u s e y o u r h a n d s

Well, not for reals. But they stole my name. And instead of having this goofy surfer/hippie/stoner name of Hebraic origin, I have this name that is now a travesty of the celebrity culture. F-that! I imagine the beautiful Brangelina looking at each other, gazing at the beauty reflected in their eyes, talking about what they’d name the world’s most attractive child. And they could have named her Tiffany or Joelle or Penelope, but they stole my name. A name for a not-beautiful but smart child, who was blazed with a sense of humor. A name for me.

The day before Brangelina’s Shiloh was born, I saw my father (who reads this blog) again for the first time in years. He told me I looked fat in my wedding dress. And maybe I did. I probably did. But I hope that Brangelina’s Shiloh will avoid the question altogether, whether through evasion, or via parents who simply know better. Because then, she will know that her parents named her this special name because she was actually special, and not because it was what popped into their minds.

I’m about to take the longest flight I’ve taken since my serious panic attacks have subsided. I’m about to fly with no drugs. No beta-blockers, no Xanax.

I took the metra home tonight and sat cater-corner from a man who was either seriously drunk or seriously depressed. He was stooped, slow, and ate a Corner Bakery caprese sammich slowly, dropping some of it. I wanted to ask him about his ex-wife Janice and his kids and his arthritis.

And i also thought of how much i like my sir, my cat man, my dude.

And now, even though I’m about to fly, even though i’m sort of nervous, i feel okay. okay. and i want to download “one night in bangkok” from itunes. and maybe eat some ice cream.

sigh. i want it all.

So, you ever go to a party (because you are, indeed, a party person) and as soon as you walk in they door, you’re all “Oh, Shit.” Because, clearly, this party is and will continue to be lame as all get out? Happens to everyone. Which is also why throwing an oh shit party is one of my worst fears.

Anyway, this happened to my boo and I awhile back. In fact, it’s happened a few times recently, which makes me think we’re just entering a lame party phase of life. Too much nesting, not enough debauchery. But the two lamest parties we’ve been to recently have had a few bits in common.

1. Cat pee smell: Yes. Serious, nasty cat pee that I simply could not ignore. Who lives in a cat pee house who is not a shut in? Cat pee is a no-no in the worst way. If you live in a cat pee house, do not invite me to your cat pee party! Especially if you have not taken the trash out in days, either.

2. Dance Dance Revolution. Many of the people I know are in our late twenties to mid thirties. Why DDR? We are not Korean teenagers or fat schoolchildren at PE. No fucking DDR! It makes me pity your neighbors. And pull up your pants, for God’s sake!

And scene.\