From there, I was inspired by an Instagram account I stumbled across called Heal Yourself, Skeletor. Most of the affirmations spoken by my two characters were found there.
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Great Feelings ideas and storyboards
Friday, July 5, 2013
Mike and Lindsay
The first names I remember really liking - you know for my babydolls or imaginary playmates or maybe my persona in a game of pretend - were Mike, Lindsay, and Michelle. Something about those mid-alphabet consonants just did it for me. I think I liked Michelle because it sounded exotic to me; like the beach. You know: Mi-shell.
One of my earliest memories is being out in the garden with my mom while she weeded the flower bed outside our playroom. I remember trundling around the lawn pulling a red wagon after me. The wagon was heavy and bigger than me and hard to pull. It was filled with blocks - undoubtedly the sawed-off ends of two by fours from one of my dad's myriad projects.
Every so often I'd check in with my mom. Any worms she found during her gardening she put aside for me. Every time I made another round I put them in the wagon. But first I had a big decision to make: what to name the worms? Mike and Lindsay, obviously.
I probably had like 25 worms in there by the end. Once I took out all the wood blocks (which was probably a strenuous task for my little baby arms) and faced all those worms I had a dilemma - who was Mike and who was Lindsay? How do you tell boy worms apart from girl worms?
I don't know why none of those worms were named Michelle. Maybe they weren't exotic enough...
One of my earliest memories is being out in the garden with my mom while she weeded the flower bed outside our playroom. I remember trundling around the lawn pulling a red wagon after me. The wagon was heavy and bigger than me and hard to pull. It was filled with blocks - undoubtedly the sawed-off ends of two by fours from one of my dad's myriad projects.
Every so often I'd check in with my mom. Any worms she found during her gardening she put aside for me. Every time I made another round I put them in the wagon. But first I had a big decision to make: what to name the worms? Mike and Lindsay, obviously.
I probably had like 25 worms in there by the end. Once I took out all the wood blocks (which was probably a strenuous task for my little baby arms) and faced all those worms I had a dilemma - who was Mike and who was Lindsay? How do you tell boy worms apart from girl worms?
I don't know why none of those worms were named Michelle. Maybe they weren't exotic enough...
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Chugging Gone Wrong
I'm very excited to share my latest short with you: Chugging Gone Wrong!
Thank you for watching, and please share it if you enjoyed it!
Thank you for watching, and please share it if you enjoyed it!
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Have you ever experienced that feeling of rightness? The absolute certainty of knowing you are on the correct path? In the Dark Tower series by Stephen King, the gunslinger Roland and his companions often speak about being on the path of the beam. In that world it's something they can actually see reflected in the movement of the clouds and the way the grass lays in their path; nevertheless I think it's an apt analogy. More than ever before in my life I feel attuned to minute signs; tiny details that confirm and illuminate the road I'm traveling. I suppose this is a product of my quest to be present, to really get to know myself. Certainly I have been working to remove those things that are detrimental to my mental/physical/emotional health, and to give myself those things that feed my imagination/drive/sense of purpose.
I recently quit my job of five years. As far as restaurant jobs go it was a good gig. The shifts were rarely more than five or six hours and the money was good. I had coworkers who had been there for twelve, fifteen, even twenty years in some cases. And I see why. Under the right circumstances it can provide a very comfortable living. I wasn't happy though. It used to be that I felt really secure and competent and grateful to be there, but that hasn't been the case in a while. And that attitude was noticed. I was faced with a glass ceiling, and I didn't feel like my voice would be heard. So I didn't say anything. So now I had these awful feelings festering inside me, and it was noticed. Who wants someone working for them like that? No one.
It's really difficult to try to tell this part of the story in a concise way, and also without offending people I care about. I want to talk about how frustrating my work situation was. How I felt completely unappreciated, so I stopped doing my best. Not consciously, but nevertheless I got reprimanded. It was a big eye-opener. Because I'm a really smart, capable person. And there's no reason why I shouldn't excel at whatever I set my mind to. And at the same time, I realized that I'm not going to let some asshole hold me hostage. I don't owe them anything. I gave them four Christmases. I gave them every Friday and Saturday night for five years. And I deserve to have my good work acknowledged.
It was psychically draining. It was leeching all the joy and creativity out of me. At this time in my life when I am harboring a new and delicate thing (myself, as an artist) I need to protect myself. The world is changing faster than I can possibly process. MY world is changing, I mean. Turning thirty was standing out as a giant billboard in my head. It felt imperative that my thirtieth birthday not coincide with the start of my sixth year at a snobby corporate restaurant.
So I quit. I'm not proud of the manner of my quitting. I know that the prudent thing to do would have been to give two weeks notice and leave on good terms with a reference. But something came up-something big. And then this voice in my gut spoke up clearly and said, "What are you waiting for? There's no other time than now. You'll never have this decision to make over, on the cusp of your thirtieth birthday. Stop putting life off and instead live it now. Thus it was that on the day I had intended to give my two weeks notice I instead told them I wasn't coming in that night, and that I wasn't coming back.
It was terrifying. And exhilarating. I truly cannot go back. And I have no regrets. I experienced this sense of certainty as though I were driving down the road, with the highway unfolding steadily before me. To either side the landscape is barren, marked only by outcroppings of boulders and sagebrush and dull, dusty desert. But the sky where I'm heading is so so clear. Clearer than I can ever remember. I drive down that highway watching tiny mirages resolve themselves from shimmering water into asphalt in front of me, and I'm driving straight towards a mountain. Towards my destiny. Climbing in elevation and the air gets crisp and cold and before I know it I'm standing at the edge of a vast canyon that seems to continue for ever. And something inside me just lets go.
I recently quit my job of five years. As far as restaurant jobs go it was a good gig. The shifts were rarely more than five or six hours and the money was good. I had coworkers who had been there for twelve, fifteen, even twenty years in some cases. And I see why. Under the right circumstances it can provide a very comfortable living. I wasn't happy though. It used to be that I felt really secure and competent and grateful to be there, but that hasn't been the case in a while. And that attitude was noticed. I was faced with a glass ceiling, and I didn't feel like my voice would be heard. So I didn't say anything. So now I had these awful feelings festering inside me, and it was noticed. Who wants someone working for them like that? No one.
