Through The Looking Glass

Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that I’ve got it in my head to write a (mostly non-fiction) book about relationships. (That would be just about the broadest generalization humanly possible of the subject matter, but I am being purposely vague.) So, let’s say I’m working on some ideas for this book, and I’ve decided that I probably should do some sort of survey. Would you be willing to answer questions and possibly be quoted?

A story about legwarmers, as promised. So, Kevin McKenzie is the current (creative) director of American Ballet Theater. The position was previously occupied by Michail Barishnikov, for those of you keeping score at home. My father has been the principal timpanist in the NYC orchestra for about 26 years, and I’ve been to the ballet pretty much every spring since. (ABT is at the Met Opera House for 2 months every spring. The rest of the year, they tour and play with local orchestras.)

In 1982 or thereabouts, when McKenzie was still just a lowly (principal) dancer with the company, PBS broadcast a performance of Romeo and Juliet live from (I think) the Met. Live. During the third act, ol’ Kevin pranced onstage still wearing his legwarmers. Live on television! He apparently never got over the embarrassment. Poor slob.

He did, however, exact his revenge on the world by re-choreographing The Nutcracker, and making its target audience the Ballet-Illiterate Retards of the world. Bastard.

Important discovery that may be worthy of discussion: Helene’s “34C” looks like it could crush mine without any effort whatsoever. I am now suspicious of the Scottish method of determining bra size. And rather anxious to try out this “crushing” theory…

What I got for Christmas:

Oh, lordy. I made out like a bandit. I’ll try to organize by gift-giver, and I’ll probably forget stuff (and/or people). I have been spoiled rotten.

from oslowe:
a Jenny Sparks comic
Japanese soup bowls with dragons
a pasta pot
a book about Hollywood in the 50s
Sharpe’s Rifles
White Christmas
The Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack
a tea kettle
lots of little stuff (in my stocking) including a back scratcher (Silly boy is sick of doing it himself I guess)

from oslowe’s parents:
a necklace
a gorgeous cashmere sweater
a rather odd little purse (which is exactly brick-sized!)
a crock pot (for both of us)

from my mom:
Singing in the Rain
Thoroughly Modern Milly
The Wizard of Oz

from my dad:
tickets to The Nutcracker for os and I
sushi dinner
my own copy of a Krazy Kat book (a rather subtle hint to give my sister’s back, I think)

from my sister:
Coraline by Neil Gaiman
(She is also sending me a pair of boots and a video of her last dance performance)

from my friend John:
Notorious (my favorite Hitchcock movie)

from CassyLee:
To Have and Have Not
The Music Man

from tinkcat:
a prosperity spell
the cutest pen on earth

from CoiledSoul:
a CD of old country music
cookies and fudge!

from P@ and Stephanie (and Saren and Harper):
a Bettie-themed CD
a monkey bulletin board
a Boromir bookmark (complete with One Ring which I have been making stupid jokes about ad nauseum)

from Soupytwist:
a Christmas music CD

from Jamie Marie:
That Thing You Do!

from tkf:
a coffee sampler from Seattle’s Best
those fabulous stress balls – the little metal jingly ones that you rotate in your palm and I can’t think of the proper name for and I think I have to end this sentence in a preposition…

from Christine:
a LOTR:TTT pocket-sized calendar (in German!)
Betty Boop underwear (very sexy)

and finally…

Cards from almost everyone I know, including a lot of you.

And yet, I still enjyed giving more than receiving. Kinda.

In two minutes, it will be Christmas Eve.

I am so fucking excited.

My evil twin

I’ve realized that my life would be much more interesting if I did one or more of the following:

1. Left the house more often.

2. Lived closer to Katherine.
3. Drank more.
4. Took over the world.

It’s doubtful that any of these things will happen (at least soon), but I can dream.

My boyfriend is sleeping, a much-needed sleep after a bottle of Maker’s Mark and a terrible awakening at 6:00 this morning. He had a nightmare, but tonight I have sworn to protect him in dream-land. For now, Kudsai is guarding him while he sleeps, but I will find him if he needs me. I promised. I also promised to kill anyone who tried to stop me, and to make it good and bloody for cinematic value.

