girls gym for a co-ed gym that is literally one quarter as expensive.  There’s a “women’s room”, in which I ran barely half a mile before being driven to madness by the vile Oprah blasting out of the TV, drowning out the voice of dear Herr Lindemann in my earbuds.  I promptly defected to the integrated main gym, where I completed my workout surprisingly unintimidated by the impolite boys with their roving eyes (dudes, do you honestly think any woman will ever want you when you’re on the fucking elliptical?  Do you still qualify as biologically male when you’re on that thing?)

Not:

Tearing asunder every muscle in your abdominal wall with an overly ambitious workout routine roughly 24 hours before your woman times, thus producing a gruesome avalanche of pain

Spending five full minutes trying to figure out how to plug the power cord into your highfalutin new cell phone, and another five trying to check your voicemail with the crazy newfangled buttons.  I hear they also have something called “electronic mail” these days!

Some fool working at a kiosk who, having caught an apparent case of spring fever, was commenting on passersby:  “Babies, babies, everyone’s got babies,” and then, glancing at me, “Hey, where’s your baby?”  In my husband’s nuts, you fucksteak, now let’s talk about where you are in life

The aforementioned indignity juxtaposed with the following conversation I had with a co-worker:

Her: “I’m going to South America with my friends to party!”

Me:  “Oh, ok, have fun!  Make sure to wear sunscreen!”

Her (under her breath): “Ok, Mom.”