It's really difficult to try to tell this part of the story in a concise way, and also without offending people I care about. I want to talk about how frustrating my work situation was. How I felt completely unappreciated, so I stopped doing my best. Not consciously, but nevertheless I got reprimanded. It was a big eye-opener. Because I'm a really smart, capable person. And there's no reason why I shouldn't excel at whatever I set my mind to. And at the same time, I realized that I'm not going to let some asshole hold me hostage. I don't owe them anything. I gave them four Christmases. I gave them every Friday and Saturday night for five years. And I deserve to have my good work acknowledged.
It was psychically draining. It was leeching all the joy and creativity out of me. At this time in my life when I am harboring a new and delicate thing (myself, as an artist) I need to protect myself. The world is changing faster than I can possibly process. MY world is changing, I mean. Turning thirty was standing out as a giant billboard in my head. It felt imperative that my thirtieth birthday not coincide with the start of my sixth year at a snobby corporate restaurant.
So I quit. I'm not proud of the manner of my quitting. I know that the prudent thing to do would have been to give two weeks notice and leave on good terms with a reference. But something came up-something big. And then this voice in my gut spoke up clearly and said, "What are you waiting for? There's no other time than now. You'll never have this decision to make over, on the cusp of your thirtieth birthday. Stop putting life off and instead live it now. Thus it was that on the day I had intended to give my two weeks notice I instead told them I wasn't coming in that night, and that I wasn't coming back.
It was terrifying. And exhilarating. I truly cannot go back. And I have no regrets. I experienced this sense of certainty as though I were driving down the road, with the highway unfolding steadily before me. To either side the landscape is barren, marked only by outcroppings of boulders and sagebrush and dull, dusty desert. But the sky where I'm heading is so so clear. Clearer than I can ever remember. I drive down that highway watching tiny mirages resolve themselves from shimmering water into asphalt in front of me, and I'm driving straight towards a mountain. Towards my destiny. Climbing in elevation and the air gets crisp and cold and before I know it I'm standing at the edge of a vast canyon that seems to continue for ever. And something inside me just lets go.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Zaphod Bukowski
Ten days I woke up crashingly to the sound of breaking glass. I immediately thought that someone (my ex-boyfriend) was breaking into my apartment, and fumbled for my bathrobe so I could go investigate. In the dull orange glow of the street lights I saw my cat crouched in the middle of the living room looking very freaked out. Reaching him in the half-light I found a gigantic jagged piece of glass curving out of his chest.
I flipped internally, but still managed to channel enough of my mother's calm-in-any-storm mojo to investigate. His fur should've been soaked in blood - it wasn't. Despite about ten inches of broken glass attached to his neck, my cat seemed fine. Once I turned on the light I discovered the full extent of my cat's stupidity.
That's right, I said stupidity. Cause I love my cat, and in some ways he is really intelligent (I'd say he has more emotional intelligence than many humans I know), but lately he is nothing but trouble. Poor decision making is where the problem lies, I think.
Before going to bed that evening I emptied out the canister of Zaphod's dry food, and apparently left the lid open. And then my brilliant cat must've stuck his stupid furry face in there in the middle of the night.
And gotten stuck on the rim of the jar.
And fallen off the counter, smashing glass everywhere.
I figured this out as I examined Zaphod, who was wearing a beautiful broken glass collar with metal clamp detail. Doesn't he look lovely Gina? This unique piece can be yours for the price of BUY THE DAMN PET INSURANCE ALREADY.
A liberal amount of vaseline later I had my cat free, and some awesome early morning cleanup ahead of me. But everyone looks forward to thoroughly vacuuming their kitchen at 6am.
I swear, this cat is the feline incarnation of Charles Bukowski. I feel like lately he's just an angry growly cat who goes around three days drunk picking fights and hurting himself. Earlier this summer there was the episode of the cone. More recently than that he had another scratch on his face and an upset tummy. And let's not forget the car accident (I think?) last fall. And now this. If this is the stuff that I find out about, I don't want to know what he does when I'm not around. So I'm keeping him under house arrest for a while.
Of course I say that and then three days later I'll let him out for his morning poo again, but I really mean it this time. Because this morning he locked in a death match with Egypt and my neighbor had to dowse them in iced coffee to break it up. And inevitably I found that Zaphod's paw was bloody. I swear, it's like living with Will Hunting before he meets the girl.
The upshot is that there's got to be a video in this somewhere, right?
I flipped internally, but still managed to channel enough of my mother's calm-in-any-storm mojo to investigate. His fur should've been soaked in blood - it wasn't. Despite about ten inches of broken glass attached to his neck, my cat seemed fine. Once I turned on the light I discovered the full extent of my cat's stupidity.
That's right, I said stupidity. Cause I love my cat, and in some ways he is really intelligent (I'd say he has more emotional intelligence than many humans I know), but lately he is nothing but trouble. Poor decision making is where the problem lies, I think.
 |
| picture this filled with kibbles |
And gotten stuck on the rim of the jar.
And fallen off the counter, smashing glass everywhere.
I figured this out as I examined Zaphod, who was wearing a beautiful broken glass collar with metal clamp detail. Doesn't he look lovely Gina? This unique piece can be yours for the price of BUY THE DAMN PET INSURANCE ALREADY.
A liberal amount of vaseline later I had my cat free, and some awesome early morning cleanup ahead of me. But everyone looks forward to thoroughly vacuuming their kitchen at 6am.
I swear, this cat is the feline incarnation of Charles Bukowski. I feel like lately he's just an angry growly cat who goes around three days drunk picking fights and hurting himself. Earlier this summer there was the episode of the cone. More recently than that he had another scratch on his face and an upset tummy. And let's not forget the car accident (I think?) last fall. And now this. If this is the stuff that I find out about, I don't want to know what he does when I'm not around. So I'm keeping him under house arrest for a while.
Of course I say that and then three days later I'll let him out for his morning poo again, but I really mean it this time. Because this morning he locked in a death match with Egypt and my neighbor had to dowse them in iced coffee to break it up. And inevitably I found that Zaphod's paw was bloody. I swear, it's like living with Will Hunting before he meets the girl.
The upshot is that there's got to be a video in this somewhere, right?
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
12 Red Flags At the Dentist
I hadn't had my teeth cleaned in probably ten years, and I thought, "Heck I'm probably due." So I kept my eyes peeled and sure enough I found a Groupon. Great idea right? Then I sat on the coupon for a few months thinking about not wanting to go to the dentist. By I paid my by-God $35 and I sure wasn't going to waste it.
