Archive for March, 2008

fighting…loss…of…friendly resolve…

March 31, 2008

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It wasn’t even two weeks ago that I, in a fit of goodwill, decided to stop doing Pompous Hearts Insufferable Monday. (It was probably a moment of post-yoga calm. Stupid hippie stretching.) Was I rewarded for my karmic good turn? No. Instead, I opened Sunday Styles yesterday to find this. To recap:
* drawn together by real estate
* said real estate was a fabric-roofed structure called the “House of Earth and Light.”
* ceremony entrance music—Leonard Cohen and Gotan Project.
* antique kimono
Why do you mock me oh Lord?! (The only saving grace is that the groom ‘fesses up that the bride once ran over his mailbox.)

Speaking of insufferable…

and don’t let the video image fool you, it’s not going to W. It’s going to the Washington Post. That would be the largest paper of record in this town, that opted to print the following this morning in reference to W’s greeting last night from those attending the opening game at Nationals Park:

It was Zimmerman, the 23-year-old face of the Nationals franchise, who was awarded the task of handing the ball before the game to President Bush, who, at 8:13 p.m. strode onto the field to a near-equal mixture of cheers and boos

“Near-equal”? Is that like saying Bush lost the 2000 election due to a near-equal mixture of popular votes before he was appointed president by the Supreme Court? It’s a blatantly namby-pamby, innacurate description of what happened. He was booed. Period. You know how I know this isn’t just the impression imparted by my Lil’ Liberal Stinker Kit listening device? Because of this. Oop, looks like the Post has to share today’s insufferable honor with the Baltimore Sun, whose piece appears up top on that Google results page above a raft of other stories saying he was booed. (It appears that these hometown metro papers decided to play it safe and defer to the White House pool reporter’s not-at-all-inside-the-inner-sanctum determination that Bush was mainly greeted as a liberator last night.) But really you only need one person to let you know what was happening last night. Take a look at the video above again. Bush himself will tell you what was going on with the look on his face at 0:55.

Burns: “Smithers, are they booing me?”
Smithers: “Uh no. They’re saying boo-urns! boo-urns!”

Why Four-Star Clemson Recruit Kenneth Page is Now Invited to My Wedding

March 28, 2008

Because he knows what every couple really wants. Cash money. Gift wrapped with the bank band. Preferably with that new massive-recruiting-violation smell.

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This is the last time I will enjoy this picture. Because unless it’s revealed that this is a picture of Page in transit to distribute his lifetime allowance savings to tubercular orphans, in approximately 15 seconds it will likely mean that Clemson’s going to be on NCAA probation for the next three years. Happy Friday!

Comings and Goings. Some of Them Disease Infested!

March 25, 2008

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1. Miss Pixie’s is closing in Adams Morgan. NOOOOOOOoooo! Not only did she have great finds, but I also dug walking by and checking out her ever-changing, eye-catching window displays. And she always had chocolate chip cookies behind the counter. And if you came in on days it was snowing she had a freshly opened bottle of wine back there with the cookies. Plus I fear this will pave the way for yet another chain. According to a sign that went up last night, Miss Pixie is sashaying down to 14th Street with the rest of the cool kids.

2. Spotted in Adams Morgan recently, courtesy of the new Wachovia branch:
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My initial cynical response was to roll my eyes, but then I realized that this idea is genius. It just needs a little tweaking. Instead of mid-day checking account hawking, you load these things up with jumbo slices and send ’em down 18th Street at 2 a.m. Who gets out alive? The drunkies? The wheelie guys? It’s anybody’s guess!

3. Finally, what’s up with the rodents? First SnacksPlease is dealing with rats, then CityDesk is reporting a mouse incursion. We had our own mouse run-in this weekend and now Ms. Poole has one eating her brownies. Local government entities, please start spaying and neutering your rodent populations.

Say No to the Spotlight

March 24, 2008

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In light of the fact that my wedding dress resides in New York, and I reside in D.C., all trips to the Big Apple now involve a little quality time at Kleinfeld. For efficiency’s sake, mind you. These are not mere exercises in me slipping into my gown to stare lovingly at my reflection in the mirror contemplating the awesome and unchecked ability of a garment that costs thousands of dollars to influence a bird’s figure, skin tone, and general outlook on life. That would be an exercise in vanity.

No! No! There was actual business to be dealt with this past Saturday. I had to pick a veil—short, long, really long, lace, beading? But before even making it into the inner sanctum that is the Kleinfeld showroom floor, my mother, sister, and I were confronted with a sign informing us that TLC was filming Season 2 of Say Yes to the Dress and that by default everyone entering would be filmed and considered for possible use by the show, unless they informed their sales assistant that they weren’t interested. She didn’t even have, “Hello, welcome back to Kleinf—” out of her mouth before I was politely informing her that if a cameraman or producer so much as contemplated perkily bounding in our direction that we would be forced to get testy. Decidedly testy. My mother and sister flanked me arching an eyebrow each to underscore that one would not want to test the limits of our icy dismissiveness.

