Hi "all" (i.e., "one"),
If you get notifications that this blog has updated, you may have been inundated with them today and for the next day or so -- I started adding labels (see nifty tag cloud to the right), so have been going back and adding them to old posts. Bear with me.
xo
Maim
17 September 2009
15 September 2009
There Goes the Bride
For anyone who didn't know, I got married a couple of weeks ago. It was pretty awesome. Pros: lifetime commitment, friends and family, fantastic dress and shoes, confetti cannon shocker at send off. Cons: passing out. And no, not in the manner of a drunk-assed bride or frat partier, but in a Victorian lady, smelling-salts kind of way.
It happened thusly: I had a super time getting ready, then did the whole walk-down-the-aisle, lifetime-pledge bit, then balanced in pointy heels on a sunny, grassy slope for awhile while the photographer tried to get all four children involved in the ceremony both standing upright and looking pleasant simultaneously (not possible). Then I shooed my family, including my bridal-emergency-kit bearing sister away to the reception to take couple portraits. Then after a bit of that, I felt really dizzy, reportedly murmured, "I feel like I might pass out," and then kind of keeled over, dropped the water bottle the photographer had donated to the cause, and my new husband had to catch me to keep several hundred dollars' worth of dress (and my skull) off the UNM campus pavement. There was only one casualty:
I had a nice little dream about my alarm clock going off, then came to in the midst of drama, with the photographer running to get the limo, the limo driver and husband (mine, not the limo driver's) stowing me, somewhat like a mob corpse, in the backseat, and the photographer asking what I'd eaten that day (answer: clearly not enough and not recently enough for a hypoglycemic). We pealed off to the reception, and I pulled my sister's cell phone number out of the depths of pre-cell phone memory so the limo driver could call ahead for emergency snacks and hair assistance -- you know, to avoid making our entrance to the reception in a style less triumphant/joyous and more staggering/bedraggled, in much the same way a long-thought-dead foiler of plans totters into some early-20th-century murderer's party celebrating said murderer's ill-gotten inheritance. Not the tone in which one wants to kick off a lifetime together.
Where was my cell phone, you might ask, if you hadn't gotten distracted by that long digression? In my little wedding purse. Sitting next to the photographers bag 'o' expensive cameras and camera bits. Right in the middle of campus all by themselves, because in the midst of lady-catching/limo-moving/corpse-stowing, everyone forgot the bags. Which were missing by the time the photographer (the excellent Ginger Russell, by the way) realized they were gone and rushed back to get them.
Not to worry, though: after a charming wedding night of getting a friend to loan me her asthma inhaler, calling credit card companies and sending missed calls/texts to my missing phone (sample: "Do you have my stuff? I want it back."), some hotel and spa in Santa Fe called to say they had my purse, and after some shuffling around in the luggage room, found the photographer's bag, too. Apparently another limo driver picked them up -- possibly noticing they were left sitting there after the unconscious bride drama -- and unloaded them with his wedding's luggage in Santa Fe. So we took a little road trip to the fancy spa, found the limo company had collected it to bring back to Albuquerque, and I finally got everything back from the limo office on Monday ("It's a VERY cute purse," the limo company's desk people assured me). Yay!
It happened thusly: I had a super time getting ready, then did the whole walk-down-the-aisle, lifetime-pledge bit, then balanced in pointy heels on a sunny, grassy slope for awhile while the photographer tried to get all four children involved in the ceremony both standing upright and looking pleasant simultaneously (not possible). Then I shooed my family, including my bridal-emergency-kit bearing sister away to the reception to take couple portraits. Then after a bit of that, I felt really dizzy, reportedly murmured, "I feel like I might pass out," and then kind of keeled over, dropped the water bottle the photographer had donated to the cause, and my new husband had to catch me to keep several hundred dollars' worth of dress (and my skull) off the UNM campus pavement. There was only one casualty:
I had a nice little dream about my alarm clock going off, then came to in the midst of drama, with the photographer running to get the limo, the limo driver and husband (mine, not the limo driver's) stowing me, somewhat like a mob corpse, in the backseat, and the photographer asking what I'd eaten that day (answer: clearly not enough and not recently enough for a hypoglycemic). We pealed off to the reception, and I pulled my sister's cell phone number out of the depths of pre-cell phone memory so the limo driver could call ahead for emergency snacks and hair assistance -- you know, to avoid making our entrance to the reception in a style less triumphant/joyous and more staggering/bedraggled, in much the same way a long-thought-dead foiler of plans totters into some early-20th-century murderer's party celebrating said murderer's ill-gotten inheritance. Not the tone in which one wants to kick off a lifetime together.