So one day a couple of weeks ago I called the clinic nearest me to make an appointment.
Red flag #1, the phone is answered by a woman saying, "Hello?" "Is this the dentist?" I asked. (Brilliant question, right?) I then set an appointment for "...next Friday."
Red Flag #2: She doesn't ask how to spell my name, and she doesn't take my number. When I call to confirm she (the dentist? office assistant? receptionist? lady?) changed the appointment from 9am to 10am because she was coming from Bakersfield.
Red Flag #3: I roll into the parking lot and it's a strip mall.
Red Flag #4: The office is locked, no one is there.
Red Flag #5: A small woman walks up and unlocks the door, telling me she's just arriving, and shuts the door in my face.
Red Flag #6: When I follow her in she tells me I can sit and wait. She bustles around turning on lights, and then turns the TV in the waiting room on. Normally I would assume this is for my benefit, but the whole time she's choosing the channel she is holding open a door with her back, which completely blocks my view. By the sound of it she eventually settles on a crime-recreation show on some low budge network. I pull out my book.
Red Flag #7: She goes into the exam room, which is partitioned off with a fake wall and looks out onto the parking lot, and immediately turns on another TV. The View is on. What is the logic here? Who is expected to be watching these two televisions. If I weren't here would she have both on anyway? Do the stoic interviews and police sirens of the crime show add something special to The View. She still hasn't acknowledged me further. I pick up the remote and turn off the TV in waiting area. It's distracting me from my book (The Kid by Dan Savage).
Red Flag #8: When she finally gives me paperwork she uses no courtesies in her speech. "Here I'm gonna have you fill this out." It takes me a moment to realize she's speaking to me; I'm immersed in my book, and she doesn't address or even look me in the eye. At this point I'm really looking forward to having her root around in my mouth. Fabulous. But I'm resolved not to waste my $35.
Red Flag #9: Once in the chair the exam continues in a similar vein. My dentist (wtf is her name anyway?) shoves a small square of cardboard in my mouth and tells me to bite down for the x-ray. The cardboard is wedged down in such a way that I can't close my mouth. I'm not sure what to do. "You're not biting down all the way," she says from around another wall. "I can't" I slur over the thing in my mouth. As she's fixing it she chuckles, "You gotta gag reflex, huh?" What? Um, yes? I gag on things sometimes, but that's irrelevant because I wasn't just now. I just couldn't close my mouth, and I didn't know how to fix the thing. Not once throughout the entire exam does she ever warning me she's about to stick her fingers in my mouth. She prefers a sneakier approach, bustling around the room and then flying in unexpectedly.
Red Flag #10: Looking over my x-rays she makes a number of cryptic and worrying statements:
"You gotta big cavity in the back. You gotta white fill?" Is this a question or a statement? Is she talking about something in the past? I shrug.
"Your wisdom teeth trying to come through." I had all four wisdom teeth out when I was 17.
"Ooh. Root canal." Okay, so you're pointing out the dental work I've already had... Yes, that's true.
"You got an infection, it coming through you're nasal cavity." What? Is there something I can do for this?
"Root canal." Wait, another one? No meds first, just straight to ripping out the roots of my teeth? Fucking fabulous. You wanna just dig in right now?
As she shoves a mirror into my hands: "Here! The 8 and 9!" As if I'm an idiot for not knowing my teeth by number. Wouldn't I have an inkling of that if I had an infection?
Red Flag #11: As she lays me back to begin the cleaning I'm wondering if I should just go right now. But I sort of feel like it's been so long since my last cleaning that I really need to see this through. As we begin I try to smooth things over and ask her how she long she's been a dentist. "Uuuuh, 15 years." "Do you like it?" I ask, trying to be friendly now that she has me in a position of weakness. My dentist answered by ranting about Obama-care, and how she's not going to advise her college-bound son to go into it, implying that it no longer pays. Lovely, because I totally want someone who's concerned only about their paycheck cleaning my teeth. No wonder she needed to sell Groupons.
Red Flag #12: During the cleaning she flicks toothpaste onto my face, and when I start she asks me what's wrong like I'm crazy. Every time someone passes by she pauses to watch them. I stare upside down through her goggles at her eyes as they follow each person and wonder if she thinks they're coming in. Because I know for sure they're not. She sticks the suction hose to the inside of my cheek and leaves it there while she goes to get something. It dries my mouth out and I start to choke. Then she abruptly sits me up. "You gotta cavity. Big one," she says, thrusting the mirror back into my hands. She indicates a molar at the back. I'm not surprised, I figured as much.
As she hustles me out of the office an hour since I came in nothing surprises me; my red flags have all been raised and I have no excuse for feeling abused. I could've left at any time. She offers me copies of my x-rays, but when I tell her that'd be nice she says, "It's gonna be $25. It costs money you know." Great, I'll keep that in mind. And I certainly won't be back.
So one day a couple of weeks ago I called the clinic nearest me to make an appointment.
Red flag #1, the phone is answered by a woman saying, "Hello?" "Is this the dentist?" I asked. (Brilliant question, right?) I then set an appointment for "...next Friday."
Red Flag #2: She doesn't ask how to spell my name, and she doesn't take my number. When I call to confirm she (the dentist? office assistant? receptionist? lady?) changed the appointment from 9am to 10am because she was coming from Bakersfield.
Red Flag #3: I roll into the parking lot and it's a strip mall.
Red Flag #4: The office is locked, no one is there.
Red Flag #5: A small woman walks up and unlocks the door, telling me she's just arriving, and shuts the door in my face.
Red Flag #6: When I follow her in she tells me I can sit and wait. She bustles around turning on lights, and then turns the TV in the waiting room on. Normally I would assume this is for my benefit, but the whole time she's choosing the channel she is holding open a door with her back, which completely blocks my view. By the sound of it she eventually settles on a crime-recreation show on some low budge network. I pull out my book.
Red Flag #7: She goes into the exam room, which is partitioned off with a fake wall and looks out onto the parking lot, and immediately turns on another TV. The View is on. What is the logic here? Who is expected to be watching these two televisions. If I weren't here would she have both on anyway? Do the stoic interviews and police sirens of the crime show add something special to The View. She still hasn't acknowledged me further. I pick up the remote and turn off the TV in waiting area. It's distracting me from my book (The Kid by Dan Savage).
