catheroominations

Last night I dreamed that I was one of the 10 remaining contestants on American Idol. In my dream, I forgot that I can’t sing. In fact, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Tone deaf, I believe is what they call it.

Anyway, I was America’s Sweethart, and I dressed as such. For my performance, I wore a white GunneSax-type dress. You remember, the ones with the poofy sleeves, and half-round faux pearl buttons that graced the center of the lacy bodice. The shoes were sandals, I believe my mom’s old white Yo-Yos. With suntan hose, of course. My hair was longer and blonder and curlier. Oh, and I had big boobs that I kept glancing down at in disbelief (not while onstage, of course).

I can’t remember the song I sang. Some ballad, perhaps by Mariah Carey, who makes my ears bleed I don’t care for so much. It was so realistic when Ryan Seacrest greeted me after I sang, asking how I thought I did. I replied “Awesome! I tried to make it my own.” (Boy, did I.) I don’t remember the judges’ reactions, nor whether the audience greeted my performance with raucous applause, or the silence of a funeral home. But I shaped my fingers to signify the number eight as Ryan recited the phone number to call to vote for me.

As I watched the TV broadcast a few hours later, I thought “Holy crap! I suck wax fruit! Why the hell am I even still on this show?”

Then it dawned on me.

I ran to check the website responsible for keeping Kevin “Chicken Little” Covais on for so long. My fears were realized when I saw this.

Earlier this week, I asked if anyone could identify this:

There were some valiant efforts. Jenni thought it was an Asian mushroom dish. Cindy guessed a plant, but Chris said it looked more like sickle cell anemia. C&K’s pimp suggested sauteed tapeworm in oyster sauce. Karan and Celine thought it was a photo of green beans. But the entry that made me laugh the hardest was the one from weaker vessel who asked if it was French fries after a tsunami. Thanks to all who played, but unfortunately we have no winners. (Cindy was close though.) Next time, I’ll make it easier or offer a prize for most outlandish guess or something.

So now, the big reveal.
keep reading Slimy, yet satisfying

Sometimes I’m in the dark about things. I feel like I live under a rock. At such times, it’s good to have friends like Jenni and Sandi who bring vitally important topics to my attention. The news is unsettling and quite disturbing, but I’d rather know than go about my daily business, ignorant to the disaster that is

The mullet.

That’s right. It’s back.

When I think about the mullet, as I am wont to do, I realize that in some parts of the world, it never left. The fine folks at Supercuts can attest to this. The mullet is quite the look in some circles. Many hockey players, backstage crew, and country music stars are fans of the schizophrenic hairstyle.

But what stylist out there still creates the mullet? Does anyone walk into a salon and say “I’d like a mullet please.”? Or perhaps they don’t even know the name for the coiffure they’ve been sporting since the 80s. They request “Just a little off the sides. I’m growing it out in the back,” as they take a seat in the chair, placing their Vuarnets in the front pocket of their Members Only jacket.

Like the mustache, who out there is more attractive with a mullet? Anyone? I dare you to find a hot mulletified guy. Get back to me on that.

Picture the classically handsome Gregory Peck with a mullet. Or Cary Grant. James Dean. Or today’s heartthrobs Brad Pitt, Colin Farrell, or Jude Law. Doesn’t work, does it?

In an attempt to spread mullet awareness, the San Francisco Chronicle published this informative article. After reading it, I now can answer “WWJD?” He’d have a mullet.

I am certain that Yanni and NASCAR are behind all this mustache/mullet mayhem.

A big thank you to the fine people at King Nut Companies of Solon, OH, for printing a warning about where my dry-roasted peanuts were processed. I’m supposed to avoid foods that were processed in peanut-processing facilities. Whew.

Let’s play word association. What are the first three words that come to mind when I say Arizona? Cactus? Hot? Desert?

How about 2 words. Torrential downpour?
Yeah, didn’t think so.

My sister (Sister) and I went to Arizona last weekend to watch some of the Oakland Athletics’ spring training baseball games. Saturday we had tickets to our first game, and sure, there was rain in the forecast. But this was Arizona. It hadn’t rained for nearly one-hundred-forty-five days. Besides, when it rains there, I was told it’s just for a little while. Not like here, where it pours for weeks and you start gathering the animals 2 by 2. I pushed the impending forecast into the lobe of my brain where math skills go to die.

I did inform Sister of the “chance of rain.” I left off the 80% part. Numbers, schnumbers.

Then, in the wee hours of the morning, it came. The Spring Training Fan’s worst enemy. Rain. Rain is water. Water is wet. Baseball players don’t play in wet. Because it messes up the field, I’m told. Pussy field. Besides I think a little shower would add a whole new dimension to the game. Wet baseball players. Fun! Sliding into home, splashing mud on the catcher. Fun! The challenge of catching a pop fly when your eyeballs are poked by rain drops. Fun! Sitting, watching the game in the rain for 3 hours…oh…yeah. OK, now I see.

I called the ballpark at around 9:30 a.m. to see if the game was still on. Whew! It was. (And I mean “whew!” in the thank-goodness-I-wouldn’t-have-to-endure-the-pissed-offed-Sister sense.) We decked ourselves in yellow and green, and made our way to the park, driving through the rain. So we would replace sunscreen with hoodies, and tank tops for layered tees. We could handle a little chill. It would have been nice to have some sun though, in the 41-degree weather.

It rained nearly the whole way there, but we were going to be arriving super early to get autographs and take pictures. Hopes were high that the rain would stop before tip-off or kick-off, or whatever starts a baseball game. Sister sang in the car “Rain, rain, go away. Come again some other day,” adding, “but not tomorrow or the next day either, bastards.”

Oh, and did I mention this game was against the San Francisco Giants? Yes. A’s vs. Giants. I know, right? Can you imagine the onslaught of Bay Areans (Bay Areites?) that would have converged on the Phoenix Municipal Stadium? So what if we traveled all the way to the desert state, just to spend the day with people we could see at the mall or riding on BART? The same people we yell at on the freeway for cutting in front of us without signalling. It’d be like a family reunion of sorts, complete with rivalry, swearing, and drunken outbursts between clans. Giants fans and A’s fans in the same place. Imagine the deafening noise level! The overexaggerated loyalty for one’s team! The palpable hatred for the opposing team! Yea, a spectacle to behold!

Only one thing could bring the orange-and-black and yellow-and-green together.

Only one thing would make us all play nice-nice and set aside our differences.

Only one thing would make us forget how much we hate each other’s team. And your team’s Halloweenesque colors. And the stupid G on your stupid hats. And that dang Barry Bonds.

One thing.

Having the game called due to rain.

Now, I was not horribly devastated with the game cancellation itself. Sure I took time off work. Sure I wanted to watch some cute boys running around in tight white pants. But I didn’t have much emotion invested, I was there for Sister, whose dejected look made me laugh my ass off. No really. I felt for her, but her various hilarious expletives were cracking me up. You have to understand just how much she loves A’s baseball to fully appreciate her angered tourettes-like outbursts. Saturday she wouldn’t take any photos with her favorite players. There would be no autographs on her trading cards or on her naked baseball that awaited Eric Chavez’ scribble in ballpoint pen. No drooling over Barry Zito.

And there was no one to blame.

So we blamed George Bush.

Because.

They have strange ideas about food in Arizona. What kind of snack should I get?