My life isn’t so bad.

I have come to the conclusion that the one thing guaranteed to make me happy all of the time will be swing dancing. On a regular basis, of course.

This means, of course, that I have to get Will to learn. He isn’t unwilling, and in fact we’ve taken lessons in the past – he just has some sort of learning block when it comes to dancing, which is weird, because he’s usually very good at picking things up, and quick too.

We’re looking for a new apartment. I didn’t call the places in Los Feliz or Silver Lake, because of the commute he’d have to work, but now I’m wishing I had. At least 2 of the buildings were quite close to The Derby, one of them practically across the street, and I’m almost positive they still have free swing lessons once a week. Possibly more. Besides, I’ve never been there, and it would be less hassle if we could walk.

I have also come to the conclusion that I need a digital camera, ASAP.

Er…I had something I was going to write about, but Katherine and I have been talking about our irresistable Other Halves, and I forgot.

We saw The Two Towers last night. I’ll write about it when my brain starts functioning again. Suffice it to say I loved it.

Dear Tolkien fans,

Kindly take your fingers out of your butts/noses (delete as applicable) and repeat after me:

It’s a movie. If they translated the book directly onto the screen, it would suck. Peter Jackson is doing a great job, and the liberties he’s taken with the story aren’t hurting anyone.

Thank you.

It’s days like these* that I wish I had a shotgun.

*yesterday

So, I got locked in the bathroom on Tuesday morning. I feel that it is of great import to note, from the start, that there is no lock on our bathroom door, but merely a sticky latch. Occasionally the handle is difficult to turn. Yesterday morning I took a shower with the door firmly shut, the heat lamp on, and the water fairly hot. I got out, dried myself off, put lotion on my hands and face, and opened the door.

Ahh. Right. I tried to open the door.

The handle didn’t turn. Assuming that my hands were simply too moist from the steam and the lotion, I grabbed a towel and tried to open the door holding it around the knob. Nothing. I called to Will, who tried to open the door from the outside. No good. Worried that Will (and possibly I) would panic, I began fiddling with the knob, trying to figure out how to take it apart. There was no obvious solution, as there were no screws or in fact anything that one might normally find on a doorknob that would enable one to take it apart. By sheer luck, I found the small slit on the side of the knob which, when my nail file was inserted, released the catch and enabled me to take the actual knob off. I fiddled with the insides, hoping to force the latch. Nada. I attempted to explain to Will how to take the knob off on his side. I had him pass me a screwdriver under the door, and took apart the rest of my side of the knob. The latch remained firmly stuck, even after Will took off his side of the knob. I think the thing was made of titanium, or some such material.

In past experience, I’ve found it possible to force even a locked door to open if you insert a flathead screwdriver between the door and the jamb and wedge it into the latch, using your body and the tork of the screwdriver for leverage. Unfortunately, this has to be done from the outside, which is the side of the latch with the 45 degree angle. The outside of our bathroom door has molding around the jamb, which made it impossible to insert anything, let alone a screwdriver, and get it anywhere near the latch.

So there I was, naked, stuck in the bathroom, with a small hole through which I could see my boyfriend, and both of us late for work.

I decided, naturally, to take apart the hinges. There are (were) two, and as I’m sure you know hinges merely rest together and are held in place by a long bolt. Using my screwdriver and a wrench that Will slid under the door, I managed to extract the bolt from the bottom hinge with very little trouble. The top one proved a challenge, though, as it was above my head and the only thing in the bathroom upon which to stand is the toilet – across the room. After much sweating and cursing, I did it, though. I am very strong.

With both bolts removed, I climbed back into the bathtub and hid behind the plexiglass door while Will used his body weight to force the door open. He managed, with his shoulder, to lossen the top half of the door, but the bottom hinge, painted over several dozen times, held firm. I told him how high it was off the ground, and he started kicking.

Suffice it to say, I got out, but the door is now in two rather large pieces, having broken in half horizontally at approximately the height of the damn latch. Incidentally, the latch moves smoothly now that it is nowhere near the doorjamb.

There were other reasons for wanting a shotgun, all of which involve the mall, but I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.