Red Flag #8: When she finally gives me paperwork she uses no courtesies in her speech. "Here I'm gonna have you fill this out." It takes me a moment to realize she's speaking to me; I'm immersed in my book, and she doesn't address or even look me in the eye. At this point I'm really looking forward to having her root around in my mouth. Fabulous. But I'm resolved not to waste my $35.
Red Flag #9: Once in the chair the exam continues in a similar vein. My dentist (wtf is her name anyway?) shoves a small square of cardboard in my mouth and tells me to bite down for the x-ray. The cardboard is wedged down in such a way that I can't close my mouth. I'm not sure what to do. "You're not biting down all the way," she says from around another wall. "I can't" I slur over the thing in my mouth. As she's fixing it she chuckles, "You gotta gag reflex, huh?" What? Um, yes? I gag on things sometimes, but that's irrelevant because I wasn't just now. I just couldn't close my mouth, and I didn't know how to fix the thing. Not once throughout the entire exam does she ever warning me she's about to stick her fingers in my mouth. She prefers a sneakier approach, bustling around the room and then flying in unexpectedly.
Red Flag #10: Looking over my x-rays she makes a number of cryptic and worrying statements:
"You gotta big cavity in the back. You gotta white fill?" Is this a question or a statement? Is she talking about something in the past? I shrug.
"Your wisdom teeth trying to come through." I had all four wisdom teeth out when I was 17.
"Ooh. Root canal." Okay, so you're pointing out the dental work I've already had... Yes, that's true.
"You got an infection, it coming through you're nasal cavity." What? Is there something I can do for this?
"Root canal." Wait, another one? No meds first, just straight to ripping out the roots of my teeth? Fucking fabulous. You wanna just dig in right now?
As she shoves a mirror into my hands: "Here! The 8 and 9!" As if I'm an idiot for not knowing my teeth by number. Wouldn't I have an inkling of that if I had an infection?
Red Flag #11: As she lays me back to begin the cleaning I'm wondering if I should just go right now. But I sort of feel like it's been so long since my last cleaning that I really need to see this through. As we begin I try to smooth things over and ask her how she long she's been a dentist. "Uuuuh, 15 years." "Do you like it?" I ask, trying to be friendly now that she has me in a position of weakness. My dentist answered by ranting about Obama-care, and how she's not going to advise her college-bound son to go into it, implying that it no longer pays. Lovely, because I totally want someone who's concerned only about their paycheck cleaning my teeth. No wonder she needed to sell Groupons.
Red Flag #12: During the cleaning she flicks toothpaste onto my face, and when I start she asks me what's wrong like I'm crazy. Every time someone passes by she pauses to watch them. I stare upside down through her goggles at her eyes as they follow each person and wonder if she thinks they're coming in. Because I know for sure they're not. She sticks the suction hose to the inside of my cheek and leaves it there while she goes to get something. It dries my mouth out and I start to choke. Then she abruptly sits me up. "You gotta cavity. Big one," she says, thrusting the mirror back into my hands. She indicates a molar at the back. I'm not surprised, I figured as much.
As she hustles me out of the office an hour since I came in nothing surprises me; my red flags have all been raised and I have no excuse for feeling abused. I could've left at any time. She offers me copies of my x-rays, but when I tell her that'd be nice she says, "It's gonna be $25. It costs money you know." Great, I'll keep that in mind. And I certainly won't be back.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Presenting my first video!
I am really excited today. I wrote a short film, and it debuted on the web yesterday! For the last year and a half I've been writing sketches and short stories and monologues. I've started and stopped screenplays, and even collaborated on an entire webseries. But none of that panned out. Until now. I conceived the idea, wrote it, created the costumes (!), and produced it. The lovely Casey Gates filmed it (on her iPhone4!), edited it, and generally encouraged me - for which I am extraordinarily grateful.
This film is not trying to be fancy. The production quality is low, but I think the whimsy and laugh factors are high. This is the first of many: they're just going to better and better. I hope that you'll enjoy this short film for what it is. To me it is a triumph.
With no further ado I happily present you: Space Cat Gets a Haircut!
Thanks to Jaq Galliano for an afternoon's work well done.
This film is not trying to be fancy. The production quality is low, but I think the whimsy and laugh factors are high. This is the first of many: they're just going to better and better. I hope that you'll enjoy this short film for what it is. To me it is a triumph.
With no further ado I happily present you: Space Cat Gets a Haircut!
If you enjoyed my film you can learn more about SpaceCat on Facebook!
xoxox
Thanks to Jaq Galliano for an afternoon's work well done.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Mistake!
Never make the mistake
of looking at the Lost and Found page
on Craig's List.
A sadder thing you'll never find.
Sample subject headings read:
LOST!!! Male Jackapoo SoFierce
missing cat (neptune's net)
Lost - Two white doves
Lost Cat/Gato Perdido - Grey and White
Messages include identifying marks and habits,
different colored collars,
and where they were last scene.
Honest unaffected cries to the community at large:
"Please help me find my dog!!!"
"If you have any info, please contact me. We miss her."
These messages tug at my heart.
I've lost cats. Not Zaphod.
Normally I skim the internet,
here I take in every word.
of looking at the Lost and Found page
on Craig's List.
A sadder thing you'll never find.
Sample subject headings read:
LOST!!! Male Jackapoo SoFierce
missing cat (neptune's net)
Lost - Two white doves
Lost Cat/Gato Perdido - Grey and White
Messages include identifying marks and habits,
different colored collars,
and where they were last scene.
Honest unaffected cries to the community at large:
"Please help me find my dog!!!"
"If you have any info, please contact me. We miss her."
These messages tug at my heart.
I've lost cats. Not Zaphod.
Normally I skim the internet,
here I take in every word.
 |
| Have you seen me? |
Thursday, March 29, 2012
A sunny afternoon at the movies
Oh! I forgot to tell you about when I went to see Shame! So let's just take a little trip back in time (two whole months!) and I'll tell you about it now.
Everyone I know had already seen it, so I decided to see it by myself. Call it an artist date. And anyway, seeing it alone allowed all the more room for me to indulge the fantasy in which I bed this man:
Rowr. So one sunny afternoon in January I betook myself to the ArcLight Pasadena for an afternoon at the movies. I went to Pasadena because I wisely waited until it was barely in theatres anymore. I mean, I wouldn't want to look like I was in a hurry, right? That's unfashionable.