Where was my cell phone, you might ask, if you hadn't gotten distracted by that long digression? In my little wedding purse. Sitting next to the photographers bag 'o' expensive cameras and camera bits. Right in the middle of campus all by themselves, because in the midst of lady-catching/limo-moving/corpse-stowing, everyone forgot the bags. Which were missing by the time the photographer (the excellent Ginger Russell, by the way) realized they were gone and rushed back to get them.
Not to worry, though: after a charming wedding night of getting a friend to loan me her asthma inhaler, calling credit card companies and sending missed calls/texts to my missing phone (sample: "Do you have my stuff? I want it back."), some hotel and spa in Santa Fe called to say they had my purse, and after some shuffling around in the luggage room, found the photographer's bag, too. Apparently another limo driver picked them up -- possibly noticing they were left sitting there after the unconscious bride drama -- and unloaded them with his wedding's luggage in Santa Fe. So we took a little road trip to the fancy spa, found the limo company had collected it to bring back to Albuquerque, and I finally got everything back from the limo office on Monday ("It's a VERY cute purse," the limo company's desk people assured me). Yay!
11 August 2009
(You Know How Mike Is)
I just came across this Thanksgiving OCD/passive-aggressive gem at the gift to the universe that is Awkward Family Photos -- now with awkward family stories!
The link to it is my gift to you. I think my favorite is Lisa, who as a married woman is required to contribute to Thanksgiving at an adult level.
The link to it is my gift to you. I think my favorite is Lisa, who as a married woman is required to contribute to Thanksgiving at an adult level.
08 August 2009
Breaking News
Have you heard that Obama's health plan will confiscate all puppies and bake them into a pie?
And that pie will be served a la mode.
And that pie will be served a la mode.
Psycho Phone, Qu'est-ce que c'est?
Imagine, if you will: you are sitting in a conference session next to one of your mentors, who happens to be the president of the organization holding the conference. Your phone is dutifully turned to silent. Then, out of nowhere, it ... rings. Loudly. Your ringtone. Which happens to be the Danny Elfman-composed theme to "Tales From the Crypt".
What do you do? What DO you do?
Here's what I did:
1. Picked up the phone
2. Dropped it on the floor
(UNH UNH was all I heard
Are we going to let the elevator bring us down
Oh no
Let's go crazy!)
3. Prince reenactment over, muttered "Jesus", and possibly also "Shit"
4. Turned volume down and noted it was already set to "sounds off"
5. Finally fumbled the phone off
Smooth.
My only saving grace is that my parents had the psychic impulse to call right between two talks. But that doesn't mean I didn't feel like an asshole. The mentor, fortunately, laughed and muttered, "Good timing." She rocks.
I preferred the psycho behavior of last week, when it was turning itself off and back on for no reason. Can't we go back to playing that game, phone? Please?
And don't think I didn't notice that you ate like three tweets today.
What do you do? What DO you do?
Here's what I did:
1. Picked up the phone
2. Dropped it on the floor
(UNH UNH was all I heard
Are we going to let the elevator bring us down
Oh no
Let's go crazy!)
3. Prince reenactment over, muttered "Jesus", and possibly also "Shit"
4. Turned volume down and noted it was already set to "sounds off"
5. Finally fumbled the phone off
Smooth.
