Um.

We just got a dirty call from someone on East 34th Street  (gotta love reverse phone number Googling).  Someone was having a reeeal good time by themselves on the other end of the phone line.

Clearly this prospective employee is GOLD and will receive multiple job offers immediately.  I just hope there aren't too many glaring grammatical errors in her resume.  Yup.  "Her."  Hey, more power to her; I'm all for up-ending gender-based stereotypes.  ... I guess this goes under "feminism"?

How To

How to Confirm That You Are Not Married to a Metrosexual

Your Husband:  Okay, I'll see you later.  Do I smell?

You:  *sniff sniff*  You want to change your sweatshirt.  

YH:  Okay.

You:  And also wipe your nose.

YH:  Um.

You:  And also shave.

YH:  Nah.

You:  Did you take a shower today?
YH:  Bye!

Surprise!

I think someone was mad at me yesterday, because at the same time Personal Failure was recovering from her three-day-long migraine, I began to notice the indescribable weirdness which heralds migraines for me.  The first time I had a migraine I had no idea what the hell was going on, so keep that in mind as I relate the experience:  I was on the subway on my way to work.  I began to be bombarded by the smell of baby formula, of all things, though there were no babies around.  I started to see nothing but white light, became very sure I was going to die.  At the first stop since I got on I somehow - really, truly miraculously I had gotten on a subway car that exited right at the escalator at the 59th Street station - made my way up to the street at Bloomingdale's where I proceeded to faint (in a skirt) next to the garbage bin where I was aiming to retch.   When I came to there was a cluster of good Samaritans trying to see if I was okay, and my head was informing me that it had been run over by a truck tank while I was out.  Such was my introduction to migraines:  pretty much the most frightening kind of migraine you can get, if you have no idea you're getting a migraine.

Fortunately, yesterday's wasn't quite like that.  Aside from sleeping for twelve straight hours and still feeling weak today, it was mild as migraines go.  It still took me by surprise (they always do, because I don't get them often), though it really shouldn't have.  Stress can supposedly be a migraine trigger, and yesterday I found out my mom has breast cancer.  It's tiny and either Stage I or 0, and shouldn't require more than a lumpectomy and radiation.  The prognosis at this point is about as good as you could ask for with cancer, but... gah.  Our family has cardiac issues and autoimmune digestive issues, not breast health issues.  My mom takes pains to live a very healthy, medically approved lifestyle, so this was in all ways shocking.  There are no guarantees, eh?

This officially means I have to stop losing weight (oops), because that would not be fair to my mom.  Like she needs to worry about that right now.  Of course, stress like this adds another layer to the "food sucks" millefeuille that we e.d. chicks are so talented at whipping up.  Meh.

How To

How to Tell If Your Husband* is Talking in His Sleep

Your husband*:   Where's my guitar?
You:   You don't have a guitar.
YH:   I don't?
You:   No.
YH:   Oh.  {snores}

This one might be a bit tougher if your husband actually has a guitar.  In that case, you'll really need to listen out for the snoring.

* Or whoever.  We don't judge here.

An Argument For A Jamba Juice Diet

Dear Husband:

Please chew your gum with your mouth closed.

Please chew your sandwich with your mouth closed.

Please chew your salad with your mouth closed.

Please chew your chicken tikka masala with your mouth closed.

Please chew your strawberries with your mouth closed.

Please, please chew with your mouth closed.

Love,

Your Wife Who Was Not Raised By Wolves, And Neither Were You, In Fact, Your Mother Has Impeccable Manners, So Why Did You Never Learn To Chew With Your Mouth Closed?

Sonoma Dispatch #4

In search of an excellent Muscadet today.

In unrelated news (sort of), I decided that the reason I keep getting carded at the wineries is because I am breaking out like a teenager. Is this New York pollution working its way out of my ecologically tortured pores? If so, it could've just damn well stayed where it was, thankyouverymuch. Really. Stay in my pores. I don't care. Just stop making a very public appearance on my face, please. Gaw.

Sonoma Dispatch #3

the girl & the fig.

Google it; go there.

*************************

Napa.

Just not as cool as Sonoma. Just not. Sry2say. (LOL.)

*************************

Dry air parches throats -
Such rasp for a Georgia Peach.
Hack,hack. Sneeze,wheeze. Phlegm.

Sonoma Dispatch #2

I have kind of a headache.

But it's not from what you think! (Mostly not...). It's from coughing and sneezing and blowing my brains out my nose (apparently they're yellowish, not grey) because I caught the swine flu last weekend. (Okay, it wasn't actually the swine flu, at least as far as I know, because, aside from my LEAKING HEAD, it's already over. Though I did have every single symptom the CDC lists.)

In related news:

Dear California,

Please get some g*ddamned humidity.

Thanks,
The Nymph (who is apparently a naiad, though she always figured she'd be some kind of dryad)

Sonoma Dispatch #1

I'm typing this on my Blackberry, since neither of us managed to bring a laptop, so this thing might turn out looking more like rabbit turds than a blog post. I don't know. Anyway.

1. I'm used to traveling with a dude. There are SO many cosmetics in the bathroom, I kind of don't know what to do.

2. My mom tells me I'm a good backseat driver. Which is code for control freak. Which is just a mean way of pointing out the fact that *I* pointed out the fact that she ran a red light in downtown San Francisco, then later pointed out the fact that she almost ran a red light in downtown Sonoma, like they don't have enough to worry about on the road with all the drinking.

3. Bless her heart, she's not harping on my having lost 10 lbs. Since February, though I know she wants to. She's not ignoring it, but she's not harping. I'm still half-expecting some kind of ambush-style gavage treatment...

4. California, I am in love with you. Again. This happened last time, too. No one had better squeal, but when I get home, I'm basically going to conk K on the head, sedate Tarot, and when they wake up, they'll both be residents of the greater Bay Area. Sssshhh.

5. Also, if someone could make sure that as soon as I move here that all mud slides, wild fires, and earthquakes cease and desist? That would be great.

This post had better damned work, or I'm going to sabatoge RIM and Google right before their next earnings postings.