The weather was good for a trip to fantasyland: Shame was showing in a smaller theatre and there was only one other person there, so I could imagine I was in a private viewing room. But it started to cloud over when five or six more people came in right before the show started, all of them at least 25 years older than me. This last part surprised me, because I just don't imagine the middle to old aged population of Pasadena getting excited over an NC-17 movie about sex addiction. But who am I to judge?
As the ArcLight girl started giving her pre-movie spiel I was really excited. I'd heard nothing but good things about Shame; I was looking forward to one of those movie experiences where the film you're excited about meets (or surpasses) your expectations. And then the storm broke. A seriously old couple came in late and chose to sit (you guessed it) two seats down from me. Picture these two this husband and wife who've been married since the Great Depression tottering carefully down the aisle, using the seats on either side for support because they don't have canes even though they need them. Their backs are hunched with osteoporosis, and their fingers are gnarled from arthritis. I'm not joking about this, they had to be in their 80's at least. And they wanted to see Shame. Okay.
As they were walking in the girl was talking about the movie and the theatre, and the old said super loudly, "What?" The ArcLight girl paused, but she just kept going. I probably would've too. Then the old lady turned to me, "What did she say?" (You know that special volume reserved for half-deaf octogenarians...) before turning back to the girl and saying, "We can't hear you! Do you have a microphone?" An awkward silence fell over the theatre, but ArcLight girl gamely continued trying to tell those of us with hearing about the emergency exits. The old woman, who was by now seated, chimed in, "Yap yap yap." Storm warnings in fantasyland.
As the lights dimmed my elderly neighbor, who was parked in front of the railing, said to her husband, "Mario! Mario! Put ya feet up Mario!" Beyond this, however, the start of the movie went pretty smoothly. Right around when Carey Mulligan was introduced the middle aged lady on the other side of me got up and left. But that's her choice, you know? Better she should leave than put weird vibes out, and I knew this movie wasn't for everyone. Better than the old folks to my left, who punctuated the film with noises of disgust like, "Phawwww!" Fantasyland was now closed due to inclement weather.
At a crucial moment (spoiler alert, sort of) Mario's wife said (more like hollered), "Did somebody try to murder her or what?" and I could hear the judgement in her voice. She thought Carey Mulligan's character deserved bad things to happen to her. When the movie was over Mario's wife let the whole theatre know in her loudest proclamation yet, "Awful movie!" Big surprise, they hated it.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised about my viewing companions, because who goes to 4pm movies on a Wednesday? Old folks and kids. And no way was anyone bringing a kid to that movie. I loved it though. If you're a fan of American Psycho you'd like Shame. I mean, you've already seen it of course, because I'm reviewing a movie that was released five months ago, but if you hadn't seen it I'd say go. But leave your grandparents at home.
Everyone I know had already seen it, so I decided to see it by myself. Call it an artist date. And anyway, seeing it alone allowed all the more room for me to indulge the fantasy in which I bed this man:
Rowr. So one sunny afternoon in January I betook myself to the ArcLight Pasadena for an afternoon at the movies. I went to Pasadena because I wisely waited until it was barely in theatres anymore. I mean, I wouldn't want to look like I was in a hurry, right? That's unfashionable.
The weather was good for a trip to fantasyland: Shame was showing in a smaller theatre and there was only one other person there, so I could imagine I was in a private viewing room. But it started to cloud over when five or six more people came in right before the show started, all of them at least 25 years older than me. This last part surprised me, because I just don't imagine the middle to old aged population of Pasadena getting excited over an NC-17 movie about sex addiction. But who am I to judge?
As the ArcLight girl started giving her pre-movie spiel I was really excited. I'd heard nothing but good things about Shame; I was looking forward to one of those movie experiences where the film you're excited about meets (or surpasses) your expectations. And then the storm broke. A seriously old couple came in late and chose to sit (you guessed it) two seats down from me. Picture these two this husband and wife who've been married since the Great Depression tottering carefully down the aisle, using the seats on either side for support because they don't have canes even though they need them. Their backs are hunched with osteoporosis, and their fingers are gnarled from arthritis. I'm not joking about this, they had to be in their 80's at least. And they wanted to see Shame. Okay.
As they were walking in the girl was talking about the movie and the theatre, and the old said super loudly, "What?" The ArcLight girl paused, but she just kept going. I probably would've too. Then the old lady turned to me, "What did she say?" (You know that special volume reserved for half-deaf octogenarians...) before turning back to the girl and saying, "We can't hear you! Do you have a microphone?" An awkward silence fell over the theatre, but ArcLight girl gamely continued trying to tell those of us with hearing about the emergency exits. The old woman, who was by now seated, chimed in, "Yap yap yap." Storm warnings in fantasyland.
As the lights dimmed my elderly neighbor, who was parked in front of the railing, said to her husband, "Mario! Mario! Put ya feet up Mario!" Beyond this, however, the start of the movie went pretty smoothly. Right around when Carey Mulligan was introduced the middle aged lady on the other side of me got up and left. But that's her choice, you know? Better she should leave than put weird vibes out, and I knew this movie wasn't for everyone. Better than the old folks to my left, who punctuated the film with noises of disgust like, "Phawwww!" Fantasyland was now closed due to inclement weather.
At a crucial moment (spoiler alert, sort of) Mario's wife said (more like hollered), "Did somebody try to murder her or what?" and I could hear the judgement in her voice. She thought Carey Mulligan's character deserved bad things to happen to her. When the movie was over Mario's wife let the whole theatre know in her loudest proclamation yet, "Awful movie!" Big surprise, they hated it.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised about my viewing companions, because who goes to 4pm movies on a Wednesday? Old folks and kids. And no way was anyone bringing a kid to that movie. I loved it though. If you're a fan of American Psycho you'd like Shame. I mean, you've already seen it of course, because I'm reviewing a movie that was released five months ago, but if you hadn't seen it I'd say go. But leave your grandparents at home.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
A day in the life of my cat
When I have too much time on my hands you know it's your lucky day! That's right, I created, just for you, a photo essay in which I reenact my favorite Zaphod moments. Enjoy:
You never see the skeletons of cats in trees |
| Oh hey. You were gone? |
 |
| Who the fuck does that other cat think it is? |
Meditation on shoes: a haiku
 |
| Busy day at work? |
 |
| The smellier the better |
 |
| Oh shoe! Marry me! |
All in a day's work:
 |
| Keepin' tabs on Kitty Town |
 |
| Making the rounds. |
 |
| Food critic. |
Cat Nap!
 |
| Don't touch my belly |
 |
| If you need me you know where to find me |
 |
| Me-ow! |
Animal Abuse
 |
| Why are you doing this? |
 |
| I've never been unhappier. |
 |
| I won't forget this. |
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Instructions for the care and feeding of ________:
________ needs plenty of sunlight, keeping it in the dark will cause it to mold and possibly die.
________ lives on a diet of laughter, hugs, adventure and sex.
Needless to say, love is essential to a healthy ________.