My only saving grace is that my parents had the psychic impulse to call right between two talks. But that doesn't mean I didn't feel like an asshole. The mentor, fortunately, laughed and muttered, "Good timing." She rocks.
I preferred the psycho behavior of last week, when it was turning itself off and back on for no reason. Can't we go back to playing that game, phone? Please?
And don't think I didn't notice that you ate like three tweets today.
20 June 2009
07 June 2009
Films in Which Someone Yells, "Inappropriate Tank Top!"
...namely, me.
We saw the Wolverine movie this weekend, because I have an abiding affection for the X-Men, the fiancé has an abiding affection for comic book action movies, and the fiancé's father has an abiding affection for any movie, ever. And it was pretty good; even though no one yelled, "NOOO!", someone did yell, "Arrrghiiughhhhahhhhh!" which is animalistically comparable. I was glad the studio finally just knuckled under, cut the fat, and gave the people what they want from an X-Men movie, i.e., two hours of Wolverine, i.e., one hour of Hugh Jackman shirtless. Kudos to the wardrobe department for successfully walking the thin line between super-tight jeans and jeans the actor can still walk in at least somewhat normally, BTW.
But seriously, wardrobe department? The Canadian everyman/reluctant hero/misanthrope/lumberjack has a neverending supply of fashion-y wide-rib tanks? Compare and contrast:
A standard-issue undershirt:
Wolverine's undershirt:
Here's another look, in case you're not convinced yet.
SERIOUSLY? That is not a tank top you obtain while on the run, nude, from a secret government experimental superweapons program (spoiler!). That is not a tank top you wear to your lumberjacking job in the Canadian Rockies while trying to escape your mercenary past (spoiler!!!). That is not a tank top of which one has an endless supply wherever one happens to find oneself shirtless (which apparently happens A LOT if you are Wolverine) (SPOILER!!!!1!!1!). That is a $77 Swiss tank top.
I mean, I guess if you're a super-fancy lumberjack who is secretly 100 years old, you might have spent like 50 of those years squirrelling away $77 Swiss tank tops in various remote locations, you know, JUST IN CASE you find yourself on the run from a secret government experimental superweapons program, or whatever. And maybe his mutant accelerated healing power is somehow powerless in the face of minor fabric irritation, in which case he had plenty of time to find just the tank top that he could wear in his various mercenary-lumberjacking-fighting Sabretooth occupations without the heartbreak of chafing. But for those of us who don't choose to fanwank that kind of thing, but do choose to fixate on minor details of movies? It was SUPER DISTRACTING, producers.
But thanks for the elevator gag -- those never get old.
We saw the Wolverine movie this weekend, because I have an abiding affection for the X-Men, the fiancé has an abiding affection for comic book action movies, and the fiancé's father has an abiding affection for any movie, ever. And it was pretty good; even though no one yelled, "NOOO!", someone did yell, "Arrrghiiughhhhahhhhh!" which is animalistically comparable. I was glad the studio finally just knuckled under, cut the fat, and gave the people what they want from an X-Men movie, i.e., two hours of Wolverine, i.e., one hour of Hugh Jackman shirtless. Kudos to the wardrobe department for successfully walking the thin line between super-tight jeans and jeans the actor can still walk in at least somewhat normally, BTW.
But seriously, wardrobe department? The Canadian everyman/reluctant hero/misanthrope/lumberjack has a neverending supply of fashion-y wide-rib tanks? Compare and contrast:
A standard-issue undershirt:
Wolverine's undershirt:
Here's another look, in case you're not convinced yet.
SERIOUSLY? That is not a tank top you obtain while on the run, nude, from a secret government experimental superweapons program (spoiler!). That is not a tank top you wear to your lumberjacking job in the Canadian Rockies while trying to escape your mercenary past (spoiler!!!). That is not a tank top of which one has an endless supply wherever one happens to find oneself shirtless (which apparently happens A LOT if you are Wolverine) (SPOILER!!!!1!!1!). That is a $77 Swiss tank top.