It’s not that I mind the idea of Say Yes to the Dress. I simply believe there are some who want to be on it, and some who merely want to watch it without thinking “Oh Jesus, did I really say ‘I am a golden goddess. This dress can save the world,’?” I fall into the latter category. Although I am of a generation that certainly views reality shows and the larger “look at me” attitude of blogs, social networking sites, etc. as completely normal (obviously), I still shy away from the idea of surrendering final televised cut of my image to someone else. Because in nearly every episode of Say Yes, the brides come off as flighty, indecisive, rude, bitchy, stupid, or the worst offense of all in my book—dull—or some combination thereof.

When I’m staring into the mirror, seemingly pondering whether I have the bearing to pull of a full-length veil, I know that there is plenty of other stuff running through my mind that has nothing to do with the length of tulle floating behind me. What I would not know, were I to surrender myself to the TLC producers, is whether I would appear three months from now on screen, staring at myself while a ticking clock graphic appears in the lower lefthand corner and an announcer dramatically intones, “And some brides just can’t seem to make up their minds at all.” [Cut to our assistant rolling her eyes outside the dressing room bobbing her head and shoulders while whispering, “I cain’t tell what huh problem is. It’s a flippin’ veil, yah know?”]

After making my decision and bidding adieu to my Cinderella-at-11:59 p.m. self, I headed back into the lobby area. There, a nauseatingly upbeat producer with a clipboard stood grilling a guy slouched in one of the sofas about whether or not he had seen the dress, did he want to see the dress, did he trust his fiancée to pick out a good one, yadda yadda yadda. On and on. A few feet away, a bride with an orange fakebake, horrific highlights, and ridiculously long fake French manicured nails sat with a portable microphone unit, waiting for her cue. I turned up my coat collar, donned my sunglasses, and pushed open the door to East 20th Street.

No pictures, please.

Remain Calm. Nothing to See Here.

March 21, 2008

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Bulls***, Disney. Bulls*** He didn’t have a dress pattern or a keen eye for cutting on the bias.

For those waiting with bated breath to see how Barbecuegate would be resolved, I am actually a tad late with an update. The very next morning my fiancé called his parents and let them know that the church hall idea was not giving us a warm fuzzy feeling. They genially agreed to revert to the original plan of an intimate dinner for immediate family and wedding party at the Tabard Inn. While I did not hear the conversation, he apparently presented our opinion as the decision of a united front, not just, “Um, Princess Pissypants is displeased.”

Now, I was all prepared to write a glowing ode to my fiancé for recognizing the importance of what one impassioned gent referred to in conversation about Barbecuegate the other night as “The R.U.—Relationship Unit! You must preserve the Relationship Unit!” However, events last night have me penciling in a slight asterisk next to his gold star sticker.

While pressing the pedal on our kitchen trash can late last night I rousted a mouse. In my house. Specifically, in my kitchen, one foot from my foot. After emitting a noise somewhere between a buzz saw and a 10-year-old girl learning that Zac Efron is going to attend her birthday party, I waited for the cavalry. And waited. The cavalry remained seated on the leather club chair in the living room watching basketball. When I began whining and stomping my foot (a little move I call “Defcon 2”) he and his Siberian husky sidekick ambled in, nearly simultaneously shrugging their shoulders and giving me their most disinterested “Whaddya want us to do about it?” looks. After half-heartedly poking through the utility closet where the thing appeared to have skittered, he informed me that we’d have the exterminator put down traps, and then he and the dog returned to the living room and began scoring their Day 1 brackets.

No words of comfort—to the contrary, there were some comments that one might have even interpreted as teasing and understating the gravity of the situation—no committed attempts at succor. I was left alone in the kitchen at the mercy of the invader. Scarlett, left to face Sherman’s invading troops alone in Atlanta.

Adding insult to injury, I informed my fiancé that when he came to bed, he should close the bedroom door behind him and shove a towel under the door. I awoke at 3 a.m. to find the door wide open! “J’accuse!” I squealed while slamming the door shut, drawing not so much as a one-second interruption in his deep-REM snoring.

So it is with mixed feelings that I tell you that I have seen the fawn-inducing power of a man who stands up for his ladybird. Yet I have also seen how quickly that ardor can cool in the face of mice and men.

“[S]he’s gone soft on us, like some schoolboy bitch.”

March 18, 2008

pheartsi.jpg (Safe for now, but on notice never the less.)