Empty promises will make ________ sick; disconnection and inattentiveness are poisonous to ________.
________ can be shy, don't be offended if it hides occasionally.
Despite ________'s tough exterior, it is actually rather delicate. Please handle ________ carefully.
________ needs lots of exercise. Keeping ________ leashed may cause it to turn on you suddenly.
Be sure to return anything ________ gives you in equal measure, lest it become depleted.
If you don't wish to keep ________, or find yourself unequal to the task of taking care of it, simply let ________ go.
________ lives on a diet of laughter, hugs, adventure and sex.
Needless to say, love is essential to a healthy ________.
Empty promises will make ________ sick; disconnection and inattentiveness are poisonous to ________.
________ can be shy, don't be offended if it hides occasionally.
Despite ________'s tough exterior, it is actually rather delicate. Please handle ________ carefully.
________ needs lots of exercise. Keeping ________ leashed may cause it to turn on you suddenly.
Be sure to return anything ________ gives you in equal measure, lest it become depleted.
If you don't wish to keep ________, or find yourself unequal to the task of taking care of it, simply let ________ go.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
First and Last Date
"Sometimes," she said as she reached across me and took the lemon wedge off my glass, "I don't clean my ears for a couple of weeks." She squeezed my lemon into her water, and then she squeezed her own as well. "That way, when I finally do clean them out, the q-tip is like, really gross." She mixed five packets of sugar into her water. "You know, it's kind of exciting, like an accomplishment." She stirred vigorously. "Ta-da! Lemonade! And you don't have to pay four dollars for it." I didn't say anything. "You don't mind, do you? You weren't using it, so I thought..."
"No, I don't mind." I paused. "You don't have many friends, do you?"
"No, I don't mind." I paused. "You don't have many friends, do you?"
Sunday, October 2, 2011
It's October. Let's get dark.
Take a bone saw
and cut through my breast bone.
Peel back all the skin and muscle
and crack open my ribs;
Spread them to the side
like wings
And you have me
standing there
trying to give myself to you.
All of me, open and unprotected.
Then painfully close up
my ribs
And sew everything up
with giant Frankenstein stitches
And you have me
achy and broken
with an ugly suture up my front.
Damaged goods.
It's October, Let's Get Dark by Catherine Frances Weiss is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License.
and cut through my breast bone.
Peel back all the skin and muscle
and crack open my ribs;
Spread them to the side
like wings
And you have me
standing there
trying to give myself to you.
All of me, open and unprotected.
Then painfully close up
my ribs
And sew everything up
with giant Frankenstein stitches
And you have me
achy and broken
with an ugly suture up my front.
Damaged goods.
It's October, Let's Get Dark by Catherine Frances Weiss is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Squirrel Man
It's almost Halloween (well, it's almost October. I get excited-shoot me), so I thought I'd take a little time out and tell you a horror story. Whoooo-ooooh! (That's me doing a scary sound). So let me tell you about Squirrel Man. A truly fearsome individual.
Okay, so this one time I went to the park to go running. (What? Horror stories start like this: full on normal-world mundanity. ) So anyway, I obviously needed to stretch first, because that's what they say you should do. And I'm a follower. So I walked up to this big tree by the path and leaned on it while I stretched my hammies. You know, I'm just hanging out, maybe imagining actor things, ankle in hand, stretching whatever that muscle is.
Now, I had noticed, when I first approached the tree, that there was a little squirrel kind of heading my direction, but I thought nothing of it. Maybe it had a nest in my hamstring-stretching-balance-tree. So what? Wait, squirrel. Me first. But then right around the time I switched legs I noticed that my little buddy had a friend.
Okay, picture this: He's super tan. Like, that kind of tan like you're outside all the time because you don't have a home-you're maybe homeless. And I could tell how tan he was because he wasn't wearing a shirt. I think it might've been hanging from the back pocket of his very oversized jeans, but that really wasn't my focal point. This intense young (old? He was actually kind of ageless, maybe he was a weird immortal like in the Sandman, or a mutant....) man observed me from underneath his head scarf, and I realized he was originally coming to my tree, but I beat him to the punch. You snooze you lose, guy!
What was weird about this dude though (as if he wasn't weird enough already-although, in fairness, people work out at that park... Maybe that's why he was shirtless.) was that he had a jar of peanut butter and a butter knife. Now, I know you were wondering about his relationship and interaction with that little squirrel, so let me drop the bomb on you:
He was feeding the squirrel. He was using his butter knife to spread peanut butter on the tree next to mine. I realized at this point, that I was using his peanut-butter-squirrel-tree to stretch. Whoops. So he's buttering the tree, and the squirrel is eating peanut butter upside down off the tree, and Squirrel Man is crouching by his pal, watching me watching him. Whoops again. Caught staring. Then he offered the knife to the squirrel; feeding it directly off the knife. He looked at me again, and as we made eye contact he took the knife and licked it himself.
Ewwwwwwwww! Gross! Squirrels are rodents! Rabies! Ewwww!
And then I ran away. Seriously, I started running around the park. And the Squirrel Man faded into the night (morning) to haunt the dreams of children (joggers. Me) forever. So whatever you do watch out of the Squirrel Man!
Okay, so this one time I went to the park to go running. (What? Horror stories start like this: full on normal-world mundanity. ) So anyway, I obviously needed to stretch first, because that's what they say you should do. And I'm a follower. So I walked up to this big tree by the path and leaned on it while I stretched my hammies. You know, I'm just hanging out, maybe imagining actor things, ankle in hand, stretching whatever that muscle is.
Now, I had noticed, when I first approached the tree, that there was a little squirrel kind of heading my direction, but I thought nothing of it. Maybe it had a nest in my hamstring-stretching-balance-tree. So what? Wait, squirrel. Me first. But then right around the time I switched legs I noticed that my little buddy had a friend.