I mean, I guess if you're a super-fancy lumberjack who is secretly 100 years old, you might have spent like 50 of those years squirrelling away $77 Swiss tank tops in various remote locations, you know, JUST IN CASE you find yourself on the run from a secret government experimental superweapons program, or whatever. And maybe his mutant accelerated healing power is somehow powerless in the face of minor fabric irritation, in which case he had plenty of time to find just the tank top that he could wear in his various mercenary-lumberjacking-fighting Sabretooth occupations without the heartbreak of chafing. But for those of us who don't choose to fanwank that kind of thing, but do choose to fixate on minor details of movies? It was SUPER DISTRACTING, producers.
But thanks for the elevator gag -- those never get old.
19 May 2009
Nephews are Pretty Awesome; David's Bridal is Not
The fiancé and I (oh, yeah, we're engaged) hosted my parents, sister, and nephew for an impromptu family reunion/wedding planning blitz last week, which was generally pretty cool. I'm gradually getting over my tendency to hyperventilate every time "wedding" and "planning" are mentioned in the same sentence, and have been vastly entertained by the wedding industry's infomarketing barrage and inability to design bridesmaid dresses without empire waists, as well as my inability to get the saleslady at David's Bridal to show me any wedding dress without an empire waist. As I am not pregnant, nor do I wish to look so at my wedding, I will not be buying my dress there.
But super fun was seeing my two-year-old nephew, who, as an excellent mimic, will validate all of your opinions for you, if you phrase your inquiry properly: "Wasn't the puppy cute?" "Puppy cute!" "Should we feed the goldfish?" "Feed goldfish!" "Isn't it tricky to walk in this gravel?" "Tricky!" As not my child, he was very fun to play with, too: we spent an enjoyable five minutes standing in front of the garden spout turning it on and off before returning him with soaked clothes to my fantastic sister. Later in the visit I took a turn "watching" him at a family party, which consisted of keeping track of him following the dogs around, making sure he didn't have a confrontation with the puppy, and occasionally setting down my drink to extract him feet-first from end tables the dogs could crawl through but he couldn't. I consider it a great childrearing success.
But super fun was seeing my two-year-old nephew, who, as an excellent mimic, will validate all of your opinions for you, if you phrase your inquiry properly: "Wasn't the puppy cute?" "Puppy cute!" "Should we feed the goldfish?" "Feed goldfish!" "Isn't it tricky to walk in this gravel?" "Tricky!" As not my child, he was very fun to play with, too: we spent an enjoyable five minutes standing in front of the garden spout turning it on and off before returning him with soaked clothes to my fantastic sister. Later in the visit I took a turn "watching" him at a family party, which consisted of keeping track of him following the dogs around, making sure he didn't have a confrontation with the puppy, and occasionally setting down my drink to extract him feet-first from end tables the dogs could crawl through but he couldn't. I consider it a great childrearing success.
22 February 2009
Valentine's Day Massacre
I work at a bakery to pay the bills while I'm in graduate school, which is usually pretty chill. Last week, however, all Hell broke loose due to everyone in Albuquerque deciding on February 13 that they wanted to get cupcakes for their significant others without having preordered them. We spent the day heaving new cupcakes into the gaping, sprinkle-strewn maw of the almost-empty display case and staring grimly at the acres of stuff still to be decorated. It was sort of like this:
only, you know, more tense.
only, you know, more tense.
03 February 2009
Open Letter to Everyone Wasting Money on Ziploc Zip 'n' Steam Bags
Dear Everyone Wasting Money on Ziploc Zip 'n' Steam Bags:
Get a damn casserole dish with a lid. Or, you know, a microwave-safe bowl with a plate on top of it. One-time investment, no waste.
Sincerely,
Auntie Maim
Get a damn casserole dish with a lid. Or, you know, a microwave-safe bowl with a plate on top of it. One-time investment, no waste.
Sincerely,
Auntie Maim
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