A programming note. For several weeks I’ve not being doing “Pompous Hearts Insufferable Mondays.” Had a change of heart about the whole matter. Dating back to my Brunch Bird days I’ve made it general practice never to write anything on the blog that I wouldn’t say in person. And no matter how insufferable some occupants of the New York Times’ Vows section and its ilk appear to be, the fact is, I would not point this out to their faces should I encounter them browsing for $20,000 imported Peruvian goat chinhair rugs alongside me at ABC Carpet & Home. Therefore, fade to black on that.

A Very Famous Father of the Bride

March 17, 2008

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Apparently, George W. Bush’s new favorite line with which to open speeches is that he was running late because Laura was making him watch Father of the Bride. I find this funny because if he really has been watching it—and let’s be honest, the chances are at least three times greater than if she’d told him to read a book of some sort—he would have observed the following:

* A gay man figures prominently in the movie. He spends the 90 or so minutes of the film supporting a marriage rather than tearing the entire institution assunder by virtue of his sheer gayosity. At the end of the movie in which he is allowed within 100 feet of the process of marriage, there are no apparent signs of bestiality becoming the order of the day or terrorist incursions into the United States.

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* Steve Martin stars in it. Steve Martin who is so full of gooey liberal goodness that he supported Christopher Dodd in the primary and he donated $2,300 to the Al Franken for Senate campaign. When he got married last year, former Sen. Bob Kerrey (D-Liberalistan) presided. I can only assume that Bush watched through squinted eyes trying to convince himself it was really John McCain starring in the movie. “Heh heh, Johnny’s funny. I like that scene where’s he’s in the grocery store yellin’ ’bout the hot dog buns. Heh heh, dang. I could go for a hot dog.”

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* The entire movie is set in the Republic of California, where the lattes flow freely, NPR enjoys unchallenged supremacy of the airwaves, and people shop for organic, free-trade, free-range eggs at farmers markets. Every single character in this movie would vote for Barack Obama if they could.

You can see why I was surprised by Bush’s affinity for the movie.

Then I stepped back. Took a macro look, as it were. In doing so, I realized: Father of the Bride‘s main character is a hapless buffoon named George who founders through events, kept afloat by the levelheadedness and accumen of those surrounding him, while he tries to ignore the fact that it’s sometimes necessary to prepare extensively for a complex event which is likely to be long, costly, and significant.

Pass the popcorn, Poppa Bush. 

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I Can Haz Wedding?

March 13, 2008

Because it’s Thursday and Thursdays were made for this level of mental acuity. Time for some wedding lolcatz. First some done by other folks:

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And now some that I did, courtesy of the greatest timewaster ever. The icanhascheezburger Lol Builder:

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‘Til Breaking News Us Do Part

March 11, 2008

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Filling out the online premarital questionnaire a few months ago I came to the true-or-false question: “If I learned my spouse was cheating on me that would be automatic grounds for ending the marriage.” I checked “false.” That was an intellectual response. I knew that at some point I would be sitting in front of a priest and that the “correct” answer to that question is that I would work with my spouse to try to heal the marriage. And emotionally I probably even wanted to believe that that’s what I would do in the midst of such a clusterfuck.

But watching Silda Wall Spitzer yesterday following the path to the penance podium trod by Hillary Clinton, Wendy Vitter, Dina McGreevey, and Suzanne Craig, I thought, “Not a chance.” Maybe I’d be willing to work on the relationship, but on Day 1 of the news cycle? That dude would be standing before the microphones alone. All you, pal. In addition to the sheer agony of having your marriage fall apart publicly, by standing there, you’re opened to cruel “why did he do it?” scrutiny. Your husband bangs a hooker/intern/dude and suddenly you’ve got bloggers debating your relative hotness v. homliness and the Washington Post’s Robin Givhan analyzing the color of your suit.

Last night, I informed my fiance what I would do if he ever put me in that position. He shared his estimation of what he would do if the situation were reversed. Our violence-based reciprocity agreement signed off on verbally, we sat and had some dinner.

Confessions of a Domestic Cover Artist

March 10, 2008

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D.H. Lawrence once said “The human body needs actual beauty more than bread.” Respectfully, Lawrence had no way of knowing that the human body could find both in my father’s caramel pecan rolls. Technically, they’re Betty Crocker’s caramel pecan rolls, but to leave the praise at her doorstep is like pretending that Jimi Hendrix didn’t come along and obliterate Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower.” I’m still young and not as experienced at them as my father, so I’m hovering in Dave Matthews/U2 “AAtW” territory. Which is to say, mine are still pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. Which I just did. As promised last week, I present the recipe for the aforementioned beauties. If you ever eat one, I wager you’d rather have a lifetime of what’s below than a lifetime of what’s above. At least that’s what I’m banking on while waiting nervously to hear my fiancé actually say “I do.”

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Recipe is here. It’s not flour-covered and marked with my father’s handwritten notes, but it still makes the same roll.