Okay, picture this: He's super tan. Like, that kind of tan like you're outside all the time because you don't have a home-you're maybe homeless. And I could tell how tan he was because he wasn't wearing a shirt. I think it might've been hanging from the back pocket of his very oversized jeans, but that really wasn't my focal point. This intense young (old? He was actually kind of ageless, maybe he was a weird immortal like in the Sandman, or a mutant....) man observed me from underneath his head scarf, and I realized he was originally coming to my tree, but I beat him to the punch. You snooze you lose, guy!
What was weird about this dude though (as if he wasn't weird enough already-although, in fairness, people work out at that park... Maybe that's why he was shirtless.) was that he had a jar of peanut butter and a butter knife. Now, I know you were wondering about his relationship and interaction with that little squirrel, so let me drop the bomb on you:
He was feeding the squirrel. He was using his butter knife to spread peanut butter on the tree next to mine. I realized at this point, that I was using his peanut-butter-squirrel-tree to stretch. Whoops. So he's buttering the tree, and the squirrel is eating peanut butter upside down off the tree, and Squirrel Man is crouching by his pal, watching me watching him. Whoops again. Caught staring. Then he offered the knife to the squirrel; feeding it directly off the knife. He looked at me again, and as we made eye contact he took the knife and licked it himself.
Ewwwwwwwww! Gross! Squirrels are rodents! Rabies! Ewwww!
And then I ran away. Seriously, I started running around the park. And the Squirrel Man faded into the night (morning) to haunt the dreams of children (joggers. Me) forever. So whatever you do watch out of the Squirrel Man!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
This is for my friend
I don't know if it makes a difference to know that a piece of your sadness is being carried around all the way over here on the West Coast, but I've been bearing your pain all day. A marvelous light burnt out tonight. Nothing can replace it or make it better.
I had a vision of her shooting up into the sky like a rocket. Blindingly bright. She burned faster and brighter all night and when she finally burned out her ashes dispersed peppering the sky with stars.
This is all nonsense. Nothing I say can give you back what you lost. But I want you to know that my heart really hurts for you. And you should be comforted knowing that her wonderful light isn't extinguished, it burns in you. You're a piece of her. It might sound like a cliche, but it's the truth. It's immortality.
Fuck all the outside noise: you're my friend for the rest of my life. Your pain is my pain, your loss is my loss. You're not hurting alone. My heart breaks for you. I'm sorry friend.
I had a vision of her shooting up into the sky like a rocket. Blindingly bright. She burned faster and brighter all night and when she finally burned out her ashes dispersed peppering the sky with stars.
This is all nonsense. Nothing I say can give you back what you lost. But I want you to know that my heart really hurts for you. And you should be comforted knowing that her wonderful light isn't extinguished, it burns in you. You're a piece of her. It might sound like a cliche, but it's the truth. It's immortality.
Fuck all the outside noise: you're my friend for the rest of my life. Your pain is my pain, your loss is my loss. You're not hurting alone. My heart breaks for you. I'm sorry friend.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
7 cups of coffee
Thursday morning I walked down the carpeted stairs of my parent's house their old dog woofed quietly up at me, calling my mom to come down for his morning walk. I went out with them through the neighborhood where I grew up, checking out the changes of the past ten years, waiting for an old dog to catch up with us. When we got back Mom made half-caff as a compromise. I added one and a half spoons of sugar, a liberal dose of my Dad's ever-present half and half (he doesn't drink coffee though; he puts it on his cereal), and took it into the living room for some quiet time. Quiet time was interrupted a little black and white cat sucking on my hair, purring loudly in my ear.
Friday morning I wandered into my brother Eric's kitchen, where he informed me that I was making my coffee wrong. The Coffee Mate should be added to the cup before pouring the coffee in. "You make your own choices," he said. He went off to work, and I went to hot yoga with Ivy. When we came back his great Danes were sleeping on my bed. Naughty dogs.
Saturday morning I woke up in a little hole of a bedroom in Alicia's basement. I had slept very soundly. I went up two flights of creaky steps to the communal bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. No one was awake, so I walked down the hill to Roy's Coffee and Tea and ordered a soy hazelnut latte. I sat on a bench and read The Stranger. A woman arranged two stuffed animals on the table next to me and walked away. When I got back Alicia informed me that Roy's is a Starbucks. Go figure.
Sunday morning I woke up in the same dark hole at Alicia's. Upstairs I roused Colin from the couch. Whiteloaf wandered up from another couch, and we started tidying the party's aftermath. When everyone was all assembled we went to Brian's (George's). We drank champagne and ate cheese. When I tried making coffee in the unfamiliar coffee maker it started spilling all over the counter, but I took the lid off the carafe and wiped it up. When it was ready I put in sugar and rice milk. I drank it out of a giant mug. Then I had a bloody Mary. Breakfast!
Monday morning Matt's dog, Bella, stuck her nose in my crotch as soon as I opened the door. When I came out of the bathroom she was laying down on my futon. Matt made us coffee, but he didn't have any sugar. Just skim milk. Joy had green tea. Then she and I took Bella for a long walk on the beach. We looked at Washington's mountains floating on the horizon, and found jelly fish melting on the rocks. The air was fresh.
Tuesday morning my mom peeked in early. "What time is it?" "About a quarter to seven." "Okay," I rolled over and went back to sleep. When I got up later I threw on whatever clothes I had brought that were still clean so I could do laundry before going. In the kitchen I found my mother and brother. She offered coffee and I took it, wondering if it was caffeinated or not, but not asking. Again: sugar and half and half.
This morning my very affectionate cat stuck his little claws lovingly into my chin. He missed me. I pushed snooze for an hour. When I finally got out of bed I stumbled around my apartment, gaining my bearings after my week away. I made my coffee and doctored it with my usual sugar and almond milk. My favorite mug greeted me from the dish drainer, right where it always is.
Friday morning I wandered into my brother Eric's kitchen, where he informed me that I was making my coffee wrong. The Coffee Mate should be added to the cup before pouring the coffee in. "You make your own choices," he said. He went off to work, and I went to hot yoga with Ivy. When we came back his great Danes were sleeping on my bed. Naughty dogs.
Saturday morning I woke up in a little hole of a bedroom in Alicia's basement. I had slept very soundly. I went up two flights of creaky steps to the communal bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. No one was awake, so I walked down the hill to Roy's Coffee and Tea and ordered a soy hazelnut latte. I sat on a bench and read The Stranger. A woman arranged two stuffed animals on the table next to me and walked away. When I got back Alicia informed me that Roy's is a Starbucks. Go figure.
