Posts from — December 2009

Flexing My Poop Falafels

You do know, of course, that announcing anything having to do with writing, as in, I Got A Cool Writing Gig, or say, I Hope To Become A Writer: Lo See How It Beginneth, will immediately render your brain as useless as bellybutton lint and dry up your creative juices faster than a four pound bag of silica gel.  I knew this, and yet like a dummy I yakked it up and now cannot think of my own phone number.  But let’s be positive about things, shall we?  Look at what good practice this is for writer’s block!  See how my skills are being honed as I grapple with word constipation! In fact, I will just make myself come up with some words right now! Right off the top of my head! Elephant! Appendix! Consternation! Poop! Falafel!

Clearly, I am bound for greatness.

Moving On

I have a tendency to pick up on trends well after they have had their moment and subject everyone around me to rehashing fads that did not even deserve to be hashed in the first place.  See also: Hypercolor t-shirts, skinny jeans, Pandora, blogging.  However, the minute I saw this parodying craze I got an idea, and I couldn’t NOT do it, and after doing it, I couldn’t NOT show it to you. So there you have it.

The first clip is the original (very violent, FYI) scene from the show The O.C., wherein Imogen Heap’s haunting music is used to heighten a dramatic moment.  The second clip is a parody of the first clip, done by SNL (ad plays first).  The third is, well, the third is two hours of sleep that I will never get back.

Original OC clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3umNk9nVxbQ

SNL spoof: http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/18964/

Aaaaand…this: http://www.vimeo.com/8054921

You’re welcome. Or, I’m sorry.  Whichever.

Real Quick

When I went through that box of memorabilia the other day it made me wonder what other people might save from their past.  Love letters? Photos? Baby teeth? Dried flowers? Your pet hamster from 2nd grade?

I figure that a box that makes me lose at least an hour of my day any time I open it has got some stories to tell, so I am going to do a few posts featuring artifacts from my sordid past, and would love to hear what you’ve got lurking around in the back corner of your closets.  Do tell.

Except maybe not about the hamster.

Six Skittles left, you guys.  I am ass-bone tired. Weirdly, though, I have hit some sort of get ‘er done stride this week, like I’m post-flower (**UPDATE** my sister says it should be post-STAR, the flower is for fire-power DUH) flashy Super Mario and can do everything twice as fast as usual.  What blows my mind even more than that is that I’m also experiencing emotions I haven’t really had much of in a long time.  Emotions like patience and, I don’t know, happiness and shit.  The only thing I can figure is that I must have overloaded the Gah So Stressed portion of my brain and now when I process things they default to the Every Little Thing’s Gonna Be All Right portion instead. Fine by me brain! Make Default Setting, Save Changes!

The night L is finished with his last exam we are going straight to the tree-getting place and slapping that sap-filled sucker straight on the roof of our car.  And then we are going to mad deck some halls.  And then sometime after that I am going to get in the car in broad daylight and drive somewhere that is not my house and stay gone for a long time, maybe even through lunch and naptime. And dinner. And bathtime. Also bedtime.  It will be glorious.

And so with sleeves rolled up and a brisk clap I say to you, pink, orange, pink, green, orange and green: LET’S DO THIS THING.

Our Lady Of Potassium

Rosie’s favorite word of late is No.  Accompanied by firm head shake and/or body flailing as necessary.  I am all for having offspring who are ahead of the curve, but in regards to “No, Saying Of”, I would be ok with her testing in the remedial category.   However, she is making up for the multitude of Rosie Refusals by being crushingly endearing to the public in general any time we go anywhere.  She has an uncanny ability to will people into smiling at her by leaning halfway out of the grocery cart/stroller/my arms and chirping “Hi!” with a grin that is irresistible to everyone (except, apparently, for that one black-hearted soul-less government worker behind the counter at the Department of Human Resources, GEEZ).  Additionally, she has developed her banana recognition skills and now upon entry into the kitchen she stops and gives a point and a “Nana!” shout out to her browning fruit friends in the hanging basket, like a tiny parishioner doing her Banana Genuflect at the Chiquita Cathedral. You can tell me that you know another kid who does stuff this cute, but I am not sure I will believe you much.

A Staggering Work of Exclamation Points

I was looking for an old yearbook amongst my memorabilia last night when I happened upon my middle school/early high school diary.  And WHOA is that thing an awkward, hormonally charged, Pepto pink-paged mess.  I may have set the world record for cringes per minute while reading my entries from 1992. Actually, now that I think about it, the angsty teenage melodrama from ‘92 and ‘93 nicely offsets the lackluster bore-fest that was 1988, where I recorded such memorable entries as “Nothing much happened today except I ate and slept.”  (Although who am I kidding? That sounds like nirvana right about now. Middle finger, fourth grade self.) I should submit my diary for a psychological study on puberty, because it only took a year for my posts to go from that to “Hey. What’s up. I’m so depressed I can’t stand it.  Ok, are you ready for this? I am still in love with [REDACTED]. For God’s sake!!! What is my freaking problem????  People don’t understand it, they tell me ‘Just get over him Rachel!’ Why can’t they understand, It’s Not That Easy!!!! Why didn’t someone explain to me that life was so complicated???”

In the space between those two diary entries lies an Adolescent Psychology textbook.  And probably a whole lot of hours on the phone.

Speaking Of Dredgery

I also recently went looking through some of my email exchanges with L from college, back before we were a Hot Item, and the bodies of most of the messages I opened were fairly short and perfunctory (“Oh Queen of Ping Pong, I want a rematch,” etc.) but what was remarkable was that each and every message had an original and (most of the time) clever subject line.  I’m fairly certain that the day I received “Esophagus a la mode” in my inbox was the day I knew I had met the man I was going to marry.

Fellas! Never underestimate the power of a well timed reference to your digestive system when courting!  Just a little relationship advice from me to you.  You’re welcome.