Sunday morning I woke up in the same dark hole at Alicia's. Upstairs I roused Colin from the couch. Whiteloaf wandered up from another couch, and we started tidying the party's aftermath. When everyone was all assembled we went to Brian's (George's). We drank champagne and ate cheese. When I tried making coffee in the unfamiliar coffee maker it started spilling all over the counter, but I took the lid off the carafe and wiped it up. When it was ready I put in sugar and rice milk. I drank it out of a giant mug. Then I had a bloody Mary. Breakfast!
Monday morning Matt's dog, Bella, stuck her nose in my crotch as soon as I opened the door. When I came out of the bathroom she was laying down on my futon. Matt made us coffee, but he didn't have any sugar. Just skim milk. Joy had green tea. Then she and I took Bella for a long walk on the beach. We looked at Washington's mountains floating on the horizon, and found jelly fish melting on the rocks. The air was fresh.
Tuesday morning my mom peeked in early. "What time is it?" "About a quarter to seven." "Okay," I rolled over and went back to sleep. When I got up later I threw on whatever clothes I had brought that were still clean so I could do laundry before going. In the kitchen I found my mother and brother. She offered coffee and I took it, wondering if it was caffeinated or not, but not asking. Again: sugar and half and half.
This morning my very affectionate cat stuck his little claws lovingly into my chin. He missed me. I pushed snooze for an hour. When I finally got out of bed I stumbled around my apartment, gaining my bearings after my week away. I made my coffee and doctored it with my usual sugar and almond milk. My favorite mug greeted me from the dish drainer, right where it always is.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Midnight in a Perfect World
In the bathroom in the middle of the night a creepy crawly with many legs skitters across the wall at the flip of the switch. Sitting there pondering how to get rid of it I jump, thinking I saw another. I brace my feet against the bathtub, afraid to put them down. No question: it has to go.
I look behind the door and there it is, hiding underneath a red washcloth emblazoned with a C. I try squashing it through the cloth with my foot but I'm too timid. It will have to be the vacuum.
I plug it in and connect the hose extension in my bedroom, so as not to startle the bug. I hope it hasn't disappeared; I don't want it running around my apartment. But it's still there behind the bathroom door.
I mercilessly suck up the offensive bug with the vacuum hose, and then clean all the corners of collected hair and dust to suffocate it. Then, unwilling to chance that it might still be living, I vacuum the fuck out of my bedroom. 1:45 in the morning, and Suzy Homemaker is hard at work.
Once I finish vacuuming I'm faced with a dilemma. I need to empty the canister, but it could still be alive in there. It looked pretty tough. I could flush it down the toilet, but I just cleaned it today, and what if it escaped onto my hand. The trashcan in the kitchen is the other option, but again , what if it's still alive? No, the only real option is emptying the canister into the dumpster outside. I don't want that gross bug anywhere in my house.
Outside in my pajamas and flipflops I feel exposed. I finish up as quickly as possible, shaking the dust trap to be sure the offender isn't clinging to the inside.
When the deed is done I go back inside, put the vacuum away, wash my hands, and get back into bed. My room is bug free, and I still can't fucking sleep.
I look behind the door and there it is, hiding underneath a red washcloth emblazoned with a C. I try squashing it through the cloth with my foot but I'm too timid. It will have to be the vacuum.
I plug it in and connect the hose extension in my bedroom, so as not to startle the bug. I hope it hasn't disappeared; I don't want it running around my apartment. But it's still there behind the bathroom door.
I mercilessly suck up the offensive bug with the vacuum hose, and then clean all the corners of collected hair and dust to suffocate it. Then, unwilling to chance that it might still be living, I vacuum the fuck out of my bedroom. 1:45 in the morning, and Suzy Homemaker is hard at work.
Once I finish vacuuming I'm faced with a dilemma. I need to empty the canister, but it could still be alive in there. It looked pretty tough. I could flush it down the toilet, but I just cleaned it today, and what if it escaped onto my hand. The trashcan in the kitchen is the other option, but again , what if it's still alive? No, the only real option is emptying the canister into the dumpster outside. I don't want that gross bug anywhere in my house.
Outside in my pajamas and flipflops I feel exposed. I finish up as quickly as possible, shaking the dust trap to be sure the offender isn't clinging to the inside.
When the deed is done I go back inside, put the vacuum away, wash my hands, and get back into bed. My room is bug free, and I still can't fucking sleep.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Vacuum My Way Into Adulthood
What's that, oh, you'd like to vacuum? It just so happens I have one! Yeah! Good news; I bought a vacuum. What what! Something about buying that vacuum really made me feel like an adult.
It's called the Shark, maybe you've heard of it. It has its own infomercial-pretty fancy.
I haven't figured out how to embed a video, so here's the link:
http://youtu.be/Pl0_hzoxaqM "Offering 'No loss of suction' technology"
That's right, The Shark: it really sucks. Better watch out cat hair, cause The Shark is coming to getcha! da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM (this is meant to signify the theme music from Jaws. OBVIOUSLY)
I've got to say though, for a vacuum called "The Shark" I was a bit surprised that it only comes in pearl-finished lavendar. And all that nonsense about turbo-powered pet hair brushes... Hmmm... They're really not marketing this vacuum for men, are they? Or badasses. Luckily I've got an at-home badass kit to upgrade my vacuum. Check it out:
BOOM. Dorsal fin! This aerodynamic addition to my vacuum increases it's suction power by about 250%. And it's coolness is now off the charts! Can your feeble little mind even handle it? Probably not. Don't worry, you'll probably understand on your death bed. Now get ready carpet, your day has come.
It's called the Shark, maybe you've heard of it. It has its own infomercial-pretty fancy.
I haven't figured out how to embed a video, so here's the link:
http://youtu.be/Pl0_hzoxaqM "Offering 'No loss of suction' technology"
That's right, The Shark: it really sucks. Better watch out cat hair, cause The Shark is coming to getcha! da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM (this is meant to signify the theme music from Jaws. OBVIOUSLY)
I've got to say though, for a vacuum called "The Shark" I was a bit surprised that it only comes in pearl-finished lavendar. And all that nonsense about turbo-powered pet hair brushes... Hmmm... They're really not marketing this vacuum for men, are they? Or badasses. Luckily I've got an at-home badass kit to upgrade my vacuum. Check it out:
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